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

by Неизвестный

  “I’m sorry, we’re not open yet,” said the ticket seller, her voice amplified electronically, coming out through an outside speaker. “We’re having a private showing. It’s two hours until the matinee.”

  “We’re not hitting you up for a free movie,” said Ben, “we’re here on official business.”

  The cashier pointed towards the door closest to her. “We’ve never had trouble with the police. Go ahead, it’s unlocked.”

  Standing next to the door, Alan pulled it wide for the others as they hurried past, in front of him. Across the lobby, two usherettes stood shoulder to shoulder in the aisle way entrance, watching something in front of them, by the stage. Startled by the detectives’ approach, they jumped out of the way.

  “Arghhh!” came a scream from down in the theater.

  Halfway down the aisle the head usher stood frozen in his uniform, watching two men, one with a sword, fighting it out in front of the first row, the one wearing half a mask as light on his feet as a matador, the other, a larger gentleman, staggered like a dying bull in the caged arena, pawing at the ground, gathering courage to mount a final charge to gore its tormentor in a lost cause to even the score.

  As the detectives drew near to the usher it became clear that the larger man resembled Ivanovich in stature, except with face bloodied and head distorted. He had several cuts about his cheeks and blood ran freely from where his ears had once been. It also appeared from a distance that he might be missing two fingers from his right hand.

  “There’s some kind of poison on the blade of his sword,” said the usher to Ben and the others. “I heard them talking about snakes.”

  “Halt! I’m a police detective!” shouted Ben, while holding up his badge with one hand and drawing his revolver with the other.

  Vera stepped into a row of seats and nodded for Alan to follow her to the other aisle way. He drew his Colt and kept it discreetly low, at his side.

  Next to the orchestra pit curtain, Ivanovich dropped heavily to his knees and fell forward, ending up on all fours, bracing himself with stiff arms. Below the combatants, the orchestra continued playing an accompaniment to the movie on the screen, which showed would-be rescuers running down steps below the Paris Opera House.

  Inside The Coliseum, the real life Phantom raised his sword as if preparing to stab the helpless bull one final time, but he stopped and turned towards Ben’s voice. “You are too late, detective. He has suffered the stings of many snake bites and there is no way he’ll recover. At this point it would be a mercy to end it all for him, but truthfully, I actually don’t mind watching his suffering. It’s well deserved.”

  “If you don’t believe me, ask him yourself,” the Phantom continued, “but I assure you that at this point he favors death.”

  Ivanovich groggily nodded his head and moaned in a creaking voice, “Please ... finish what you started.”

  Vera and Alan continued sliding through the row of seats and emerged at the other aisle, which also led down to the front row.

  “Please don’t interrupt my performance,” the Phantom called to them, “or it will end horribly for you as well. I have enough venom left to kill a hundred men or more, but I have no quarrel with you. My family’s honor and redemption are at stake here, and sweet revenge has finally been ours. My fate has been inextricably linked to Boris Soloviev’s betrayal and greed. I don’t wish for it to involve others.”

  “Kill me,” pleaded Ivanovich in a weakened voice.

  “There, you heard him yourself,” said the Phantom, as Ivanovich slumped to his side. “The paralysis has consumed him. Soon he will no longer be able to talk. His throat will swell, and he will suffocate.”

  Ben moved closer toward the front row, while across the row of seats, Vera and Alan did the same. The Phantom raised his sword higher with one hand and while holding its sheath outward with the other, as if preparing to stab Ivanovich. “No closer,” he said, glancing back and forth between the detectives.

  Ben raised his pistol and aimed towards the Phantom. “I’ve sworn to protect and serve everyone,” he said. “Despicable as Nikolai may be, I can’t let you finish him off in front of me.”

  “You would rather he continues his suffering before he dies?” asked the Phantom.

  “That’s the way it’s got to be,” said Ben. “If you stab or cut him again, I will shoot you.”

  “If you miss,” said the Phantom, “you’ll hit one of the innocent musicians behind me.”

