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

by Неизвестный

  “You have a thought how he does it?” asked Alan.

  Vera shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “I’ve got a theory,” said Alan, “but then I saw things backstage that helped.”

  Vera nodded but didn’t encourage Alan to go further.

  The audience applauded as yet one more from their ranks returned to her seat, thrilled to tears with the message Alexander brought her from beyond the grave. Stepping back onto the carpet and spreading his slippered feet evenly, the seer held another white envelope to his head, touching the area above his brow he had referred to as his inner eye. After a brief second, he twitched spasmodically and stepped off the carpet, his feet scuffing quietly as he moved robotically forward on the apron of the stage, his eyes still closed. After a moment the eye lids rose half way, revealing only the whites of Alexander’s eyes.

  “I warn you that we are not done with you yet, vile murderer!” Alexander screeched in a high-pitched voice with a Russian accent.

  Vera grabbed Alan’s hand, and he responded quickly, squeezing it tight. “What the hell?” she whispered.

  “Pavel Medvedev defiled us, and so he’s been defiled and his face melted away,” said the voice in Alexander. “You escaped in your uniform and don’t think we will find you—but we will, traitor. We trusted you, false magician and betrayer! A bullet shall find you on stage before the week is out.”

  Alexander’s eyes closed and then his head fell forward to his chest, as if he’d fallen asleep in a comfortable chair, rather than standing on a stage in front of 2,700 people, all shocked into silence. After a hushed moment he shook his head and gazed out into the audience, his brow furrowed, as if puzzled. He inhaled deeply, back-pedaled to the carpet, and rubbed his temples, while touching his turban near the ears.

  “It appears we’ve been visited again by Anna,” said Alexander. “I wish she would do me a favor and schedule an appointment first.”

  The audience chuckled nervously.

  “I have time in the afternoon that’s available. Can someone in the audience tell me what she had to say?”

  The woman Alan had seen earlier in the dressing room with Sylvie suddenly stood up.

  “Yes, you,” Alexander said while indicating the woman with an outstretched hand, palm held upward.

  “Another prophecy,” she said. “This one involving a ‘false magician’ and a lethal bullet before the week is out.”

  Alexander tugged on his chin, as if stroking a non-existent goatee. “Fortunately for me, I’m a seer and not a magician—and firearms and bullets are not a part of my act.

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” Alexander continued, “this is a little early, but since it’s my show and I’m in charge, I vote we take our intermission now, and I will see you all again in twenty minutes. In the meantime, please enjoy the refreshments in the lobby.”

  Alexander bowed to enthusiastic applause and disappeared through the curtain. As the applause died down, people began chatting among themselves, while many got up and headed toward the lobby.

  Ben leaned forward in his seat, and Alan did too, making a small huddle around Vera in the front row.

  “She’s with the act,” said Alan, and so is the guy seated next to her. I saw them backstage.”

  “They’re plants,” said Vera, with Ben nodding in agreement. “Almost every act has trained actors in the audience. They lead the applause and get the crowd going, while also providing security. They act as foils and volunteer early on, if the crowd needs warming up, but something tells me this caught everyone by surprise. Alexander’s confusion doesn’t play well to a large crowd, because his persona is to always be in control—so because of the bad timing and catching them unprepared, it actually adds to the authenticity of it.”

  “Medvedev?” asked Alan. “I thought I asked Alexander if he knew a Medved. Did the voice stutter? It didn’t sound that way, and I don’t believe I mentioned a first name at all.”

  “You didn’t,” said Vera, glancing at Ben, who also confirmed what Alan thought.

  “So how in the world did ‘Anna’ get ‘Pavel’?” asked Alan.

  “And did she or he mishear you say Medved?” asked Ben.

  They all sat silently for a moment, while the chatter in the theater continued to grow louder.

  “The voice and accent?” Alan asked Vera.

