by Неизвестный
“Can you describe him?” asked Ben.
Tasha shrugged and shook her head. “He looked like every beat cop or Bobby I’ve ever seen. Helmet, mustache, and frock.”
Ben thought a moment. “You sure about the helmet?”
Tasha nodded slowly. “I certainly think so, but now I’m not so sure.”
“I saw him too—but only for a moment,” said Sophie. “He had a helmet.”
“Very curious,” said Ben. “We haven’t worn those in years.”
Ben exchanged puzzled glances with Alan.
“How about you, Yvette,” asked Alan, “Did you see him—or might a policeman be a part of your act?”
“If you ask me general questions, I can answer them,” said LaPierre, “but if you ask me specific questions about how the act is done, I can’t help you. I’ve taken the magician’s oath and can’t divulge secrets.”
Vera hitched her leg up and scooted across the padded arm of Alan’s chair. “I’ve taken the magician’s oath, too,” she said, “but that rule only applies to the key elements of the illusions that might spoil the surprise for future shows. What outfits you wear during your act are hardly proprietary information.”
“Actually they might be,” said Tasha, adding her two cents worth, “if the magician has doubles or stand-ins as part of the illusion. Knowing that information could tip the secret to others how the act is performed—
“I’m not trying to be a know-it-all,” Tasha continued, “but years ago in Europe I took the oath too. I jumped boxes before I learned knife throwing.”
“Not just body doubles,” said Alan to Ben, “but that also could apply to dummies wearing the magician’s clothes...”
“I see,” said Ben. “How about I put the question another way, Miss LaPierre. Can you tell me, then, if there ever has been a police uniform with helmet inside your dressing room wardrobe?”
All eyes focused on LaPierre as she thought. Finally she sighed. “I saw something like that, but honestly I have no idea which one of the men wears it or when. I only know my parts. That’s all I’ve rehearsed. I’ve never seen the end of the act, so I don’t know who would be wearing it.
“We all share the same tight quarters,” LaPierre went on, “taking turns dressing, and all of us have multiple roles and play many different parts.”
“All right,” said Ben. “That’s helpful. Now we know the policeman could be one of the performers, but not exactly which one. So can you tell me if you saw anyone in a police uniform on stage when you were trying to get out of the building?”
LaPierre shook her head. “I only saw the top part of a figure going through the hole in the floor. I assumed it to be a man and decided to follow him out.”
“We’re going to need to talk to the other people in your act,” said Ben. “Are they all staying in the Paramount Apartments?”
“Frederic told me the others had rooms on a lower floor,” said LaPierre. “Room 410, but I’m not positive.”
“How about your room?” asked Ben.
“Ninth floor, 907.”
“Do you have the key?” asked Ben.
LaPierre shook her head. “I got out of there with what I’m wearing, and I’m lucky to have that. Maybe it’s in the dressing room, or Frederic has it.”
8
Ben and Alan found the apartment manager outside the Paramount Theater and Apartments watching the fire crews clean up and stow their gear. With the elevator out of service, Dimitri Chernikov rolled his eyes when asked to haul his sixty-four year-old frame up the stairs to the ninth floor.
“Don’t you guys need a warrant?” Chernikov asked.
“He might,” said Alan with a tilt of his head towards Ben, “but I don’t. I’m a private investigator working for a client. Search and seizure laws don’t apply to me.”
“I don’t know what that means,” said Chernikov.
“It means we want to see inside Miss LaPierre and Monsieur St. Laurent’s quarters. We’re not here to search the apartment, we’re only here to do a head count so we can confirm who’s missing from the fire, and right now St. Laurent’s still a no-show.”
“What’s that got to do with you needing a search warrant?” asked Chernikov.
“Let’s call it ‘exigent circumstances’ then,” said Ben, “and leave it at that. Otherwise I’ll be forced to kick down the door and put the Habeas Grabbus on your ass for hindering our investigation.”
“No need for the rough stuff,” said Chernikov. “I just have to look out for our residents is all.”
“That’s what overpaid attorneys are for: looking out for the interests of people with money.”
Chernikov stopped at the top of the ninth flight of stairs to catch his breath and held out the key ring to Ben. “I’m a life-long smoker and need a break. If you’re going to go inside anyway, you might as well use the key. The master key is the light-colored brass with the large base. It’s room 907, I’ll catch up.”
Alan glanced back, checking on Chernikov, while Ben knocked on the door. After a slow ten count, Ben inserted the key and turned the lock, pushing the door open slowly.
“Seattle Police,” he said in a loud, firm voice.
After a five second pause, Ben leaned into the door with his shoulder and pushed it open. Alan followed Ben inside and found the unit to be bigger than he’d figured, with expert craftsmanship and extra trim details, such as built-in cabinets and arched doorways between the rooms, which included a kitchenette, bedroom, bath, and closet. Ben went to his left and Alan the right.
“Nobody here,” said Alan from the kitchen.
“Not here, either,” said Ben from the bedroom.