  “Please do as he says,” said Tasha.

  “Well hello, Maria Rasputin. You shouldn’t be here at all. I left you for dead on the stage at the Paramount, where you should have burned to a crisp, but it appears I got too greedy, tried to tidy too many loose ends all at once, with one fell strike. It didn’t go as planned.”

  “You must have finagled a pardon from those who died because of your selfishness,” the Phantom continued. “So, why did you come here now? To witness more Russian justice? Or did you want to give me another chance to take your life? Is that it? Do you have a death wish? You obviously don’t appreciate how family vengeance works, or you would’ve pursued Rasputin’s murderers and avenged your family’s honor. But then perhaps there’s a decent bone in your body, which I am unaware of, and you came to gloat at the destruction of your vile husband?”

  “Ex-husband, Filipp,” said Tasha.

  “Oh, clever girl,” said the Phantom. “But then not so clever, Maria. My sources tell me your divorce to this scoundrel is not official, and you can’t just quit on a marriage.”

  Tasha’s shoulders shrugged heavily as she sighed. “I spoke to Anna today, Filipp.”

  “But how is it that even possible?” sneered the Phantom.

  “Alexander, the psychic who claims he’s ‘the man who knows’ channeled her for us. That’s how we knew where to find you.”

  “And what did Anna have to say?”

  “That we would be too late to save Boris,” said Tasha.

  “She’s right about that.”

  “And then she stepped aside to let the tsar, himself, speak through Alexander. You should know that he and his entire family, as well as your sister, are in a holy place, Filipp. Alexander thinks they’re saints now. If they are indeed, your murdering people in their name would be an atrocity against all that’s holy and a stain on their good names. The tsar’s message urged forgiveness.”

  “The tsar and Anna spoke to you?”

  “We were there,” said Alan. “We saw it, and I’m not a regular believer in that kind of thing.”

  “What is my birth name?” asked Tasha. “Did Anna ever mention it to you?”

  The Phantom slowly lowered his hand with the sword, while Ivanovich hacked out choking sounds on the floor in front of him. “Maria Rasputin. If not that, I have no idea.”

  “No one here in this country does, and few in Russia remember ever hearing it,” said Tasha. “Only the royal family and those very close to them knew me as Matryona Rasputina. My father changed my name to Maria when we moved to St. Petersburg to live closer to the royal family. This morning, we caught Alexander unprepared to perform, but he went ahead as a favor. And despite his lack of preparation, Anna called me by my given name, and it sounded like her voice, the one I remember, not the psychic’s voice. It could only have been Anna speaking through him, because afterward he had no recollection of what happened during the session.”

  “Are you begging for your life?” asked the Phantom, “because it’s too late now to save Boris Soloviev.”

  “I’m not begging for my life,” said Tasha, “but I will ask you for your forgiveness. That’s what Tsar Nicholas wanted me to do.”

  “Let’s hear it with meaning, then,” said the Phantom.

  “I, Matryona Rasputina ask you, Filipp Demidova, along with all those I’ve wronged by my actions and
inactions, to forgive me, please. I just want to end all this and be able to sleep at night.”

  “Nicely done,” said the Phantom, sheathing his sword, which had a thick gel of some kind on the blade. “Please celebrate with a glass of champagne. The bottle is quite safe, but don’t touch the glove on the floor, unless you plan to join Boris on his journey to hell.”

  The Phantom drew his cape from behind and pulled it around his shoulders. Almost instantaneously, he thrust his hand towards the floor as if throwing something.

  POP! POP! Two blinding flashes of light showed brightly, one between Ben and the Phantom, the other in the direction of Vera and Alan. All three detectives leaned backward reflexively, and then recovered and cautiously moved forward towards the lingering smoke. The orchestra had stopped playing with the sound of the first flash, and when the smoke began to clear, it became apparent the Phantom had disappeared.

  Alan ran ahead, but Vera stayed with him stride for stride, while Ben approached from the other direction, spreading his arms out like a football lineman, blocking his aisle. Behind him, Tasha cautiously followed.

