by Неизвестный
Alan nodded, following the train of thought. “And if they were sloppy about cleaning these, wouldn’t that leave a trail of un-burnt powder that could ignite the main barrel?” asked Alan.
“I’m not so sure about that,” said Oliver. “I’ll bet you the barrel’s hole has been plugged. It could be the plug wore out because of the lousy cleaning job. Black powder is corrosive.”
“What if someone were to stack the caps on the firing mechanism?” asked Alan. “Let’s say they put two or three caps, one on top of the other. What would happen then?”
“That would be a much stronger ignition source than this old piece of metal could handle,” said Oliver. “It would probably blast through any plug they had and ignite the wrong barrel.”
“And leave blow back residue on the shooters face,” Alan said, looking at the one shooter with soot covering the right side of his face.
“I think we have another Bingo,” said Ben “And if someone deliberately put a second or third firing cap there, we indeed have another murder.”
“We have another murder?” asked a voice at the front of the stage.
Alan glanced up from the muskets to see that Chief of Detectives Mike Ketchum had just arrived, his lanky frame ambling down the empty aisle toward the stage. Without thinking about it, Alan stood up to acknowledge the chief’s presence. Ben did the same.
17
As soon as Sergeant Oliver and his wife left the theater, Ben gave Chief Ketchum a breakdown on what had happened before his arrival: the gravely wounded magician had been shot on his own behest by a gun that worked when it shouldn’t have. Complicating the matter, one of the loaders of the rigged muskets—possibly the rifle that fired the fatal shot—had mysteriously disappeared without properly identifying himself or saying a word to the police.
“What do we know about this Captain Quentin Black who’s gone missing?” asked Chief Ketchum.
“Next to nothing,” said Ben.
“And you’re pretty sure he might have packed a second firing cap onto this musket’s firing mechanism?” asked Ketchum.
“Mere speculation at this point,” said Ben. “We’d like to talk to him about it, though. See what he has to say.”
“If he has half a brain,” said Ketchum, lifting his foot up and planting it on an armrest, while leaning forward on an elbow, “he’d get himself an attorney who’d tell him to keep quiet while he sneered at us: ‘Prove it.’ And he’d be absolutely right. We’d have to prove it. Confessions don’t stand alone in court nowadays, you know. They require supporting evidence to be upheld when challenged. People assume we still beat confessions out of the innocent, and of course you know that’s not true.”
Ketchum shook his head. “I’m sorry, I’m obviously preaching to the choir here. You lads already know this. So, tell me, what possible motive would Captain Black have for ‘fixing’ Mr. Chia’s weapon so that it fired as everyone believed it should’ve in the first place? Did he aim to kill him, in a manner of speaking?”
“We don’t know, Chief,” said Ben.
“I’m wondering if he meant the bullet for someone else,” said Alan.
“How so?” asked Ketchum, shifting his gaze to Alan. “Share your insight.”
“Remember that the captain shouldered the weapon after loading it,” Alan said to Ben, “and he pointed it at Ivanovich? He barked out something about traitors, while sounding like a senile old soldier, but fortunately Sergeant Oliver caught the barrel of his musket and pointed it toward the ceiling.”
“That’s right,” said Ben, “he did.”
“Who’s Ivanovich?” asked Ketchum, lowering his foot and stretching his back, like a man needing a vigorous massage.
“Nikolai Ivanovich owns the theater,” said Alan.
Ketchum didn’t answer him, but instead turned to watch Vera cross the stage towards where they had gathered.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he said. “You certainly made it worth my trip.”
“Thank you, Michael, but I feel that I’m interrupting you here.”
“The lads are briefing me on what happened tonight,” said Ketchum, before glancing back to Alan. “I’m sorry, lad. You said something about Ivanovich owning the theater.”
“Actually he owns several theaters, including The Paramount, the Palomar, the Coliseum, and the Moore,” said Vera.
“The remnants of the Pantages properties,” said Ketchum.
“He took advantage of the down market,” said Vera.
“The market played a big part, there’s no denying that,” said Ketchum, “but I remember the owner’s legal troubles. My detectives won a hard fought battle in court against Mr. Pantages for statutory rape, but despite the conviction, he wouldn’t let it go. Claimed he had his honor to defend. So he poured all his resources into his defense. I still feel the Greek bought his way out of a dirty reputation, but then that’s my opinion. I believed the girl, but money prevailed as always. That’s not my idea of ‘liberty and justice for all.’”
“I’m with you there,” said Vera.
Ketchum pushed his fedora back on his head as he thought. “If I get this right, this homicide, whether it be accidental or murder, had been predicted by one Claude Alexander, the magician who claims he’s the one ‘who knows everything?’”
“That’s correct,” said Ben.
“And he also predicted the fire at the Paramount a couple of days ago, is that correct?” asked Ketchum.
“That’s correct,” said Ben, “but technically he didn’t specify The Moore Theater for the shooting. We deduced it might happen here from the other clues we came up with. I don’t mean that as a brag on how clever we are but to let you know we might not be absolutely accurate on our suspicions. There is room for coincidence, as much as I hate to admit that.”
