by Неизвестный
“Welcome to the girl’s dressing room, Champ.”
Alan flicked his brow high, while trying to hide his smirk.
“If you don’t mind cleaning Yvette’s wounds,” said Vera, “Alan and I can concentrate on the theater fire, ask a few questions. Maybe we can get an idea of what happened up on the stage. Are we looking at an accident or arson? Did someone have murder in mind?”
Rose Red smiled at Vera and then Yvette, who also seemed comfortable with the nursing arrangement.
“If any of those cuts are deep, we can talk about stitches then. I’m quite adept at sewing a fine line, but should you want a real surgeon, we can arrange that too.”
“So let’s start with general questions and work our way in,” said Vera.
Heads nodded from among those present.
“Alan and I have worked a number of cases together, and we don’t have a set order of doing business. Whichever one of us has a question is the one who asks it. Are you ladies okay with that?”
Nods from all around.
“So, who told you to stay in the dressing room during St. Laurent’s performance?”
“The owner, Nikolai Ivanovich,” said Tasha. “He stopped by before the show to reminisce about the old days, and he told us St. Laurent had a deal for us. Niki held out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and told us we could have it. A gift from St. Laurent, if we did our Cancan number during his intermission—and if we promised to stay in the dressing room through the rest of his act.”
“‘Old days?’” asked Vera.
“Niki’s an old friend. He got bit by the theater bug in Paris, cashed out his holdings, and immigrated here. We lost track. I didn’t recognize the name on the contract, and the same went for him with me and the girls. He changes his name as often as he does his underwear. I barely recognized him when he came through the door.”
“What name did he go by before?” asked Alan.
“Soloviev, last I heard,” said Tasha. “He’s another white émigré, not a Bolshevik. Likes to think he’s connected to Russian royalty, but he’s very much the commoner.”
Alan nodded, weighing the information.
“And if we get this right,” said Vera, “nobody approached you up until show time with the cash offer?”
Tasha shook her head slightly and closed her eyes a moment. “I grabbed the cash, shoved Niki out the door, and we dove through our steamer trunks to see if we had fresh panties. If we had to go bare bottom, we’d have charged Niki double.”
Alan covered a broad grin, hoping his smile would escape notice.
“Oh, lookie,” said Tasha, “I’ve embarrassed Detective Alan.”
Across the room, Vera smirked and shook her head teasingly.
“Did Nikolai say why he wanted you to stay off the stage?” asked Vera.
“He said Frederic wanted to protect the secrets to his show, which is really not that big of a surprise. But we could really care less what his tricks are. He demanded that only people who worked for him be allowed backstage and in the wings during his act, especially for the finale. If we wanted to watch the show, we could buy tickets and sit out front with the others—which is ridiculous because there were no seats available, and he knew it.”
“Did that pose a problem for you?”
Tasha closed her eyes and shook her head slightly. “We’ve seen a lot of magic shows, so we didn’t need to see anymore tricks.”
“Did they post anyone to watch you so that you stayed in your room?” asked Vera.
“We always have guys trying to watch us dress,” said Tasha, “so I usually keep the door shut and don’t pay much attention to it, unless they’re going to pay for it. I’m thinking there might’ve been a Hungarian or Slav or two, dressed as eunuchs. Seems I heard them talking in their dialect.”
“Do you speak that too?” asked Vera.
“I speak French, English, and housekeeper’s Russian,” said Tasha, “but I know a smattering of several others; enough to ask directions to the toilet and other necessities.”
“You’re a survivor,” said Vera.
“All women are,” said Tasha.
“I’m thinking one-hundred dollars is a lot of money for a three-minute Cancan,” said Vera. “Makes me wonder about St. Laurent’s motivation.”
“I’ve never met him, so I can’t say,” said Tasha, “but I thought it presumptuous that he would be the one calling the shots with Niki, especially since we’re the ones who put butts in the seats. Paying customers expect more for their dollar than watching some guy pull a rabbit out of a hat. If they want to see rabbits, they can visit farmer Bob in the country, but your average working stiff doesn’t get to see girls strutting hot stuff, in the buff, nearly enough.”
Yvette squeaked out an “Ouch,” as Rose Red dabbed at one of her scratches.
“Not you, honey,” said Tasha. “You’ve got stage presence. I can tell the men liked you. It’s your boss who I think has a magic wand stuck up his ass.”
“Probably where he pulls the rabbit out of,” said Rose Red.
Vera rolled her eyes playfully at Alan.
“We don’t have a rabbit,” said LaPierre.
“I’m teasing, honey,” said Tasha.
“I want to know more about you and St. Laurent,” Vera said to LaPierre, “but first we need to do a head count of who we saw—and didn’t see—get out of the building.”
“Good idea,” said Tasha.
“I’m guessing the orchestra got out all right, but we don’t know that for sure,” said Vera. “And then we saw a man run out while we were under the stage. I thought he might have been wearing a frock like the fire chief’s, but we’re not sure of that. One of the eunuchs ran past us, and then the five of you.”
