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

by Неизвестный

  “‘Uniform’ is part of the prediction,” said Ben.

  “This could be a good fit,” said Vera. “Looks like we’ll have to check it out tonight, if tickets are still available.”

  “I’ll stop by their box office when we leave here,” said Ben.

  “I have some news, too,” said Vera, “but don’t ask me about my connection, Ben, or how I came by this, okay?”

  Ben glanced to Alan and then back to Vera and nodded. “The Champ knows?”

  “It’s a source we’ve sworn to protect. Neither of us can acknowledge it without permission, which we don’t have.”

  “I get it,” said Ben, “and I’m not offended. I don’t figure I’m entitled to know everything you two are up to, and Chief Ketchum likes it that way. There’s a certain deniability he takes comfort in. He told me not to crowd you on things like this, or your searches, or your talents for physical persuasion, which I understand can get very rough at times. The Chief says you play for the right team, and that’s what matters to him, so that what works for me too.”

  “You’re such a good sport, Ben,” said Vera, patting his hand. “Thank you for that.”

  Ben smiled his thanks.

  “The source we have would be very interested in this matter if our dead man turns out to be Pavel S. Medvedev, a Russian national believed to have slipped through our notoriously porous northern border, possibly through Canada near Lake Michigan. Pavel could actually be Mikhail, his brother, but whichever one it is doesn’t matter all that much, because the FBI wants them both. They’re considered ‘persons of interest,’ and that’s all my source would tell me.”

  “So we don’t know what exactly they’re wanted for?” asked Alan. “Is that right?”

  “The detainer would probably read: Entering the Country Illegally, but the real story is apparently on a need-to-know basis, and our need-to-know hasn’t been met yet. We identify him, and they might feel we have the need-to-know.”

  “Real friendly group your source,” said Ben.

  “I’ve got a sneaking suspicion that Alexander and Anna are onto something,” said Alan, “but what, and how, I don’t know. I’m not seeing a connection.”

  “I think you’re right,” said Ben. “What are the odds of this being a coincidence? You both know how I don’t believe in them.”

  “Whether it’s Pavel Medvedev, Frederic St. Laurent, or someone else for that matter, this is a homicide, right?” asked Alan.

  “That’s correct,” said Ben.

  “Can your department run an all points bulletin on St. Laurent and Pavel, since we still don’t know which one is dead and which is missing?” asked Alan.

  “That’s not normally how it’s done,” said Ben, “but your logic is good. We like to know who we are after and have to be able to articulate why, because of liability issues. The department doesn’t like to take the scatter gun approach and round up ‘the usual suspects’. The ACLU gets their collective panties in a bunch when we do anything close to that. One of them is likely the deceased, so we’re not going to be ruining his reputation, the other is likely our suspect—so his reputation is toast anyway. It’s not likely he’ll be able to come back and sue me and the chief.”

  “So what do you think, Ben?” asked Vera. “Can it be done?”

  “Let’s head from here to the Paramount,” said Ben. “We’ll collect flyers, programs, and whatever they’ve got, and I’ll hit the downtown roll calls with them. While we’re there we can re-examine the stage and collect Zarenko’s belongings from the dressing room, so we can eventually return their property to them.”

  “And they can hit the road and make a living,” said Vera. “But are you sure you want to see them gone?”

  “I’m planning to put their belongings—or most of them anyway—in the Police Property Room for safekeeping. I’d just as soon everyone close to the murder stayed in town until we can sort out who didn’t do it and work our way to who did.”

  “That makes perfect sense,” said Vera, “but I’m not sure how long I want to play hostess to them.”

  “Why don’t you rent them one of your apartment units on a short term?” said Alan. “Do you have one available?”

  “I don’t,” said Vera. “I’m a happy landlord at the moment, and they’ve always got their place back at the Paramount Apartments. How long before they can go back there? If someone were trying to kill them, they must’ve read the papers by now and have seen that they didn’t perish in the fire.”

  “Actually, we don’t have any reason to believe they were targeted,” said Ben, “but I think once they get to their apartment and start collecting their clothing, they’re going to work their way to the railroad station soon enough. I’d like to keep them around at least one more day. Besides, I’d love another night of pinochle, if you’re up to it? And I’ll bring the vodka this time, replenish your supply.”

  Vera glanced sideways at Alan with a hint of a smile.

  “If there’s an invitation in your smile, I’d love to join in,” said Alan.

  “Really?” asked Vera. “I’m sure the ladies would love to see you again and say goodbye. It might also give your wrists a chance to heal from the handcuff marks.”

  Alan reflexively grabbed for his wrist but then stopped. He strummed his fingers on the table, smirked, and playfully rapped the back of his hand against Vera’s shoulder. “You’re an evil woman, Vera.”

  “Yes, I know, but you love me anyway, don’t you.”

  14

  Behind the Paramount Theater Ben unlatched the police padlock on the rear stage door and held it wide for Vera and Alan to enter. They’d brought their own flashlights but didn’t need them at the moment. The chain and lock St. Laurent had bolted the door with on the inside lay in a pile near the door, apparently removed by the fire department when securing the scene. The trio climbed the flight to the back of the stage and dressing rooms.

