by Неизвестный
“Detective Stewart,” said Dennis, nodding towards Alan. “What brings you gentlemen here tonight?”
“It’s our unfortunate duty,” said Ben, “to deliver a death message to one of your guests. We hate to risk disturbing her, this late at night, but we’re confident she’ll appreciate knowing this information before reading it in the morning papers.”
“This sounds serious,”
“She’s a celebrity who may be traveling incognito,” said Alan.
Dennis sucked in air and strummed his fingers delicately on the counter. “That could be tricky then.”
“It’s Merle Oberon, the actress,” said Ben, “but she might have a room on the seventh floor reserved under M. O’Brien.”
“That’s helpful,” said Dennis as he flipped through occupancy cards in a file out of view. Alan had the distinct impression Dennis needed time to process the request, rather than refresh his memory to what room housed Miss Oberon.
After a moment, Dennis paused and glanced up.
“The privacy of our guests is of paramount importance to us,” said Dennis, “but it seems your information is uncannily accurate.”
“She’s been here about a week,” said Alan, “Usually has a nightly visitor who may stay until morning.”
Dennis rolled his eyes heavenward as he listened. “At least one of you two already knows that we’re not the morality police. It would be impossible to tell people who can and can’t visit our guests, how long they can stay, and what they can or can’t do while they’re here.”
“We’re not interested in that part of her business,” said Ben, “and you can see that we’re not dragging a cameraman from Hush! Hush! magazine along with us.”
“Alright then,” said Dennis, “but I’ll have to accompany you. If our guest doesn’t answer her door, under no circumstances will I key it open for you.”
“Unless she’s screaming ‘murder’ or ‘rape’,” said Ben.
Dennis nodded. “Of course. That goes without saying.”
Dennis palmed a key from underneath the desk, said something to his assistant, and walked into the back office, only to emerge a moment later from a side door that led to the lobby. He nodded for Alan and Ben to join him at the elevator, which they rode in silence to the seventh floor.
When the elevator door opened, Dennis led them across the hall and down to a room that would have a view overlooking the bay. The thought occurred to Alan that he might have spent the night inside here within the past year, but on that occasion the room’s spectacular view went unnoticed.
Dennis stood in front of the room number, turned awkwardly, and knocked on the door.
“It’s about time,” growled a woman’s voice inside the room. As footsteps approached the door, she spoke again. “Where the hell have you been?
The door opened with a jerk, and a smallish figure in a nightgown and robe stood framed by the door, gazing up at the taller men with puzzled eyes.
She clutched the loose hanging robe in front of her bosom. “Dennis, who the hell are these men?”
Ben tipped his fedora toward Miss Oberon, as did Alan, and he followed by bringing his badge up so she could see it. “We’re with the police,” he said, “and we’re here to deliver some very unfortunate news to you. May we come in?”
“What kind of unfortunate news? Miss Oberon asked slowly.
“I’m afraid it’s a death notice that you would prefer to take in private,” said Ben. “Would you like Dennis to standby while we talk? I’m sure you’ll have questions, and we may have the answers, some of them anyway. It could take a few minutes.”
Miss Oberon stepped out of the way, and indicated with her head for them to enter. “Dennis, you don’t have to wait. I’ll call the front desk if there’s something I need. They’ll be able to find their own way out.”
“Very well, madam,” Dennis said, bowing as he closed the door behind him.
Miss Oberon sat down in an overstuffed chair and tugged a comforter into her lap. She canted her head towards the sofa and indicated with a nod that the detectives could also sit.
“Only one person knows I’m here,” said Miss Oberon, “so it can’t be him who’s died, or you wouldn’t be here—but then he’s obviously the one whom I’ve been expecting for four hours. And there must be a reason he’s not here. Is it Eugene?”
“I’m afraid, so,” said Ben. “We only learned recently that you were staying here and thought we should inform you.”