“There were the two grips who came out after Yvette,” said Alan.
“The four of us are the only ones in our troupe,” said Tasha. “We don’t have grips or stage hands, so that leaves Nicholas, St. Laurent, and maybe some of his grips or cast, but I don’t know how many that would be.”
“Last we saw of St. Laurent,” said Alan, “he had just made Miss LaPierre climb inside the coffin and went in after her...”
“Is there anybody else in your act?” Vera asked, addressing Yvette. “Do you have more stage hands or extras in your entourage?”
Yvette raised her brow and her eyes flared wide, innocently, as she shrugged her shoulders. “I’m brand new to the show,” she said. “I’ve only practiced with Frederic the past couple of weeks, and mostly it has been just the two of us rehearsing in an empty theater in Los Angeles. I think the guys you call eunuchs and the other crew members were on a holiday break during that time, in-between tours.”
“We’re still trying to figure out how many that might have been,” said Vera. “Did you get a chance to meet them on the train coming up to Seattle...or during the set up?”
“Frederic and I rode up in a Pullman sleeper. The others were in coach, and they speak different languages but seem to get along. I thought Latvian, but I wouldn’t know...something Slavic for sure. I thought there might have been six or seven, but Frederic kept us apart, didn’t want us mingling.”
Vera wrote a tally down on a notepad she kept by her telephone, tore off a sheet, folded it in half the long way, and handed it to Alan.
“I’ll stay here and entertain our guests while you go back down to the fire,” Vera said. “Sorry to send you off, but this is my place and I need to stay. Column A is a list of who’s here and those we’re sure made it out. Column B is for the unknowns. See who’s there from the police department that we trust. If you don’t recognize any of our contacts, give this to whoever’s in charge of the scene. I’ll call Mike Ketchum at home and see if it will be his detectives or the fire department who investigate this. My hunch is that if there’s
a death, it becomes a murder, and the police department handles it.”
“And when I’m done, then what?
“Drive by here and see if the lights are still on. I doubt we’ll be going to bed early.”
6
Alan parked in front of the Butterworth Mortuary on Pine Street, three blocks up the hill and east of the Paramount Theater. Gawkers, fire buffs, and back-up engine companies had taken all other available parking. Charged hoses snaked like giant Anacondas mating, crisscrossing as they passed through the front entrance of the Paramount. Firemen moved at a measured pace as they entered the theater with extra gear, giving the impression they were in mop-up mode. Onlookers filled the sidewalk across the street and continued to stare at the lineup of ambulances coming and going, like runners in a relay race.
Alan spotted Ben Kearney, an imposing detective in a coat, tie, and Homburg, standing close to the Fire Department’s red command car, where the soaking wet deputy chief gave directions to firemen. Alan caught Ben’s eye and his all-knowing nod, the ubiquitous non-verbal that suggested a less direct approach would be best for the moment.
Alan worked through the crowd and stopped next to Big Ben, who glanced sideways, nodded a greeting, while keeping his voice low.
“I got the feeling you’re not easily entertained by watching fires, Champ.”
“Saw enough of this one from the inside,” said Alan.
“What? You were watching the show?”
“Vera’s birthday today. She wanted a quiet celebration, nothing fancy.”
“But she got a three-alarm fire instead.”
Alan closed his eyes and shook his head slowly.
“Where is she now?” asked Ben. “You got her out alright?”
“You can rest assured of that. She’s up at her apartment now, entertaining a handful of stage beauties who survived.”
Ben creased a smile and shook his head. “Of course. You’ve got to love that woman, but then you don’t need me to tell you that.”
Alan grinned sheepishly and dug into his inside coat pocket, pulling out the list Vera had compiled. He handed it to Ben. “There’s something not right about this fire. Madam Zarenko and her girls were supposed to be the closing act, following the magician, but he didn’t want them to leave their dressing room during his performance, and either he or somebody working for him chained the fire doors shut.”
“No kidding!”
“Although that’s got to be against every fire code ever written, Vera and Zarenko said it’s not uncommon for magicians to put restrictions on those who see how their tricks are done, the secrets behind the magic.”
“I get that,” said Ben, “but that’s no excuse for locking fire doors. That’s outrageous! Everyone knows about the 1911 Triangle Shirtwaist Fire in New York. Because so many young women were trapped inside and killed, fire codes were put in place across the entire country to prevent this exact kind of thing.”
“We caught up with three girls from Madam Zarenko’s act underneath the stage—“
“What were you doing down there?”
“We couldn’t get through the crush of the crowd stampeding the front door, so we circled back underneath the theater. We met Zarenko’s girls down there looking for a way out of the building, like us, but they couldn’t find Tasha, so they had to leave without her. I went up through the trap door and found her flat out near the back of the stage, behind the props, knocked out by a judo chop, or so I’m guessing. She told us that right before that a man had hold of her arm, and that’s the last she remembers. Now she’s got a bruise on her neck.”
“She’s lucky to be alive,” said Ben. “Did she thank you for saving her life?”
“She’d barely regained consciousness before I came down here. I don’t need any thanks.”