They regrouped in the living room near a steamer trunk and a set of suitcases. Alan glanced at the luggage tag on the steamer. “Frederic St. Laurent,” he read out loud, then picked up and turned over the tags on the suitcases. “Wanda Collingsworth! That’s interesting. Vera recognized her but didn’t remember her real name.”
“No guarantee that’s her real name, either,” said Ben. “It’s not uncommon for girls in this industry to use stage names.”
“This coming from the Teutonic Thunder,” Alan said with a wicked grin.
“Exactly my point,” said Ben. “I didn’t want my wrestling past to follow me around, and Yvette—or Wanda—likely feels the same way. Nothing wrong with that.”
Ben opened the closet, and Alan glanced over his shoulder. “I’m not seeing anything that indicates anyone raced through here after the fire.”
“How about the water on the floor?” Alan said, pointing to a partial wet footprint near the front door. I’m all but dried off, so I didn’t make that.”
Ben knelt low and touched the moisture on the polished oak floor. Then he pressed his palm on the entryway carpet. “Good eye, Champ!”
“I got sprayed with a fire hose when I went up on the stage looking for Madam Zarenko, and the same could have happened to St. Laurent on his way out of the theater...”
“Or to someone else who’d also been on stage and ran up here right away...”
Alan nodded. “We should probably keep that possibility open.”
“Let me see the bottom of your shoes,” said Ben.
Alan placed a hand against the arched doorway for support and drew a foot up and caught it. Ben touched the pant cuffs and leather sole of Alan’s shoes, and then repeated the process with the other foot.
Ben let go of Alan’s foot and shook his large head. “The water’s not from you.”
“Didn’t think so.”
“And I didn’t see an old beat coat or helmet, lying about up here, did you?”
Alan shook his head and pushed his cheek out with his tongue as he thought.
“We might want to check the building and nearby
garbage cans,” said Ben. “You never know what you’ll find.”
“What time do the garbage trucks come?” asked Alan.
“About 4:00 AM,” said Ben. “I know because people complain to the department all the time about the garbage men banging the cans around, as if we would help them get their beauty sleep.”
Alan stepped out into the hallway, ahead of Ben, who closed and locked the door behind them. At the end of the hallway, a dapper gentleman wearing a long cloak over uniform pants and boots, with a beard and full mustache, stood next to an overnight bag as he spoke with the apartment manager, handing him something.
Alan tapped Ben’s beefy arm and inclined his head toward him, keeping his voice low. “There’s the pushy guy from the theater. I’m going to have a talk with him.”
Alan took brisk steps towards Chernikov and the gentleman, with Ben following close behind.
“I’ll have a word,” said Alan, staring at the man as he closed the distance between them.
The man gazed quizzically at Alan and grasped the barrel of his walking stick with one hand, while sliding one wrapped in gauze over the top of a polished lioness head. Ben caught Alan by the arm and slowed him down.
“Steady as you go, Champ,” Ben whispered through a forced smile. “Don’t lead with your temper.”
Alan sensed that Ben had seen or knew something he didn’t, he slowed to a stop, keeping his distance from the gentleman, and his eyes caught a glimpse of shiny steel blade extending from the man’s walking stick.
“I saw you in the theater,” said Alan, softening his approach.
The man sized up Alan and Ben, and then glanced back to Chernikov. “These are the detectives you let into my building?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Ivanovich. They were going to break down the doors if I didn’t give them the master key, so I saved you $24.00 in repair costs.”
“You’re Nikolai Ivanovich?” asked Alan.
“You’re in my building,” said the man, tucking his bandaged hand into his overcoat. “Let’s start with who you are first, and we’ll go from there.”
Alan detected a trace of a foreign accent that sounded more authentically French than St. Laurent’s, but he didn’t have Vera’s practiced ear and skills at telling where he might be from. “I’m Alan Stewart, private detective.”
“And I’m Benjamin Edward Kearney, Seattle Police Detective.”
“And you are here why?” asked Ivanovich. “Why a private detective with the police?”
“I have been retained by a survivor of the fire,” said Alan, “and at the moment we’re trying to determine who else survived and who’s unaccounted for. You were the master of ceremonies tonight, weren’t you?”
Ivanovich gave an exaggerated nod. “Indeed.”
“But now you have a beard and a uniform...”
Ivanovich touched his face with the hand holding the walking stick and nodded again. “I forgot I had it on,” he said. “In the theater we all play many roles. I am of course the master of ceremonies, but tonight I had a part to play—actually a prank of sorts. Frederic offered me a crisp $100 bill to dress up as Nicholas the II, the late Russian tsar, and while in character introduce Madam Zarenko’s act.”
“But I saw you leaving through the front of the theater, where you shoved past people. How did you get from the stage up to the balcony?”
“There’s a ladder connecting to a catwalk that crosses over the top of the theater, and it comes down at the projection booth on the top tier. It’s a shortcut of sorts. Frederic wanted me to put on an officer’s tunic, and then I remembered I have pieces that would make this even more authentic—an entire outfit. In a trunk in my room I have gold epaulets, braiding, and a sash. When everything is worn together, the outfit looks impressively regal. Would you care to see it?”