Miss Oberon stared straight ahead, past them and through the open blinds to the harbor below the city, enclosed partially by West Seattle in the background that had a ferry drawing past it on its way to Bremerton to the west. She buried her face into delicate hands and sobbed loudly, like a little girl abandoned to live on the streets.
Alan got up and went into the bathroom, where he moistened a soft washcloth under hot water. He rang it out and brought it to Miss Oberon, who took it and pressed it gently against her eyes as her sobs softened, accompanied by gulps for air. Alan felt the need to take her in his arms and hug her reassuringly, while telling her that everything would be alright, but he had no way of knowing if that were true. Maybe she’d lost the love of her life. He hovered nearby, wishing there were some way he could help her, rescue her from her sadness. He glanced at Ben who shook his head slightly, a signal Alan understood to mean that this might take a while and to be patient. Alan didn’t envy Ben this part of his job, having to deliver death notices, while not getting caught up in the emotions of the moment. It must be tough being a real policeman.
“Tell me how it happened,” said Miss Oberon. “I’m quite capable of listening.”
“We both watched it,” said Ben. “It happened on stage, right before our eyes.”
“The infamous Boxers’ Firing Squad,” said Miss Oberon. “I told Eugene he didn’t need to do that anymore, but the thrill of it had become an addiction for him. Defying death every night.”
“It very well could be murder,” said Ben. “We believe someone double stacked a firing cap, possibly on purpose. The hot charge ignited the barrel containing the charge and gun powder.”
“I saw the trick years ago in London, and it scared me then,” said Miss Oberon. “I refuse to watch the show anymore because of it.”
“Of all the people in Seattle, we think you might be in the best position to help us,” said Ben. “We’re wondering what you can tell us about Eugene’s relationship with Liu Yang? What did he tell you?”
“Presumptuous of you that Eugene and I are intimate,” said Miss Oberon. “Before I tell you anything, I’d like you to tell me how you found me,” said Miss Oberon, the sorrow replaced by anger.
“You know we aren’t at liberty to divulge our sources,” said Ben, “no one would ever talk to the police if we did. But I can assure you the source of information will not be talking to the newspapers about this.”
“Must’ve been a private detective,” said Miss Oberon. “Eugene worried all the time that someone might follow him. He feared ruthless competitors and blackmailers. He knew other magicians would pay dearly to discover that he led two lives. They also wanted to learn how his tricks worked, which he built himself.”
“We live in dangerous times,” said Ben, “but can we talk about Liu Yang?”
“Do you suspect her?” asked Miss Oberon.
“We need to be rigorous in gathering our information” said Ben, “and we thought you might be able to tell us more about her. Did Eugene worry about her or anyone else?”
“She’s the one who loaded those rifles every day, isn’t she?” asked Miss Oberon.
“That’s what we’ve been told,” said Alan.
“She’s the perfect place to start then, but if she killed him she’s a terrible fool. It’s him that people paid good money to see, not her. She’s a
very adequate box jumper but entirely replaceable, just like any other pair of shapely legs in the chorus line—there’re plenty out there looking for their break. She didn’t seem to understand that this is as good as it gets for her. She wanted more notice, bigger billing, wanted her name on the marquee with his, wanted more money, and she wanted more Eugene, as in him putting a big rock on her ring finger.”
“Did she want that bad enough to kill for it?” asked Alan.
“That’s my point,” said Miss Oberon. “If she killed him, she killed the golden goose that laid her golden eggs.”
“We know it doesn’t make any sense,” said Ben, “but murders often only make sense to those who commit them. Is there anybody else you know of who didn’t like Eugene?”
“It’s funny, but the only person I can think of right away is Laurence Olivier, from a few years back. Laurence is a racist who dislikes Asians, whether they’re Chinese, Japanese, or Indian. He’s not shy about telling people either. He refused to see Wang Tao’s show because ‘it stars a nasty little Chinese bugger,’ but then later Laurence would play cards with Eugene—essentially the same man but without makeup—smoke his cigars, and drink his brandy because Eugene acted as the perfect Scottish gentleman, a man of substance, which he’d become by playing a Chinese man. Of course Eugene never let Laurence in on the joke.”