“Don’t be surprised if it comes later when she’s feeling better,” said Ben. “My experience with theater is that the women working here have their own set of values and moral code. They’re strong on watching out for each other and don’t let society tell them how things ought to be done. They’re never in town long enough to worry about the Legion of Decency coming after them with lit torches, tar, and feathers.”
“A little thankful exuberance is not a bad thing,” said Alan. “But right now, they’re in protective surroundings, like our friends from Goon Dip Wong’s Pleasure Emporium...”
“Exactly,” said Ben, “they’ve got a lot in common, and far be it from me to tell you to avoid all the temptations in life.”
Alan smiled dreamily and then shook his head. “We came up short on our head count,” he said. “Have you seen the magician or the owner? Besides those two there could be a couple of Russians dressed as eunuchs and a grip or two who didn’t make it out.”
Big Ben indicated to the left of the doors with a tilt of his head. “There’s four dead under the blankets, all trampled near the front door. This looks like a buffalo jump where Indians herded bison off a cliff for a large hunting kill. And the odd thing is that people from the upper levels who went out the fire escapes all seem to have made it down safely. Says something about human nature, but I’m not sure what.”
“Vera and I were just a little ways back from the door when a man with a cane went down,” said Alan. “Had it knocked out from under him by a thick-headed brute. It’d be a shame if the old guy is one of the victims.”
“Fire or not, there’s such a thing as grace and dignity,” said Ben. “A lout that knocks down a guy with a cane needs a talking to in the alley with a leather sap and a firm fist.”
“No argument from me on that,” said Alan, “and I’ll keep my eye out for him if you’ll make sure he and I can have some privacy, so he can bone up on his manners.”
“I’ll run interference for you.”
“So...who handles the investigation here,” asked Alan, “you or the fire department?”
“From what I’ve heard the fire boys saying, it sounds like an accident, not an arson, which means they’ll get stuck writing it up. This will be their baby. Police would only get involved if the fire had been deliberately set, like an arson fire meant to cover up murder—and even then, fire investigations aren’t our specialty. We’d need to partner up with a fire supervisor for his expertise.”
“What about Madam Zarenko getting knocked out from behind?”
“That sounds like motive for a crime, but does she know that’s what happened for certain—or could it have been a prop that fell against her?”
“I didn’t see anything lying on the stage near her.”
“As soon as it’s safe I’m going to join up with the Fire chiefs for a walk through. You can join us and show where you found Madam Zarenko, but even if there’s nothing on the stage that might have hit her accidentally, that still doesn’t mean your theory is wrong. Anything lying about could have been picked up and moved during the fire—just something to keep in mind.”
“Did both chiefs make it out?
“Bill Grayson’s at Harborview being treated for smoke inhalation, and you can see Jeffries right behind us.”
“I’m not positive, but Vera and I thought we saw a man in a tunic like theirs running out the back door ahead of us.”
“Wouldn’t have been either one of these two, because they were inside fighting the fire, both of them working a hose, with Grayson on point, sucking in too much smoke and burns to his hands.”
“We only saw the shape,” said Alan. “Must have been wrong.”
Ben’s brow creased thoughtfully. “We can ask the crew if that sounds like someone from their act. No harm in that, but Grayson and Jeffries did a damn fine job keeping the fire from spreading to the rest of the building and apartments out front. We could have lost a lot more people if they hadn’t been here.”
* * *
Deputy Chi
ef Al Jeffries stepped over large trunk hoses and led three of his commanders, accompanied by Ben and Alan, down the aisle of the theater to the stage, where two other firemen continued to hose down smoldering curtains and other draped fabric. The group climbed the steps to the side of the stage. Jeffries approached the fireman on the right apron and patted him reassuringly on the shoulder.
“Would you guys stand down a moment, please? We want to take a look at the stage before everything gets shoved around and tells us a different story.”
The fireman with the nozzle nodded and shut off the spray.
Jeffries gave Alan a friendly smile. “So you’re the one who came up through the trap door and carried the woman off.”
“That’s right.”
Jeffries shook his head. “I thought you were part of the act. People kept coming and going long after everyone should have cleared out.”
“The doors in back were chained shut,” said Alan.
“So I heard,” said Jeffries, “but we saw a policeman up here getting people off the stage. Don’t know where he came from.”
“In a tunic?” asked Alan.
“Tunic, hat, nightstick, and handlebar mustache.”
Alan canted his head towards Ben. “Must have been who Vera and I saw, but who is he?”
“He went through the trapdoor right before you came up, then after you carried the woman out, we lost track—no wait—the magician’s assistant came staggering out on the stage on her own, right after you, and she ran down the steps. But there could’ve been a few more after that...”
“She followed us out, and then a couple of grips staggered out.”
“I think everyone from up here must have made it out then,” said Jeffries.
“While we’re here, can we peek inside the coffin?” asked Alan, glancing back and forth between Jeffries and Ben. “His assistant said she got out of there and hid in another box, but then she got trapped against the wall or something. She’s not sure how she got out of that mess.”