  “Let’s start with the props and we’ll walk you through what we saw the last time we were here,” said Ben to Vera.

  Ben switched his flashlight on and pointed it at the open casket. Alan caught himself checking for the body, although he knew the coroner had removed it the day of its discovery. Ben pointed out the release mechanisms for the coffin’s escape door.

  Vera shook her head but then nodded, working something out internally. “I don’t think that there’s any way that two guys could lift a dead body and stuff it inside the coffin post mortem, which obviously means the Champ and I must have witnessed the murder, which isn’t exactly a first for us, but let’s not go there.”

  “That’s how I figure it,” said Ben.

  Vera glanced around the stage, at the second coffin on the floor in which Yvette had been trapped, shoved against a wall. “Has anything been moved or removed from the scene since you were here last?” she asked.

  Alan shrugged and checked with Ben, who did the same. “Not so we’ve noticed,” he said, “but I don’t think we can be sure.”

  “I can’t figure out the need for the magician to have Yvette hide in another coffin after she escaped the first one,” said Vera. “What purpose did that serve?”

  “Other than to keep her from watching the rest of the act... ” said Alan.

  “Possibly, but that’s about all I can get out of it,” said Vera. “And then I suppose if you want to have her die in the fire, you push the box against the wall.”

  “Makes me wonder if she knows something the killer didn’t want her sharing with us,” said Alan.

  “That or he wanted to tie up his loose ends,” said Ben, “or throw us off track.”

  “So what’s this Otis Elevator device look like?” asked Ben.

  Vera shook her head. “It’s been awhile since I’ve seen one, but I’m not seeing anything that looks familiar.”
<
br />   Alan put a lone finger up in front of his mouth, giving the quiet sign. “Did you hear something?”

  Ben and Vera shook their heads. “Like what?” she asked.

  “Animal sounds and movement.”

  “If it’s rats,” said Vera, “I hate goddamn rats!”

  “Vera?” said Alan, still holding the quiet sign while he softly crossed the stage.

  Vera picked up a sword from near the coffin and felt the blade’s edge. “This is as dull as a Herbert Hoover speech, but I can club rats to death with it,” she whispered.

  Alan stopped in front of a collapsible stand with a black cloth draped over it. He nodded, grinned, and pulled the cloth off quickly. “Aha!”

  A pair of doves cooed inside the cage that Yvette had carried two nights before, while a third one sat on a nearby perch listless.

  “Nice trick!” said Ben, clasping Alan by the shoulder. “I didn’t know you’d taken up magic.”

  “These were part of St. Laurent’s act,” said Alan. “Yvette carried the cage while Frederic caught the birds.”

  “Or so it seemed,” said Vera. “They haven’t had food or water in nearly forty hours, the poor darlings. I’d forgotten all about them.”

  “Apparently so have Yvette and St. Laurent,” said Ben. “Either that or they thought they’d all been killed during the smoke and fire.”

  “There’s bird seed on the cage floor and small puddles of water,” said Alan. “Some of the nozzle spray must have worked its way through their night drape. Lucky fellows!”

  “I’d say two boys and a girl,” said Ben.

  “How can you tell?” asked Vera. “You can’t see their equipment, Ben. So do the boy birds fart all the time and spit on the sidewalk, while the girls polish their beak and nails?”

  Ben grinned and shook his head. “The girl’s flitting her wings, and one of the fellas is bowing and cooing to her, as if he’s expecting applause for his recent performance.”

  “They’re love birds, and they’ve enjoyed their privacy these past two days.” said Vera.

  “These two have, but I’m not so sure about the third. Maybe that’s why he’s tired. I understand you can only watch so much porn before you’re exhausted and get tired of it. Isn’t that right, Champ?”

  Alan laughed. “Ouch!”

  “They’ll be needing twigs for nest building,” said Ben. “Apparently the other fella is the cuckold—or it might be that he’s not interested. Maybe he’s older and out of her range.”

  “You’ve been around birds, Ben?”

  “I’ve had parakeets. Few years back, and for the record, even small birds can whoop doves’ tail feathers because their skin is thin and their beaks soft. A smaller bird with a hooked beak can tear these guys up.”

  “Soft beaks won’t get you far,” said Vera, smiling. “You’re always better off with a stiff one.”

  Alan laughed, while Ben shook his head. “I’m not touching that,” he said.

  “Some other time you’ll have to tell me more about your birds,” said Vera.

  “I’d like to hear more about the bird porn,” said Alan, “but that can wait for another time also...”

  * * *

  Vera led the way inside the dressing room. “This is just my hunch, but this looks exactly like the girls stepped out for a cigarette break and planned on coming right back. What is it we’re looking for, Ben?”

  “Matter out of place is always a good place to start,” said Ben, “and then anything that might possibly link someone in here to the fire, to Pavel Medvedev, or to St. Laurent—or a motive.”

  “Knowing the girls now, I feel like I’m invading their privacy,” said Vera, staring at an open suitcase. “When I worked we were all very close and looked out for each other. I can’t help think I’m breaking a sacred trust.”