  Alan slowed as he neared Ivanovich’s lifeless body, being careful not to step on his severed ears and fingers, which were on the floor, a few feet apart. He stepped up to the brass railing and glanced over the curtain into the pit. Below, the members of the orchestra sat on their stools and gazed up at him with expressionless faces. All wore Russian military dress uniforms with side caps, except for the organist, who dressed more like a doorman at the Rainier Club.

  “Did he come this way?” Alan asked.

  The conductor shrugged his shoulders, as if Alan were speaking a foreign language.

  “The Phantom!” Alan shouted, while raising his shoulders and hands, implying in the universal body language that he expected an answer.

  Still no response.

  Vera stopped next to Alan. “We know they speak English, because the clerk called them on the phone to ask them to come in today,” she said.

  “Apparently the code of the street applies here, too,” said Alan. “No sense helping the police catch a fleeing murderer.”

  * * *

  In the pit below, the Phantom took the sealed vial of snake venom he had hidden in his sleeve and slid it into his dress boot. He crawled out from under the scaffolding noiselessly, while carefully draping his black cloak around him as he scurried past the orchestra members. As he reached the organ, the organist stuck out his foot and caught the Phantom by his ankle, tripping him, sending him crashing to the floor.

  “Arbeit macht frie!” spat the organist.

  “Bolshevik!” said the Phantom, as he scurried to his feet and felt the sting in his ankle. He ran towards the rear of the theater, looking for a door that would take him outside to freedom.

  * * *

  Alan and Vera glanced over the railing, searching for the source of noise. The organist yelled something and then sat back down at his stool. To his side, a darkened shape scurried away.

  “That’s German,” said Vera. “Work will free you. It’s a slogan the Germans use to taunt their Russian prisoners with.”

  Alan pulled the short curtain to the side, squatted down, and slid underneath the rail. He turned to help Vera, but found her following right behind, not as worried as he about how much of her shapely legs showed to anyone looking her way.

  Alan raised his Colt to belt level and led the way through the pit, ducking underneath the stage, with Vera hot on his heels. “Look for the first door that goes outside,” said Vera. “He’ll want to put distance between us. I don’t think he’ll hide.”

  “But be careful of that blade,” said Alan. “If it’s been dipped in venom, there’s likely plenty more in the sheath.”

  25

  Alan pushed open the backstage door to the alley and let it swing wide into the recessed loading dock, a few concrete steps down from the alley. The Phantom’s mask lay on the bricks at the top of the steps near a manhole cover. Alan ran up the steps and glanced to the north and decided against it. Too long a stretch to reach Pine, where Pike lay much closer to the south. Something his father had told him years ago reminded him to take the short route, where a man on the run could make quick turns. He ran towards Pike, and Vera followed, a good sign that she trusted his instincts. At Pike he slowed at the last moment, in case the Phantom had decided to wait in ambush. To the east he spotted the Phantom’s hat and cape discarded next to a building. They won’t last long here he figured, given the scavengers in the area.

  “This way,” he said, glancing back to Vera.

  Alan turned his semi-automatic over, palmed the butt of the handle, and slid the barrel up his coat sleeve, opting for a lower profile on the crowded sidewalk in the heart of the City’s business district. They hurried toward Sixth Avenue, choosing a pace that allowed them to scan the crowds for someone else running.

  “I don’t know what he really looks like when not in costume,” said Alan. “I’ve seen the Magician, the Roughrider, and the Phantom, but all of them have been disguises.”

  “He wouldn’t wait for the traffic to clear,” said Vera. “Let’s head north. I figure he’ll double back to Pine, where he can duck into a department store.”

  Alan and Vera jogged lightly down the street, as if they were trying to catch a bus. Near Pine, a gentleman darted into traffic and crossed the street, dragging his right leg behind him. He grabbed at the leg, as if trying to guide the stubborn limb into moving faster than it could, while his other hand, carrying a walking stick, pumped furiously.

