by Неизвестный
“Your walking stick is very handsome, too, sir. Another Russian treasure?”
“Paris, actually, and yours looks quite smart,” said Ivanovich. “They’re great for keeping the dogs at bay when taking the evening stroll, don’t you think?”
“Up on Orcas Island we mostly have deer, but they’re really no bother when walking about. It’s the cougars that worry me. They’re not always well behaved.”
The men took their seats, allowing the space of an empty seat between them. In the pit at the foot of the stage, orchestra members began warming up, tuning their instruments, arranging music sheets, and adjusting their chairs, speaking between themselves in Russian.
“So what finally got you off your island?” asked Ivanovich. “Why did you leave?”
“My father loves the life up there just fine, but I keep an apartment here in town, which I like to slip away to often as I can. It turns out I’m more of a city boy than a woodsman, a conservationist, or a hermit. None of those titles seem to work for me. I appreciate nature, sure enough, but personally I like the hustle and bustle of Pike Place Market, which is the very sort of thing my father said wore him out, the hustle and bustle. Most don’t remember that he’d been the mayor of Seattle, back during the Great Fire of ’89. The stress of that debacle and rebuilding the city afterward took its toll, and so he had to get away for his health, retire early, which meant he took all of us with him up to the island.
“So now I’m looking for somewhere to invest my money that will keep me active in city life down here. I like what I see with motion pictures. I think they’re the future of entertainment and vaudeville won’t be able to compete much longer. Just take a gander to a year back and change to ’39. We had Gone With The Wind, Stagecoach, Wuthering Heights, Beau Geste, Ninotchka, Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, and Goodbye Mr. Chips, every movie a box office winner and a major force in cinema. There’s nothing that can top that for entertainment, except maybe Alexander’s live act, the magician you have at The Orpheum. That man can pack a palace.”
“Agreed, and since his accompanying retinue is so small, compared to other shows, he’s very easy to accommodate. He’s self-contained and can easily fill every one of the 2,000 seats we have here – that is when he’s not contracted with me, of course.”
“My bias is towards motion pictures,” said Moran. “We have our own theater on the second floor of the estate and a world class pipe organ for accompaniment, when we have a silent film. We’ve learned to rely on movies shipped up to us by ferry. But watching movies alone has spoiled me. I learned to run the projector so I could watch them again and again, after the others had gone to bed. Consequently, I’ve developed an overpowering sense of destiny about films, and I want to share the movie experience with as many others as possible.”
“Moving pictures have been good for me,” said Ivanovich, “and I agree that the cost and logistics of a stage show can eat up cash reserves.”
“I’m very interested in your theater here. That is, if the numbers work out for me. I also might be interested in restoring your Paramount Theater too, if the price is right. Such a shame about the fire. Quite ghastly. Did you and the police ever get to the bottom of it? The newspapers haven’t had much to say about its origins.”
“I’m afraid the police and private detectives are still working on it,” said Ivanovich, “but I don’t think they’ve gotten very far. In the meantime, I’m losing revenue every day that the door is padlocked because it’s officially called a crime scene—or in their lingo, ‘the theater of the crime’.”
Moran checked his pocket watch, stood up, and waved towards the projectionist’s window. “Young man, start now, please. Then he faced towards the orchestra pit, “Maestro, are you ready please?”
A head with a military styled cap suddenly appeared higher than the curtained rail lining the pit. The maestro raised his baton, and the house lights dimmed, as the head usher brought the three boxes of popcorn that Ivanovich had ordered.
“Most excellent,” said Moran to the usher, before nodding his thanks to Ivanovich. “I love the smell of melting butter, and this is the proper way to watch a movie. But I’m going to have to step out of character for a few moments, take my gloves off for the popcorn when the movie starts. I wouldn’t want to get greasy butter all over them.”
Moran canted his head toward the usher. “Would you be so kind as to bring the champagne down, pour each of us a glass, please?”