Alan made eye contact with Ben, who shook his head. “Not this time, but we are curious where you’re going with the luggage?”
“I have a place at the Moore Hotel. I often stay there when I have a late night.”
“You own both theaters?” asked Alan.
“Actually, I own the Paramount, the Moore, the Egyptian, the Coliseum, and the Palomar. So I thought I’d spend a few nights at the Moore, until things calm down here. With that nonsense about the crystal seer having predicted the catastrophe tonight, you can imagine I’ll have reporters hounding me for a salacious quote because of the body count. People just don’t seem to know what to do when there is a fire or a ship’s sinking, like the Titanic. Instead of clearing the doorways so others can escape to safety, they have to stop and put on their coats, pick up their grips, and visit their neighbors. Seattle’s the worst place for this, with everyone being so polite here. They stand like huge boulders in a stream and blather nonsense at complete strangers: ‘After you.’ ‘No, after you!’ ‘No, I insist, after we’ve had crumpets and tea!’ and in the meantime, while they’re being so excruciatingly polite, good people get burnt to death or die from smoke inhalation. Or in the case of the Titanic, refuse to get in perfectly good lifeboats that sank along with the ship. It’s illogical and insane and so terribly American and British. I sometimes wonder why you Americans fought for your independence when you’re absolutely so much like your cousins.”
“The Fire Department tells us four of those American ‘good people’ got trampled near the front door,” said Alan, “and it looks like another twenty-nine were taken to the hospitals. The body count could rise.”
Ivanovich closed his eyes and nodded, as if shutting it out. “What about those on stage?”
“We found a body there,” said Ben. “Burnt to a crisp.”
Ivanovich’s eyes flared wide as he stared at Ben. “Man or woman? Can you tell me?”
“A man, inside the coffin,” said Ben.
“Coffin? Sadly appropriate, but Madam Zarenko is all right then?”
“Detective Stewart found her knocked unconscious and carried her out,” said Ben with a tilt of his head toward Alan.
“Thank you for that,” said Ivanovich. “I’m glad the girls are okay.”
“But not St. Laurent?” asked Alan.
Ivanovich rocked his head back and forth and nodded. “Of course Frederic and his crew, but which one died? I don’t know that, do you?”
“We don’t know whose body we found,” said Ben. “We might need you to take a look later, see if you recognize him.”
Ivanovich scrunched his brow into a painful frown. “Tonight?”
“I think the coroner will want to clean him up a bit first and figure out how he died, before a showing for identification. Fire is often used to cover up other crimes, destroy evidence. The Coroner will check for the consistency of the wounds and cause of death. And cleaning the body up might give us more to work with for identification, but the dead man had been wearing a devil’s suit. A red one.”
“Wouldn’t that be Frederic?” asked Ivanovich. “After all, he’s the star performer.”
“He’s still missing, so there’s that possibility.”
“How would St. Laurent have had time to change from his wizard outfit into the red devil’s suit?” asked Alan.
“That’s part of the magic,” said Ivanovich, “but if I really knew that, I couldn’t tell you. I’m still a card carrying actor who’s taken the magician’s oath.”
“You, too?” said Alan, shaking his head.
“I’m actually not much of a magician. I didn’t have the discipline to put in the necessary hours of practice to be proficient. I prefer mysticism and conduct private séances for discerning clients. What I do is more like what Alexander does over at the Orpheum, except I’m not that lucky, and that’s what happened tonight—he got lucky with that prediction. I’m sure of that. Pure coincidence is all it is—but that aside, all serious practitioners insist that their assistants t
ake the secrecy oath. They’ve put a lot of money into their illusions, and if everyone knows how they work, the magic is gone.”
“And then so is the audience...” added Ben.
“So who else might be missing?” asked Ivanovich. “Is that what you’re checking? Sort of a process of elimination?”
“We’re not exactly sure how many helpers St. Laurent had, but everyone in Madam Zarenko’s act has been accounted for.”
Ivanovich moved his lips in and out as he thought, causing his mustache to roll about his lip like an overly large caterpillar. “I thought three, at least two from the Ukraine area. They had accents and were darker, like those from around the Black Sea, not like Muscovites or northern Russians.”
“You speak Russian?” asked Alan.
“Very little anymore. Mostly French while growing up. English now.”
“We’re running into a lot of white émigrés lately,” said Alan.
Ivanovich shrugged his shoulders. “Shouldn’t be that surprising since Seattle is the main seaport to Alaska—which used to be Russian soil, you remember, and not that many years ago.”
“Is that where you’re from?” asked Alan.
Ivanovich shook his head. “Alexander Pantages and Alexander Conlin, the wizard who claims to know all. They both got their starts in Alaska near the gold fields, but I came here by way of France. Before that I traveled extensively through eastern and western Europe.”
“I see,” said Ben. “The stage hands and extras are down on the fourth floor?”
Ivanovich nodded. “You’ll most likely find them curled up around a bottle of vodka. Now if you’ll excuse me, you’ve taken enough of my time, I need to be going.”
“One last question,” said Alan. “How’d you burn your hand?”