  “Do you want to search St. Laurent’s dressing room, while the Champ and I finish up in here?”

  “Yeah,” Vera said, nodding thoughtfully. “That might speed up the process too. Are you coming with me Champ, or are you going to stay here and sift through the girls’ panties and bras?”

  “I thought I’d help Ben.”

  Vera stopped at the door and looked back. “I guess you can be glad they don’t use a boa constrictor in their act. You’d hate to find that hidden in a suitcase unannounced.”

  “Wait!” said Alan. “They have a snake or not?”

  “I don’t think so. Girls with those usually make a big production out of it. It’s something phallic about it that the guys like to see them playing with.”

  “Not me,” said Alan. “If I see beady eyes, the Colt’s coming out and there will be gun play...a whole magazine’s worth.”

  “Just remember the poor snake is unarmed,” Vera teased.

  “I’m not going to frisk him,” said Alan. “Tricky bastard got us tossed out of the Garden of Eden. I’ll dust him purely to revenge all mankind.”

  As Vera walked away, Ben patted Alan on the shoulder. “You two are better entertainment than anything on radio. What’d you do to provoke her this time?”

  “Doesn’t have to be anything,” said Alan. “Sometimes she just likes to push my buttons.”

  “And you love it when she does... ”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “She wants you with her, you know. I don’t think she’s comfortable with you digging through the girls’ stuff either.”

  “I know that,” Alan said, staring blankly at a full wardrobe with something dark, long, and fluffy hanging out the bottom and touching the floor. “I’m going to make her wait, and then I’m going to attack and wrap this feather boa around her neck.”

  “Oh yeah,” said Ben with a wry smile. “She’ll love that.”

  Alan tugged the boa out from the wardrobe and stretched it out to its full length. “Who made these famous? Tallulah Bankhead?”

  “Isadora Duncan, America’s most famous exile.”

  “We kicked her out of the country, how come?”

  “For her pro-Soviet sympathies. If that’s not enough to raise your curiosity, there are plenty who doubt the official version of her death.”

  “Didn’t her scarf get wrapped around a wheel spoke of her car and break her neck.”

  Ben nodded. “That’s the official version.”

  “What’s the unofficial version?”

  “Angry monarchists loyal to the royal family caught up with her and staged the accident.”

  “Seriously?” asked Alan.

  “In our country we have a long history of political shame: name calling, libel, slander, poll taxes on the poor, ballot box stuffing with the names of the deceased, but no one here gets particularly outraged by it all. On the other hand, foreign countries, where liberty and freedom are mere concepts for the philosophical, they resort to deadly violence, assassinations of whole families, and coup d’états by generals and jealous rivals. An ideologue from here can’t wander over to Europe or Russia and start preaching their western idea of politics. Even your friend Machiavelli took his lumps for telling others what to do. What he said mattered to those people and their religious leaders.”

  Alan scrunched the boa into a ball and shoved it back into the wardrobe. As he headed for the door, Ben stopped him, nodding his head towards a packet of photographs in his hand.

  “Have you ever seen pictures of the Romanovs?” he asked.

  Alan shook his head.

  Ben handed him a five-by-seven, and then another and another. “I think you’re seeing them right now.”

  Ben held up an eight-by-ten to the light. “These are amazing,” he said. “Looks like they were lifted from the royal family’s personal collection.”

  “How in the world would somebody come up with these?” asked Alan.


  “I have no idea,” said Ben, “but Zarenko must have forty-five or fifty of them here. And these look like candids, taken by the royal photographer for the personal use of the family—not the official studio portraits they make for the public. These have got to be very valuable to collectors.”

  “What a beautiful family,” said Alan. “Past tense now, and that makes it a crying shame.”

  Ben nodded and exhaled loudly as he tapped one picture against the stack of others, lost in thought. “A damn shame what they did to that family. They herded them together in the basement where they were keeping them in the Urals, told them they needed to take a picture to prove they were still alive, and then they snuck in a firing squad and executed them viciously. When the shooting didn’t work as planned, they bayoneted the survivors, shot others in the head, and burned and buried their bodies, but they made a mess of the burial too. The Bolsheviks kept the killing of the daughters under wraps for years, lying to the people that they were still alive but scattered around Russia, Europe, and China, which led to imposters popping up in several places, all over the world.”

  “Who’s still alive?” asked Vera, wandering back into the room.

  Alan handed her a small stack of the photographs he had already looked through.

  “The Romanovs!” said Vera.

  “Where’d you find these?”

  “Madam Zarenko’s suitcase,” said Ben.

  “Why would she have these here, and not in her room?” asked Vera.

  “I don’t know,” said Ben.

  “Who’s the big guy with the beard and the priest robes?” asked Alan. “Doesn’t seem like part of the royal family, but he shows up in many of these pictures.”

  “Grigori Rasputin,” said Ben. “The spiritual advisor, healer, hypnotist, and mystic for the Russian royal family. There’re slurs that he exerted more influence than a man should on Alexandra, the late tsarina. Personally, from what I’ve read, I think the Bolsheviks were doing all they could to discredit the Romanovs while drumming up support for their revolution and what they were doing.”