“Certainly, sir,” said the usher with a deep head nod.
The orchestra started with a rousing number, heavy on the oboe, giving the music a festive but formal sound, gradually slowing and shifting to something foreboding and somber as the screen credits rolled high above them. More strings were added to sweeten the sound.
“I confess I have a bad habit of talking all through movies,” said Moran. “It comes from watching so many with family or by myself. Like the director who made the movie, I’m busy giving stage directions, like I know what I’m doing. The family shushes me all the time. I’ll try not to be too big of a pest for you.”
Ivanovich smiled indulgently.
“Your orchestra is quite good,” said Moran, leaning slightly towards his host.
“All Russian émigrés, except the organist,” said Ivanovich. “He’s from Berlin and is a bit temperamental. You’d think the Russians and he were still fighting either the Great War or the new one in Eastern Europe. I don’t know for sure, but I think he’s a Jew with communist leanings, but a brilliant organ player, nonetheless.”
“How interesting,” said Moran, fidgeting slightly with his left glove.
“Impressive resumes for all of them. The Russians were once members of the St. Petersburg’s Mariinsky Orchestra. They played for the tsar and his family. They command top dollar, and we gladly pay it.”
“Well, bully for them, but given your name, Nikolai Ivanovich, do you speak Russian at all?”
“Not so much,” said Ivanovich. “We spoke mostly English growing up, but I can follow a conversation.”
“That must come in handy. Does it give you a feeling you’re visiting your homeland or never left it?”
Ivanovich smiled again, with a touch of weariness. “It’s been a long time, but there’s a certain comfort in hearing the familiar.”
Before long, the head usher returned with the bucket of champagne and two glasses on a tray. He stepped to the side, unwound the wires holding the cork in place, and gently allowed the cork to pop, smothering it in his hand as he deftly poured the bubbling nectar into two fluted glasses.
“To success and your homeland,” saluted Moran.
“Success and Mother Russia,” said Ivanovich, matching the toast with his scarred hand.
Both men took sips from their glasses and sat back in their seats. Moran finally took off his right glove and began eating the buttered popcorn.
“This is great, this is living,” said Moran. “If I owned a theater, I’d have a private collection of films and watch a movie every night. Eat my weight in popcorn, and wash it down with champagne. I hope you don’t mind my bringing it along tonight.”
“This is not the first time champagne has been served inside this theater,” said Ivanovich. “If your tastes run toward the adventurous, private film collectors will approach you with fists full of money. They host parties after hours where they screen their private cult movies with their friends. You certainly can say ‘No’ to them, but they pay handsomely and tidy up afterward. You’d never know they were here.”
“Would those be fantasy movies?”
Ivanovich nodded. “Indeed. They cover the gamut: foreign art films, horror, and erotica of every taste. ‘Birds of a feather’ as the saying goes. These people seem to find each other and embrace shared tastes of things others might consider peculiar.”
“Intriguing. More cha
mpagne?” asked Moran holding up the bottle.
“Please,” said Ivanovich, holding out his glass.
Moran turned sideways in his seat and reached across his body to pour, but he couldn’t stretch far enough. He stood up and stooped into a crouch, while steadying Ivanovich’s glass with his gloved hand, pouring champagne with his other.
Ivanovich’s hand trembled, shaking the glass and spilling out some of the bubbly.
“I’m sorry did I spill on you?” asked Moran.
“It’s quite alright,” said Ivanovich. “But I must be absorbing the alcohol through the broken skin. Stings a bit but should go away.”
“Clumsy of me,” said Moran. “So how about Russian cinema, Nikolai? I love finding old documentaries of the Romanov family back during their reign. I can’t get enough of Russian history, but you certainly can’t find much of it in this area. Thankfully, there is some, you know. As I’ve traveled around Europe I discovered that I would find more the further away from Russia I roamed, with the United States being the exception, of course. America doesn’t have much use for anything Russian yet, except for caviar, art, literature, and its music. I hope that changes. You can’t find anything on the Romanov’s in Seattle, and I certainly found nothing at all in Russia during my travels. It’s as if the Bolsheviks and Yankees are trying to pretend the family never existed.”
