Theater of the Crime (Alan Stewart and Vera Deward Murder Mysteries Book 6)

by Неизвестный

  Vera nudged Alan’s leg under the table.

  “No, not a question from me.” Alan said. “We’ve discussed that before.”

  Ben flicked his eyebrows and smiled. “I’m staying out of this fight if you two go at it again.”

  Judy, the waitress, delivered a cup of coffee and a maple bar, setting them down in front of Vera, before topping off Ben and Alan’s coffees. Vera slid her hand under the table and squeezed Alan’s leg, as a peace gesture. She left her hand there a long moment, a comfortable one.

  “Back to Alexander,” said Ben.

  “He’s staying at the Camlin Apartment Hotel,” said Vera. “The Orpheum has rooms there for their feature performers.”

  “Do you think he’s up yet?” asked Alan.

  “He’s probably busy doing a Walter Winchell interview by telephone,” said Ben. “He’s going to get all the mileage out of this he can.”

  “The Camlin is only one block north of the Paramount,” said Alan.

  Ben nodded. “It is, but Alexander’s got an alibi and 3,000 witnesses who’ll put him on stage at the Orpheum at the exact moment the fire started at the Paramount.”

  “I remember the Camlin during Prohibition,” said Vera. “They had a speakeasy in the basement and hidden rooms full of Roy Olmstead liquor, the real stuff from Canada. They used a dumbwaiter to send booze up to the rooms of discerning residents.”

  “I think just about every ‘respectable’ hotel had something like that going,” said Ben. “That’s the only way they could stay in business and be competitive. The Department’s Dry Squad only went after those who didn’t play ball with them.”

  * * *

  Vera stood a short distance away and dabbed a hanky to her eyes as Ben and Alan approached the Camlin’s concierge. Ben flashed his badge discreetly, and Alan did the same.

  “We’re investigating a complaint,” said Ben, “about an underage runaway spending the night in your hotel last night. Her friends told her mother—” Ben nodded towards Vera “—that the young lady ran off with a noted stage celebrity and may still be in his company.”

  The concierge’s face flushed as bright as his burgundy vest and matching bow tie. His eyes flared and he blew out air as if whistling, but no sound came out.

  “The Alexander Conlin party in room 1007? I’m not surprised. Oh, dear, we’ve had complaints about him and his unregistered guests every time he stays here.”

  “We would like to pay Alexander a visit, recover Mrs. Hawthorn’s daughter without making a scene. We would prefer you didn’t alert him that we’re on our way up.”

  “That won’t be a problem,” said the concierge, shaking his head and frowning dramatically, as if he needed sympathy.

  “If he’s the psychic he claims,” said Ben, patting the polished desk top as if gentling a horse, “he should be expecting us about now. Don’t you think?”

  The concierge’s brow knitted low, and then he smiled. “Right you are.”

  Alan took Vera’s arm in his, assuming escort mode, and the trio entered a waiting elevator. “Tenth floor,” said Ben to the tiny, elderly man, who cast his eyes low, “if you please.” The man pulled the doors shut and shoved down on a handle, as if he were controlling a ride at an amusement park.

  On the tenth floor, Ben stepped out first and led the way to 1007. While Vera and Alan hung back a few paces, Ben knocked on the door, stepped to the side, and listened where the door met the jamb. They all heard voices inside the room, and the patter of feet drew closer to the door. Ben stepped back and held his badge at the ready.

  “Who ordered breakfast in?” said a female voice on the other side of the door, apparently to someone else in the room. “I thought we were going out.”

  The door opened, and a young woman in a silk robe frowned through mussed hair, hanging over her face. “Who are you?”

  “We’re detectives. I’m Police Detective Ben Kearney, and these are my associates, Vera Deward and Alan Stewart.”

  Alan held his badge at the ready, but the young woman didn’t appear interested.

  “Is Alex expecting you?” the woman asked, suppressing a yawn.

  Ben shook his head. “Not at all. We were in the area and thought we’d talk to him about the fire.”

  “We haven’t had a fire,” said the woman, with a hint of an Irish accent, similar to Alan’s mother’s.

  “Who you talking to, Sylvie?” asked a male voice from an interior room.

  “It’s the police,” said Sylvie, holding the door ajar with one hand while clinching her robe over a sheer nightie at the middle with the other hand. The robe only reached mid-thigh and didn’t cover her shapely legs and bare feet. She appeared to be in her early twenties, close to Alan’s age.

  “Put some clothes on,” the male said to someone other than Sylvie.

  “It’s about a fire, they say,” said Sylvie, raising her voice but still watching the detectives, glancing from one to the other, appraisingly.

  “Of course it is, and it’s about time. Show them into the front room. I’ll join you in a moment.”

  Sylvie opened the door, stepped backward, and with a nod of her head indicated for the detectives to enter.

  The well-appointed apartment reminded Alan of the ones he’d been inside at the Sorrento Hotel on Madison Street, except for the women’s clothing and liquor bottles strewn about the room.

  Sylvie tugged a blanket off the sofa, picked up a pillow, and set them on a chair in the dinette. “Have a seat,” she said, and then after a moment added, “Would you like a cup of tea while you wait?”