“And what’s the story on these old muskets?” asked Ketchum, pointing to the two old rifles on the table. “What’s next with them?”
“I think between us we’ve got it pretty well worked out, but we’ll have the barrels taken apart in the crime lab, the mechanism inspected,” said Ben, “to be sure. Our experts should be able to tell us how this thing had been reconfigured and what made it fire a deadly round tonight when it shouldn’t have.”
“I’d like you to find this Captain Black and have a word with him,” said Ketchum. “Contact the Military Police attaché and see what their office can dig up on him from military records. Also get a sketch artist to come up with a drawing on Black that the beatmen can circulate around town, particularly the out of the way hotels. You got a good look at him, right?”
“Teddy Roosevelt,” said Ben, while Alan added a nod of concurrence.
“Teddy the Roughrider?” asked Ketchum.
“Pretty dang close,” said Vera. “He had on the uniform from the era but different glasses—and he’s a bit thinner around the cheeks and the middle than the ex-President, but he could pass for his stunt double on a movie lot.”
“Anything useful from the interviews?” Ketchum asked.
“No one speaks English here except their stage manager,” said Vera, “and not very well at that. From what I gather, they all claim they don’t know how the muskets do what they do. It’s another one of those trade secrets that Wang Tao didn’t reveal, even to his assistants.”
“The one secret he finally revealed is that he speaks English,” said Ben.
“The famous Wang Tao who never speaks without his interpreter?” asked Ketchum. “What did he say?”
“He said, ‘Oh, my God! Something’s happened,’” said Alan. “‘Draw the curtain!’”
“In those few words I thought I detected a Brooklyn accent,” said Vera.
“That’s rather coherent for someone who doesn’t speak the language,” said Ketchum. “Now what about the actual shooters,
the Chinese lads. Why didn’t they aim high or off target? Why risk aiming directly at their breadwinner? Without him they’ll be scrubbing charred woks at Tai Tung’s.”
“As near as I can tell,” said Vera, “they believed in Wang Tao and his mastery over death. They actually thought he caught the bullets with the china plate. In order to make the trick work, they had to shoot on target.”
Ketchum shook his head. “What a price to pay for fame. Unbelievable.”
“Very sad,” said Vera.
“How are you handling it, darling? This is the second murder in less than a week for you, plus all the trampled people at the Paramount, with you almost being one of them.”
“I might be up for a scotch later, if that’s what you’re asking,” said Vera, “but I can’t stay long, I have house guests.”
“That is what I’m asking,” said Ketchum. “About time you and I catch up on things.”
“I hate to be a party pooper,” said Ben to Vera, “but we have a few questions we wanted to ask your houseguests about the pictures we found.”
“Pictures?” asked Ketchum.
“Personal candid family shots of the Romanovs,” said Ben, “not the official Royal Photographer kind that they released to the public, but the natural unposed kind that family members take of each other. They include Rasputin visiting the royal family.”
“Why don’t you go have your drink now,” said Ben to Vera and the chief. “The Champ and I can run by the hospital and then meet up with you later at your place.”
“Sure,” said Vera nodding slowly, hooking her hand into the crook of Ketchum’s arm. “Tasha and the girls will let you boys in, but they’ll want to play cards.”
“We’ll be up for that,” said Ben.
Vera and the chief turned to leave, but then she slowed to glance over her shoulder. “I won’t be gone too long, and you two be careful—or before you know it they’ll have talked you into strip poker.”
18
Alan slid the Packard in next to the curb on a street off Madison, high atop First Hill, more popularly known as Pill Hill by the locals because of all the medical facilities, clinics, and doctors’ offices. Ben led the way around back to the Emergency entrance of Columbus Hospital, where he flashed his badge at a nurse who glanced up stoically as they entered the building. Alan palmed his badge, holding it at the ready, but the nurse had already nodded and turned away to deal with something else on her desk. They followed the sound of a woman’s crying. The unabated wailing took them to the first door on the right, where inside Liu Yang sat next to the table, her head lying on top of the sheet covering a body, from head to toe.
“I hate the hell out of dealing with people in grief,” Ben whispered to Alan. “I can’t help but absorb some of the pain they’re going through—but time works against us if we wait. They’re angry and hurting, and sometimes they’re waiting for someone handy to drop by for them to lash out at, let their bitterness out.”
Alan nodded, nothing to add.
“Excuse me ma’am,” Ben said softly. “I’m Detective Kearney with the police department, and I need to ask you a few questions.”
Liu Yang continued crying for another moment, paused to catch her breath, sniffed, and finally raised her head, inches off the sheet.
“I am not ‘ma’am,’ I am Liu Yang.” She said. “Can’t this wait? This is not a good time for us.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Ben, “I wish it could. There is no ‘good time’ for these interviews, and we have to gather as much information as we can right away, or we may lose evidence that will help us catch Wang Tao’s killer.”