The tremors in Ivanovich’s hand continued to worsen as the skin reddened quickly. The champagne glass spilled and fell from his hand into the folded seat between them.
“Should I get someone to clean this up, or can it wait until we take a break?” asked Moran.
“It can wait,” said Ivanovich, his words slurred as if his tongue were thickening, and then his eyes widened as he stared at Moran.
Moran peeled off the white glove on his left hand carefully, starting at the heel of his palm and rolling the fabric forward, revealing a rubberized surgeon’s glove underneath. Moran shook the white glove to the floor and kicked it away from him with the toe of his shoe.
“You should take off the ring you’re wearing before your fingers swell up around it,” said Moran.
“Is this poison?”
“No, not poison, Boris, it’s venom. Snake venom. Rattlesnake, if you want to be exact. It has a generous mixture of southwestern rattler venom in it – Mojave Rattler to be precise. This venom will paralyze you, and if untreated or delivered in large doses, it will certainly kill you, which of course is my intention. I understand it’s a very painful way to die, which is only fitting for you. Now, I’ll have that ring.”
“How do you know my name?” asked Ivanovich, his voice slurring more now. “This can’t be robbery. What’s this about?”
“It’s all about your past and the ugly imprint you’ve left on history, Boris, but more importantly,” said the Phantom, “it’s about my sister Anna. It’s also about the entire Romanov family that you helped destroy through your selfishness, with your pernicious greed.”
Ivanovich threw his weight forward over his knees and stood up unsteadily. He grabbed his walking stick and unsheathed his sword.
The Phantom sprang from his seat, drew his own sword, stepped backward, and tossed his cape out of his way and over his shoulder, taking up the en garde position.
“You poison me, you cur, and you expect a fair fight?” asked Ivanovich.
“It’s venom, not poison!” said the Phantom. “There is a difference. I am Anna’s brother, and I didn’t come here to fight fairly. Do not mistake this for a dual of honor, because you have no honor. That’s been proven time and time again. I’ve searched for you my whole life, and I have come here to see that you suffer and die ignobly. The only honor at stake is that of the Demidova family, which demands revenge for your transgressions. For the last time, Boris Soloviev, I’ll have the tsar’s ring.”
24
The three detectives gathered with Tasha outside of the Camlin Hotel, next to the Packard.
“Frankly, I’m amazed,” said Vera. “I’ve seen entertainers who’ve claimed to be psychic go through their routines with moans, groans, and chants, making deliberate transitions from one character to another, like actors getting into their parts before going on stage. But I’ve never seen it where the host body gets knocked out like a prize fighter, and then later has no recollection of what he said while channeling—like he’d suffered a concussion. And if that weren’t enough, Alexander can also channel when he’s awake and aware of what’s going on, but differently, this time seeing an image of the tsar in his mind’s eye, who he mistakes for the tsar’s first cousin, the late king. Quite remarkable. I’ve never seen anything like that.”
Tasha nodded her concurrence. “I haven’t used my birth name since before my father took me to St. Petersburg. The few who learned of my name were the Romanov sisters and Anna, because of Maria Romanov, of course, the second oldest. The family thought it necessary to call me by a name different than Maria since we visited there so often, so it wouldn’t be confusing to anyone, but that didn’t happen. So I reverted back to Maria and have been that ever since. No one else addressed me by anything other than Maria, so there’s no way Alexander could have possibly known.”
“I gravitate towards craftiness,” said Ben, “but Alexander puts on a convincing show. He’s given me a lot to think about, which I can’t explain. I have a feeling he’s just as surprised by this as we were, but truthfully, at the moment I’m more worried about Ivanovich’s safety. I think his days are numbered, if not his hours and minutes.”