“Mr. Olivier is not in Seattle, is he?” said Alan.
Miss Oberon shook her head and sniffed back a tear. She dabbed the warm cloth gently at her eyes. “No, he’s not. I’d like to blame him, though, because he can be a nasty individual himself, but Laurence is not the murderer. And truthfully, Eugene didn’t feel the sting of the slurs like a real Asian person would. Generally speaking, Eugene exploited the Caucasian belief that older Chinese males are inherently wiser, craftier, more spiritual, and more mystic than White males. He used this to his advantage to draw an audience willing to suspend their disbelief and believe he could actually perform magic before their very eyes.”
“Agreed,” said Ben, nodding.
“The opposite is true for Asian women, particularly Chinese,” said Miss Oberon, “who are generally considered inferior intellectually and capable of performing only the most basic purposes in life, all subservient to the male, of course, which reinforces the mistaken belief that these women cannot be very bright or exceptional, collectively, and particularly as individuals. Ironically, Liu Yang falls into that category because of her success at playing her role so well, convincing people she is Chinese.”
Ben and Alan waited to see if there were more.
Miss Oberon lowered the wet flannel and gazed at each of them. “Liu Yang is really White, isn’t she? I’m afraid I don’t know her real name.”
“Luanne Bryant’s her given name,” said Alan. “Of course she also used Luanne Roberts.”
“‘Bryant’ sounds familiar,” said Miss Oberon, “now that you mention it. Perhaps Eugene told me it in passing.”
“Did Eugene mention any problems with the theater owner, Nikolai Ivanovich?” asked Ben.
“He particularly didn’t want Nikolai to see him as Eugene Roberts,” said Miss Oberon.
“Why’s that?” asked Ben.
“Before Eugene became Wang Tao, he sold the magic props he built to other magicians, and then he began putting together an act and performing under his own name, but he didn’t do all that well starting out. It’s so terribly hard to get noticed. So often fate plays a hand in who becomes a star. I’m probably a case in point on that topic. Then a promoter offered him a deal, if he could do what Ching Ling Foo had been doing in Europe at that same time. Eugene accepted his offer, and then the promoter billed him as Foo’s biggest rival, who had come to Europe all the way from the outer reaches of Manchuria, and he booked him on a tour throughout the continent while he continued to hone his act and develop Wang Tao. Eugene met Ivanovich early on, before the transition. I think they met in Paris. He worried Nikolai might remember him and reveal his secret identity, which Eugene felt is the biggest legacy of his act. Despite twenty years as a headliner, Eugene felt his time in the limelight would be fleeting and that his talents were quite modest. Insecurity plagues many of us in the entertainment industry.”
“How much did Eugene know about Ivanovich?” asked Alan. “Did he know his marital status or if he used another name?”
“Eugene said Ivanovich had a different name back then, which is nothing new to people in show business. I’ve obviously dealt that hand a time or two. Eugene called him Boris. The last name sounded like Solevad or something close to that, but definitely not Ivanovich. He believed that he and his wife were Russian émigrés who smuggled a fortune in jewels out of the country during the Revolution, but I don’t think he mentioned her name.”
“Having that kind of wealth would certainly help you get a start in the theater business,” said Ben.
21
Alan parked on Tenth Avenue East, about a block from Vera’s apartment. “You don’t think it’s too late to pay a visit?” he asked Ben.
“Oh, it’s too late alright,” Ben said, “and there’s no doubt we all need our beauty sleep, me more than others. But the problem with our witnesses is they’re entirely too mobile. We can’t afford to let them hit the rails before we talk to them. We’d play hell trying to track them down in another city. The department doesn’t have nearly the money it takes to send us chasing after gypsies crossing borders.”
Alan knocked on the door and then stepped slightly to the side, allowing the thicker jamb to protect him, like Ben had taught him. Ben smiled.