  “Creepy!” said Vera. “I’ve never heard a man do such a good job capturing a woman’s voice. I’ve heard plenty of men speaking or singing in falsetto, and that’s like a cheap imitation to a woman’s voice. This sounded real, and I thought Russian—like Tasha Zarenko’s neck of the woods, but a touch more English, more formal.”

  “Speaking of Zarenko,” said Alan. “I’ve got to catch you up on what Sylvie tells me about her and Ivanovich being married.”

  12

  Alan met Sylvie backstage at the Orpheum Theater and they left through the rear door, walking the two blocks to El Gaucho’s Hunt Club, where they had their choice of either a late night dinner or early breakfast, but they hadn’t yet decided. The place filled in the late evenings with theater performers and wait staff from downtown hotels and cocktail lounges, seeking the companionship of their own kind, as well as enjoying the service and entertainment of waiters, who had their own following. Dressed in snug vests and trousers, the male waiters brought flaming skewers of meat for diners to select from, while other waiters performed tableside magic with bottled gas and flaming dishes, putting the finishing touches on desserts like cherries jubilee. Most patrons enjoyed the show put on for newer customers, while opting for the hearty Hunter’s Breakfast, with a petite filet mignon, pork cutlet, sausage, hash browns, and eggs. That’s what Sylvie decided on, and Alan went with it.

  “Big appetite?” asked Alan.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll pay my way.”

  Alan patted her arm reassuringly as it rested on the table. “It’s not that at all. I’ve brought plenty of money and would like to treat. I’m just not used to people ordering what they really want to eat. People are usually too polite or watching their calories.”

  “I burn it off with nervous energy and worry,” said Sylvie, “but I imagine at some point I’ll slow down.”

  “You’d fit right in at my house,” said Alan. “Two brothers and a sister, and we’re all big eaters, especially the boys. My father used to say we had hollow legs and stored food there.”

  “‘Used to say,’” said Sylvie. “I gather he’s no longer with us.”

  Alan lowered his eyes and shook his head. “Gone too soon, but he taught me enough to get me started as a private detective. Wish he were here, though.”

  Sylvie stroked Alan’s arm and waved down a waiter at the same time. “Two martinis, straight up with olives, if you please.”

  “Thank you,” said Alan. “That’s how I like mine.”

  “Oh those are for me,” said Sylvie with a straight face. “You’ll have to order your own.”

  Alan glanced about to see if he could recall the waiter, already out of range, but no luck. He raised his arm to get the attention of one serving a table nearby, but Sylvie grabbed his hand, squeezed it tight, and pulled it into her lap. “I’m kidding, boy detective. Didn’t you have a clue?”

  Alan leaned back and eyed Sylvie as best he could, while sitting in the booth. “Normally those would be fighting words, lady, but I got a feeling you’d come out on top, sitting on my chest, pummeling my noggin.”

  “That’s only because you’re a gentleman and wouldn’t fight back.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have a sense about people. I can read them. I see you as tough as nails when you have to be, but I bet you’re a pushover when it comes to love.”

  “That’s rather insightful. Is that why the show is doing so well now, because of you?”


  “I’m not the front man on the stage who has the charisma to pack a house, but I’ve got a sense for timing and know what works. You can’t teach or train someone to replace Claude, and that also applies to me. We see those skills in each other.”

  The waiter stopped in front of the table, bent forward while delivering the drinks, and bowed his head formally. “Your breakfast will be here shortly, would there be anything else?”

  “Two more of these,” said Alan, indicating the martinis with his hand.

  “Of course, sir,” said the waiter, before quickly walking away.

  “So your plan is obvious now, detective. You’re going to ply me with liquor for... for what... my affections or information?”

  “Hopefully both.”

  “What haven’t I told you already?”

  “I don’t know or care at the moment,” he said, while toasting Sylvie and taking a sip.

  “This is nice. Quality gin, I’d say.”