“I’m with Ben on both counts,” said Alan. “There’s part of me that says Alexander’s a showman who always covers every angle, but there were tangents here I’m sure he didn’t see coming. He couldn’t have. My problem with believing what I saw is I don’t want to be taken for a fool, flimflammed by a clever conman, but like Ben said, I saw a lot I can’t explain.”
“I agree about Ivanovich being in danger,” said Vera, “we need to do something about him, despite what a worm he’s been.”
“Can I come along with you?” asked Tasha.
“I don’t know if that would be a good plan,” said Ben. “We have absolutely no idea what we might encounter when we find him, and having you with us means we have to factor your welfare when making decisions.”
“Ben, I throw knives at people for a living, moving targets at that, and I do it while I’m almost naked. Not much is going to scare me. I’m not a helpless little girl.”
“Did you bring your throwing knives?” asked Ben.
“No, detective, they’re still inside the Paramount,” said Tasha. “Can we go get them, please?”
“Later,” said Ben. “Something in Alexander’s tone said we have no time to waste.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, the foursome entered the lobby of The Moore Hotel. With it still being a police investigation, Ben took the lead and approached the front desk, holding his badge discreetly. “We’d like to call on Nikolai Ivanovich, if he’s in, please.”
“He left an hour ago to meet a gentleman,” said the male clerk. “Is there a problem?”
Ben rolled his lips as he paused for a moment. “We have reason to believe he might be in imminent danger. Do you know where he might’ve gone?”
The clerk gazed at Ben’s badge a moment and then quickly glanced around the lobby. “Everybody’s concerned about people getting killed on stage. Has this something to do with that?”
Ben nodded slowly, not pushing his point.
“I suppose it’s okay then,” said the clerk, as if satisfying an inner argument. “He’s meeting a potential buyer for a theater, a man by the name of Moran. The gentleman sent his driver over an hour ago to pick up Mr. Ivanovich. They’re meeting at the Coliseum Theater.”
“At Fifth and Pike,” said Ben.
“That’s right.�
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“It’s a little early for a vaudeville act, isn’t it? Are they running a movie?”
“Private showing,” said the clerk, “before today’s matinee.”
“Is that something theaters normally do?”
The clerk shook his head. “Very rare, at least during the daytime, and in fact the request surprised Mr. Ivanovich. The client insisted he wanted to see Rupert Julian’s Phantom of the Opera. Said it’s his favorite.”
“That’s a silent,” said Ben.
“Correct you are, detective—with Lon Chaney. He’s superb in the movie and helped direct it, but if you ask me, Mary Philbin and Norman Kerry were rather wooden. Mr. Ivanovich had me call in the house orchestra, the organist, and concession staff. The gentleman insisted on refreshments with his movie, and he wants to see the ushers in attendance. He wants everyone in their uniforms.”
“He’s bringing in the orchestra?” asked Alan. “All that for the two of them?”
“That’s my understanding.”
Ben nodded his thanks and put his badge away.
Vera’s eyes flared wide. She started toward the front door, walking quickly, followed quickly by the other three. “I say we take a taxi over so we don’t have to worry about parking.”
* * *
The taxi stopped at Fifth and Pike in the middle of the street, in front of The Coliseum Theater. “If you can hold on a minute,” said the driver, “I’ll make a left turn into the alley, back out and pull up to the door.”
“This is fine right here,” said Ben, digging into his wallet, pulling out a five spot and handing it to the driver. “Keep it.”
Vera and Alan were already opening the rear doors. Traffic stopped behind them, mid-block. A guy in a delivery truck had the irritated look that indicated he might say something nasty, but then he paused to gape at Vera and Tasha as they finished crossing the street and stepped up on the curb. The car behind him honked.
Ben led the way to the ticket seller’s window and flashed his badge.