  “There he is,” said Vera and Alan at the same time.

  The two detectives cut across the street, midblock, dodging between delivery trucks and Yellow Taxis. Ahead of them, Filipp Demidova stopped at the entrance to I. Magnin, a high-end retailer who catered to Seattle’s moneyed tier. Demidova paused for a moment, holding the door for a woman wearing a fur coat to enter ahead of him, and then he ducked in through the door, behind her.

  “I’d say he’s been injured,” said Alan. “Like John Wilkes Booth, making his escape. Maybe he broke his ankle.”

  “But why would he hide inside I. Magnin’s, after holding the door for a lady?” asked Vera. “I think he has a purpose in going there.”

  When they reached the store, Alan stared through the glass doors inside before he pulled one of them open for Vera. “She’s by the cosmetics, but I don’t see him,” Alan said.

  The detectives hurried past the display counters and then heard a crash, followed by a woman’s shriek, in the back of the store. “The jewelry shop,” said Vera.

  The detectives raced towards the sound, passing startled shoppers and clerks. When they reached Leykin’s, an independent franchise inside the store, they found Demidova down on one knee surrounded by broken glass, the display case in front of him smashed. Alan pulled out his detective badge and let his pistol slide into his hand, where he gripped it firmly and pointed it at the back of the Phantom’s head, while at the same time Vera drew her pistol and set her purse on a nearby counter.

  “Don’t move, Filipp, we have you covered!” yelled Alan, making his intention clear to everyone in the area.

  Demidova still holding his walking stick pitched forward and rolled onto his side and glanced up at Vera and Alan. “Who are you?” he asked.

  “Detectives Stewart and Deward,” said Alan. “We’re working with the big detective in the theater.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember you now,” he said, easing onto his back, clasping his sword across his chest. “It appears that as the French say, I’ve been ‘hoisted on my own petard.’ So be careful where you touch me. I have rattlesnake venom on me that’s been unaccounted for. I slipped the vial in my boot, but apparently, it has broken and is now the source of my bane. You will also find the sword’s blade is covered in petroleum jelly mixed with mor
e venom, so be careful with that and what you touch.”

  “Thank you for telling us this,” said Vera. “Is there anything else you’d like to say?”

  “The jewels in the case above...” Demidova stopped, apparently having difficulty speaking.

  “The display card reads, ‘From the estate of Nikolai Ivanovich,’” said Vera.

  Demidova nodded. “Not his but the Russian royal family’s.”

  “I see,” said Vera.

  Demidova extended his gloved hand towards Vera. “Excuse the blood on the ring,” he said, “but this belonged to the tsar himself. Please take it.”

  “What would you have me do with it?” Vera asked.

  “As his wife, Matryona Rasputina will inherit what’s in the case here, now that her vile husband is dead. I won’t be here to dispute that, and it’s probably a lost cause anyway. But this ring once belonged to the tsar and probably his father before him, and on it goes.” Demidova paused to work his tongue, having great trouble swallowing. “The tsar gave it to Boris Soloviev to use to arrange safe passage for the royal family, but Boris reneged on the deal. And since the deal hadn’t been completed, Boris and Matryona have no right to keep it. No claim to it. Since it can’t be returned to the Romanovs, and the Bolsheviks lied about what they did to the family, I say it’s mine by possession. But I will have no use for it where I’m going, so I bequeath it to you.”

  “I can’t accept this,” said Vera.

  “If you don’t, who will?” asked Demidova.

  Vera shook her head. “I don’t know.”

  “My whole life has been dedicated to revenging these treacherous deaths. Plotting, scheming, manipulating, and killing those who needed it, when I could find them, but in the end I have nothing left to show for my work. There’s no joy in this for me. I will be forgotten. It’s as if my life ended when my sister and the Romanovs were murdered. Mine is yet another life wasted. You take the ring and decide what you want to do with it. Buy yourself a movie theater, like the Coliseum or the Paramount. There should be a number of them on the market right about now, unless his wife decides to keep them for herself.”