  “That would be nice,” said Ben, giving Alan and Vera a discreet nod, indicating for them to join him in the tea service.

  “If you please,” said Vera.

  “Me, too, please,” said Alan as he took off his hat and sat in the chair opposite the sofa Vera and Ben had taken, facing towards the kitchenette.

  Sylvie quickly glanced at Alan as he casually draped one foot over a knee and slowly shook it, like a cat wagging its tail. Sylvie licked her lips self-consciously, canted her head slightly, trod quietly into the kitchenette, and began filling a kettle with water. As it filled she tugged at the forgotten belt to her bathrobe and cinched it shut around her narrow waist, before primping her hair, using the glass cupboard’s reflection to spruce up.

  Alan rested his chin on a bridge he made with one hand resting on the armrest, stroking the side of his nose with his index finger. He glanced over at Vera, who shot him her all-knowing grin. He knew she’d tease him later about flirting with Sylvie, while reassuring him it didn’t bother her—as long as he didn’t make an ass of either her or himself in the process.

  After a moment the bedroom door opened and a dapper man stopped in the middle of its doorframe, wearing a silk robe, ascot, and exotic slippers, as if waiting for the spotlight to signal his entry, and then he approached Vera, offering an extended hand, palm upward.

  “I’m Alexander Conlin, and I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, bowing at the waist, taking Vera’s hand and kissing it between the knuckles.

  Ben and Alan stood, introduced themselves and shook hands. As they re-took their seats, Alan snuck another peek towards Sylvie and caught her doing the same with him, checking him out. She quickly glanced away, and then looked back awkwardly, catching his smile. She’s still a child, Alan thought. All grown up physically and living the hard life on the road, but otherwise young.

  “This is about the fire at the Paramount?” asked Alexander.

  “You are indeed psychic,” said Ben, flashing a wry smile.

  Alexander closed his eyes and grinned indulgently. “Touché, detective.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Ben. “I’m not mocking you. That one screamed to be told.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Alexander. “I
get teased a lot, but I’m the one who laughs in the end—all the way to the bank.”

  “So we’ve heard,” said Vera.

  “This is the worst fire in Seattle history that I can remember, casualty wise,” said Ben. “The Great Fire in ’89 burnt down the city—without taking a life. The losses were all property and a couple of cats and a lot of rats. Today, though, we have a city in grieving and people wanting answers to how you could have known in advance about this.”

  “Am I a suspect?”

  Ben shook his head slowly. “Not at this time, but your knowing this in advance, when no-one else did, is suspicious. It could be coincidence, it could be you know something about Nikolai Ivanovich’s financial situation we don’t, it could be you inspired a latent fire bug who capitalized on the suggestion you gave him, or maybe you know something we don’t.”

  “I understand,” said Alexander, “but I’m not sure if I can tell you anything that will help you.”

  “I’m hoping you can tell us what you were seeing in the moment you made the prediction,” said Ben. “Did you have a vision where you actually saw the fire? Or did your inner voice dictate to you what to say?”

  Alexander sat forward on a companion chair and rubbed his temples. “The truth is I don’t remember what I said.”

  “The papers said that you had some kind of awkward spasm during your act and started speaking in Russian,” said Alan.

  “I read the papers,” said Alexander, “but I don’t speak Russian. In fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever heard more than a few words of it—and those back in my younger days in Alaska—but certainly nothing over the past several years.”

  “We’re not planning on revealing secrets to your act,” said Ben. “We have a need to know what the hell happened with the fire so we can get to the bottom of it. If you have—”

  “I’ve got nothing,” said Alexander, shaking his head. “We were in the very beginning of my act, when I felt a powerful jolt—I remember that much—and then I awoke later, still on my feet, like I’d been sleep walking when I woke up, now finding myself on stage in front of a packed theater. Rather disconcerting, I’ll tell you. It took a moment to get my bearings.”

  “Have you ever experienced anything like that before?” asked Alan, before stealing another glance at Sylvie, who quietly followed the conversation, pretending to stare at the kettle.

  “Nothing as dramatic as that,” said Alexander. “I would just as soon not have this conversation repeated outside this room.”

  “Understood,” said Ben.

  “More than anything else, my act’s foundation is based on skill, my showmanship ability, which I occasionally supplement with hypnosis—both individually and in group. I do a reasonable job of carrying this off. Consequently, I have signature methods I need to protect. That aside, and for purposes of your investigation, I neither saw anything consciously, nor planned to add this sort of prediction to my act, and as I’ve already said, I don’t remember delivering it.”

  Ben nodded. “No grudges against St. Laurent?”

  Alexander shook his head. “None. In fact I’d sent him a note suggesting we get together this week, but I never heard back.”

  “Does the name Medved mean anything to you?” asked Alan.

  Alexander thought for a moment and shook his head. “Can’t say that it does. Why?”

  “We found a body inside one of the stage props,” said Ben, “and please don’t repeat that to Walter Winchell when he calls.”

  “Walter Winchell is going to call?” asked Sylvie.