  “Agreed,” said Sylvie, sighing and letting her shoulders droop for a moment.

  “How about tonight’s prediction,” said Alan. “Why don’t we start there?”

  “Good as place as any, but I have absolutely no idea where Claude got that. Another bolt out of the blue, and this one I didn’t see, feel, or hear coming.”

  “Did you see, feel, or hear the last one?”

  “Proprietary information, detective, but since most people saw it, I’ll go along with the bolt. And in that same sense of seeing things, neither I nor anyone else saw this one tonight. First thing I know is Claude’s babbling in Anna’s voice, at least that’s what he’s calling it now.”

  “And he’s never done that before?”

  Sylvie shook her head.

  “Never spoken in a woman’s voice before?”

  Staring straight ahead, Sylvie shook her head again. Alan canted his head sideways and stared into her eyes. “Unless you can tell me anything about who might be shooting somebody on stage this week, I think my detective questions are out of our way.”

  “Only act that still has shooting on stage is Wang Tao Chia’s, down at The Moore. His signature act is to find a couple of soldiers in the audience and have them load a pair of muzzle loaders up on stage. Then two Chinese soldiers of some kind shoot him in front of everyone.”

  “Anna’s man in uniform... maybe. That could be American soldiers or Chinese, couldn’t it? Why does he have soldiers load the guns and not regular Joes?”

  “I’m not sure. Wang Tao only speaks through his pretty little interpreter. She says he feels that Marines are better with rifles and understand safety, which means less risk.”

  “Seriously? He specifies Marines over soldiers?”

  “I’m sure he takes whatever he can get, but he may have one that is the same every night, whether it’s a soldier or Marine, who’s likely on the payroll.”

  “Why a muzzle loader? Seems like that would be as unreliable as hell.”

  “I think it’s the only way he can assure the audience the gun’s really loaded—instead of slipping in a blank cartridge, which would be easy enough to palm. The musket makes a big bang and shoots out a large puff of smoke. More theatrical that way.”

  “Of course it is,” Alan said, rolling his eyes. “So unless you know what’s behind these premonitions and who barbecued the guy in the coffin—old what’s his name...”

  “Anna had a different name for the man, didn’t she?” Sylvie asked.

  “You noticed that too.”

  “I hadn’t really thought about it when she said it, but I think she gave him a first name, starting with a ‘P.’”

  “That’s what I thought I heard,” said Alan.

  “Like Pablo, but not Spanish, more like it had a ‘V’ in it.”

  Alan nodded.

  “Sort of like ‘Medved,’ like you said but only longer, like it had another syllable.”

  “That’s right,” said Alan. “I thought I’d heard the voice say ‘Pavel Medvedev.’ Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not a clue.”

  Alan took another sip of his drink. “Afraid of that...”

  “Any word on Frederic? Has he shown his sorry face anywhere? A hospital or private sanitarium?”

  “Not a peep, and so ends our round of no-holds-barred questioning for the night.”

  “Good, because you play rough, but I’m not talking to you anymore, unless you’re going to give me the third degree.”

  “What? You say you want the third degree?”

  “You have handcuffs, detective, don’t you?”

  “I’m a private detective. So I’m not normally in the arresting business. That’s more Ben’s specialty than mine, but I can scrounge up a pair from the car, if you’d like?”

  “We’d need to first make sure you have a key that works, so you can get loose later.”

  “Me get loose?”

  “Sure...unless you want to wake up with me in your arms and the sun in your eyes...”

  13

  Alan sat in their regular booth at the Five Point Café at Fifth and Denny, reading the paper while he waited for Ben and Vera. Given how his evening turned out last night, he expected that it would’ve been him dragging himself in late for breakfast, instead of it being the other way around. A few steps ahead of Vera, Ben stopped to hold the door for her. Alan gave them both a curious look as they walked his way. He slid over and made room for Vera.

  “Late night?” Alan asked, trying to play it nonchalant.