Vera opened the door, wearing a satin robe over something silky with a blush tone. She forced a smile through droopy eyes.
“Sorry to wake you,” said Alan softly.
“Not a problem,” said Vera, giving that smile her best effort. “This is one of the rare nights my guests went to bed ahead of me. So I took a short nap. Come in and I’ll put on a kettle of water.”
The two detectives followed Vera into the kitchen, treading lightly. “We’ve got a lot to catch you up on,” said Ben. “I suspect most of the details can wait until morning, but we need to talk to Madam Zarenko tonight.”
“The Champ told me you found another murder victim,” said Vera, while she filled the kettle with water at the sink. “Another Medved brother?”
“Bayoneted several times and maybe shot, too,” said Alan. “The note sticking out of his mouth called him an ‘unrepentant baby killer.’ Said he ‘got what he deserved.’”
“‘Baby killer?’” asked Vera. “Didn’t you tell me the other stagehands said something about a baby when talking about his brother, Pavel? Didn’t he wake up in the night screaming ‘Not the babushka!’”
“That’s right,” said Ben. “That’s what they told us.”
“I wonder if it’s the same baby,” said Vera. “At any rate I’m going to have to advise some friends that two from their undesirables list have shown up here in Seattle. I wonder if there’re more in the area.”
“Which baby did they kill, and how long ago?” asked Alan.
“How did you find his body?” asked Vera.
“Liu Yang told us that she’d hired Mikhail Medved to follow Wang Tao, who is in reality Eugene Roberts of Brooklyn, New York.”
“Tao is not Chinese?” Vera asked. “Not even American Chinese?”
Ben and Alan both shook their heads.
Vera put the kettle on the stove, and a smile crept over her face as she thought. “Much good,” she said. “He speaks just enough broken English so that you can’t get a read on him, until he’s shot, of course, and then he suddenly speaks Americanized English. Brooklyn English, no less. What a perfect dodge he ran.”
“So while we’re learning this,” said Alan, “we find that Liu Yang is really Luanne Bryant, who claims Hillbilly trash as a blo
odline. She asked Ivanovich for a detective referral, and he gave her Mikhail Medved. Mikhail followed Eugene for her up to the Sorrento, where he had a love nest set up with Academy Award winning actress Merle Oberon.”
“Merle Oberon’s in town?” asked Vera.
“Under an assumed name, being very discreet,” said Alan. “Turns out that Eugene also knew Ivanovich from his early days in the world of magic while getting his start in Europe. Says the name then might have been Boris Solevad, or something close to that.”
“You boys have been busy,” said Vera.
“I thought I heard talking,” said a throaty woman’s voice, entering the room.
“I’m sorry,” said Ben, “did we wake you?”
“I’m not much of a sleeper,” said Tasha. “My past seems to haunt me.”
“We’re having tea,” said Vera. “Care to join us?”
“I’d love a cup, thank you.”
“Your timing’s good,” said Ben, “because we have some updates you’d like to hear, as well as some snags you might be able to help us with.”
“I’m listening,” said Tasha.
Alan pulled out a black and white photograph from a photograph and laid it on the table in front of Tasha. “There are names written in pencil on the back,” he said. “We were wondering if you could explain.”
“You found my pictures?” asked Tasha. “I’m so glad they weren’t destroyed in the fire.”
“We found very rare pictures of the Russian royal family,” said Ben. “We’re not so sure who they belong to at the moment.”
Tasha picked up the picture and flipped it over. “It has my name and my father’s on it. Everyone else you see here is dead. I guess that makes them mine.”
“And you were how old here?” asked Ben.
“Ten or twelve, maybe... I don’t remember.”
“How did you acquire it?” asked Ben, “and how did it end up in your dressing room? Why not keep it with your personal belongings in your hotel room?”
“Nikolai brought it to me before the show,” said Tasha. “He thought it would mean more to me than him.”