  Ben shook his head. “That’s just me being psychic, but I expect you’ll be dealing with reporters soon enough. My point is we’ve got a body and we don’t know whose. Could be it’s this Medved fellow or it might be Frederic, we haven’t found him either. The burns were too bad to identify who it might be until the coroner’s had a chance to clean him up.”

  Alexander lowered his eyes and frowned. “I won’t deny there’s a certain touch of pride in predicting the fire, I’m a showman after all. I feel like Babe Ruth calling home run shots, taunting the pitchers, but I have no memory of it to enjoy—and of course I take no joy in another man’s death, whether Alexander’s or the Medved fellow’s.”

  “You were there, weren’t you?” Alan said to Sylvie. “What do you remember about it?”

  Sylvie smiled at Alan and then glanced at Alexander as if seeking permission, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Just as Alexander said, not something that’s part of the act, and I’ve never heard him speak in falsetto.”

  “Did the voice name anyone specifically as the target?” asked Vera.

  “I remember the non-Russian parts pretty well. She said, ‘Beware of the fire and a pretense of magic!’ and then warned ‘It comes on opening night.’ She said something more about having a different name, and the treachery would be punished.’ I think that covers it.”

  “Pretense of magic,” Vera repeated, “but no specific names given?”

  “That’s correct, but then there’s one more piece...”

  “Go on,” Vera encouraged.

  “She used the plural voice for the final part of the prophecy. She said, ‘May all your deaths be long and painful!”

  “Very interesting,” said Ben, “given we only die once, that is unless you believe in reincarnation.”

  “If this prophecy is real, there could be more deaths,” said Alan, “but whose?”

  Sylvie quietly nodded.

  “What say you?” Ben asked Alexander. “Are we going to have more predictions?”

  Alexander shook his head. “There aren’t any in my plans, but I don’t know what Anna has in mind.”

  “The voice who speaks has a name?” asked Vera.

  Alexander shook his head again. “Not that I’m aware. Anna’s the first name that popped into my head. It’s Russian, isn’t it?”

  “Or Swedish, Finnish, Slovakian, or maybe even German,” said Vera, “and all of those can be found in America.”

  “Have you been contacted by the news services and local reporters?” asked Ben.

  “We haven’t checked with the front desk yet,” said Sylvie.

  “I can’t advise you on what to say or not say,” said Ben, “but we’d appreciate if you keep these cards close to your chest for a few days, until we can sort this out. We have what we officially call a suspicious death, and at this point we’re not sure if it’s a murder or simply a tragic accident. We don’t want you to fan the flames of rumor with speculation, which will only make our job more difficult.”

  “Understood,” said Alexander, “but I can only promise that I’ll try, because you never know what direction interviews on stories like these will take.”

  “We appreciate whatever you can do,” said Ben.

  “And if you would like tickets to tonight’s performance,” said Alexander, “I will have tickets left for you at the box office, front row or loge.”

  “Any chance if we came early we could get a backstage tour?” asked Alan, his attention focused on Sylvie.

  She glanced again at Alexander, who nodded indulgently. “We would have to limit what you see,” said Sylvie. “We protect the proprietary information on how our act works, which cannot be shared, you understand?”

  “Of course,” said Vera. “I understand how that works.”

  Ben smiled wryly, scratched the side of his face, and pointed at his eye so that just Alan could see it.

  11

  Ben stepped out of the glass and oak phone booth inside

  the Orpheum Theater lobby, rejoining Vera and Alan.

  “There won’t be any facial recognition of the victim,” he said. “Too much tissue has been burnt away for that to happen. I told the coroner about the can of lighter fluid in the coffin, and he suggests i
t had likely been used to squirt combustibles inside the victim’s mouth and sinuses, not just the fingertips.”

  Vera shook her head, and Alan rolled his eyes and let of a gush of air.

  “Looking more like a murder to you now?” asked Alan.

  “Grisly as that news is,” said Ben, “the burns are post mortem. Cause of death, single stab wound to the heart from under the sternum.”

  “From one of the swords?” asked Alan.

  “Not likely,” said Ben. “Stage props don’t have the Wilkinson edge to them. Doc is thinking a long, thin blade, like a stiletto. So it’s probably a switch-blade, but that’s my guess”

  “So the murder happened on stage, right in front of us,” said Vera.

  “Does someone with that kind of wound die right away?” asked Alan.

  “Not necessarily,” said Ben. “We had one in Chinatown a few years back, happened right in front of me. I came around the corner and didn’t see the first part, but I watched the victim charge after the assailant, still carrying the knife he used to poke him, only to see the victim slump in the middle of the street, rolling over, and dying flat on his back. He didn’t know he’d been stabbed until his pumper quit working. And he didn’t leave a blood trail following him.”

  “That would explain the thrashing we saw on stage, among a couple of lid slamming shuts,” said Alan. “I think we witnessed the murder.”

  “I agree,” said Vera, “and to be sure, I can’t figure out how stage assistants could stuff a body, post mortem, inside a coffin, anyways, especially right after Yvette had just gone through it. There wouldn’t have been enough time. Even two burly grips would have their hands full with two-hundred pounds of dead weight that can’t help the moving process—unless they had a levitation lift.”