  “Cards and vodka,” said Ben. “The girls know every game and every trick. Don’t play them for money. I might have to file Chapter Eleven later today.”

  “Tasha’s girls?” asked Alan.

  Vera nodded. “We figured you’d be busy last night, so Ben came up and helped me entertain my company. Besides eating me out of house and home, they’re eager to collect their things from the theater and get back on the road. They don’t like spending too much time in one place without an income stream.”

  “They were all but out of their clothes last night,” said Ben.

  “What they have is in the laundry,” said Vera, “and they don’t mind at all showing what they’ve got.”

  “I’ll say,” said Ben.

  Alan arched his brow and smiled, following the conversation.

  “The problem is,” Vera continued, “that they’ve drunk all of my booze. But on the plus side, they’re wonderful cooks. I’ve had some amazing meals with them. Today, they’re fixing piroshky, which I adore, especially fresh. So I’m going to eat light today. My metabolism doesn’t run as high as theirs does, especially since I’m not shaking my bottom anymore.”

  Alan knew Vera wanted him to have a visual image of her doing that, and her strategy seemed to be working. She knew how to keep him thinking about her.

  “Will there be extra piroshky?” asked Ben. “Marvelous what they cooked up last night.”

  “I’m sure there will be. I’ll save you both some,” she said, turning toward Alan. “And how did things go with Sylvie last night? Are you two engaged yet?”

  Alan raised his hand and scratched at his nose as he laughed, stalling for time. “Things were fine. Fine indeed.”

  Vera tilted her head back and nodded knowingly. “I’m glad things were fine. That’s how an evening with a pretty girl should turn out. It should be fine.”

  “She’s actually a lot like you in many ways,” said Alan, giving Vera his best smile.

  “I hope not,” said Vera. “That’s a tough road no one should have to endure. If she is, then I’d really have to worry about you.”

  “Ben, are you going to bail me out on this?” Alan asked, forcing a smile.

  Judy the waitress appeared at the table with two cup
s of coffee, while carrying laminated menus under her arm. “You don’t need these, do you?” she said with a nod toward the menus.

  Ben shook his head and ordered the corned beef hash, while Vera went with a maple bar.

  As Judy left with the order, Ben grinned at Alan. “I know better than to wade in when you two are going at it. Sorry, Champ, but you’re on your own this round. No tag-teaming for the main event today.”

  “The long and the short of it is that last night’s prediction caught her by surprise,” said Alan, “probably as much her as it did us. I tried prompting her with variations of Medved’s name, and she didn’t have it locked in all that well. She certainly didn’t know the first name.”

  “You believe her?” asked Vera.

  Alan nodded. “I do. She’s definitely the brains behind Alexander’s success, and she told me he got his start way back in Alaska with Pantages, the guy who used to own these theaters. Like Billy the Kid, Alexander up and shot Soapy Smith, and it sounds like more of the gang over a week’s period. With no law in town, he got off claiming self-defense, although it could have been the town overwhelmingly appreciated him killing Smith. In the process, Alexander recovered what Smith stole from Pantages and others. The grubstake likely helped Pantages get his start. So when Alexander eventually took to the stage, Pantages helped him along and gave him favorable bookings, up and down the West Coast. Alexander had conman talent, but as soon as he got a few bucks in the bank, he’d run off with another woman, or two, or three, often all at the same time. He’d get back on stage only when he ran out of money. Sylvie’s the one who got him to focus on his show and amass his fortune—and hers too, I imagine.”

  “Anything else?” asked Ben.

  “I asked her about a stage act with a shooting in it, and the only one she can think of is Wang Tao Chia, who’s playing at the Moore this week. He catches a shot from a muzzle loader and spits out the round—or something close to that.”

  “A muzzle loader?” asked Vera.

  “I asked her that, too,” said Alan. “Seems it’s more theatrical that way. The audience sees a guy in uniform loading it and shooting.”