“What you mean, ‘killer?’” she asked, raising her head high enough to glance up at Ben and Alan.
The tears had caused the mascara and stage make up to run, aging Liu Yang and making her appear as if she’d had her eyes gouged out on stage in a Greek tragedy. Alan moistened a washcloth at the sink, wrung out the excess water, and handed it to her. She dabbed her eyes and stared at the grease paint stained cloth.
“Thank you for that. I must look a sight,” she said, her English sounding much improved.
“You’re fine,” said Ben. “We’re not here to judge you or take any pictures.”
Liu Yang stood up. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got makeup in my eyes, and it’s burning.”
She stepped over to the sink, started the water running, and dabbed soap onto the washcloth.
“Aw shucks, this burns,” she said, stomping her feet in frustration as she rubbed the wet cloth repeatedly over her eyes, while rinsing repeatedly.
“Ain’t this the dickens?” she said, gazing into the mirror over the sink.
Ben and Alan caught the reflection and exchanged glances with each other. “You’re not Chinese,” said Alan.
“No,” said Liu Yang, “I’m Hillbilly trash from Tennessee. No sense hiding that any longer. That and a whole lot of other secrets are all going to come tumbling out now that Eugene’s dead.”
“Wait a second,” said Ben. “Back up a bit. Would Eugene be the man lying on the table here?”
Liu Yang sighed and nodded. “That’s right. None other than Eugene Roberts, Brooklyn, New York.”
“Wang Tao is really Eugene Roberts?” asked Alan, making sure.
“Born and bred,” said Liu Yang. “Via Scotland.”
“Then what’s your real name?” Alan asked.
“Luanne Bryant, Luanne Roberts—although we’re not legally married, and Liu Yang. Take your pick. I’ve been called Liu Yang for nearly twenty years, I’ll answer to that, but Eugene liked to bounce back and forth, particularly in Europe where no one knew him from before. On stage and in public people saw Wang Tao, but he liked to go out at night and often before the show, like the stories you hear of Presidents sneaking out of the White House and wandering about in disguise. He’d take the makeup off, put on a coat and tie, a mustache, and a hat, and go to clubs and smoke cigars. Only Li Yong, the stage manager knows he’s not Chinese.”
“What about speaking the language?” asked Alan. “Do you really speak Chinese?
“Dim sum, shumai, won ton, and how gow, are Chinese menu items I know. The rest has all been gibberish and whispers.”
“But the whole world thinks you two are Chinese,” said Alan.
“That’s the beauty of magic,” said Liu Yang. “It’s all illusion, all good theater, and none of it a crime. We carried the illusion from the stage to real life, and no one knew.”
Liu Yang rinsed and wrung out the cloth one more time, approached the bed and reverently pulled down the sheet, exposing Wang Tao’s painted face, his jaw slack, unmoving, his lifeless eyes staring straight ahead.
“It’s all in the presentation,” said Liu Yang. “The only prosthetics, if you want to call them that, is mortician’s putty over the eyelids.”
Liu Yang reached for Wang Tao’s face.
“Wait a second,” said Ben. “If you’re thinking about removing his makeup, I can’t let you do that right now.”
“Why not?” she asked. “I don’t want him buried looking like a caricature from the stage. That isn’t who he is. It’s a role he played. He’s really a proper New York gentleman with Scottish ancestry.”
“The coroner needs to examine his body, first, as is,” said Ben. “He has to certify the cause of death before anything happens to the body. Once he’s done that, then you and the morticians can clean him up as you see fit.”
“I suppose you’re right,” she said.
“Sorry to be the bearer of bad news,” said Ben, “but we also need to ask you about the muskets.”
“Do you mind if I sit?” asked Liu Yang. “I’m suddenly exhausted.”
Alan held the chair for her, and she plopped down wearily, no longer the small elfin character bouncing aro
und on the stage.
“The guns were not my idea. ‘Too risky,’ I said. “At least twelve magicians we know of have been killed over the years while trying to catch bullets on stage—probably more we never heard about while learning how it’s done—and what’s that you said about this being a murder?”
“We’ll get to that in a minute,” said Ben. “First I’d like to know more about the trick, how it worked, and what you think went wrong.”
“That’s a loaded question—sorry, I didn’t mean that to be funny,” she said closing her eyes for a long moment.
Alan and Ben waited her out.
“Eugene used to build props and create tricks for other magicians, before he became one himself. So he already had contacts within the business and knew a gunsmith in New York, who made the muskets and sold them to him.”
Liu Yang lowered her head and shook it. “Now, talking to you, I’m remembering the magician’s oath, and even though Eugene’s gone now, that trick were talking about is worth thousands of dollars—well, to me anyway. I can’t haul off and tell you how it works and still hope to sell it to another magician at premium price.”
Ben rubbed the back of his neck, crossed his arms, and leaned against the wall. “This magician’s oath is becoming a real pain in our investigation,” he said. “I’m getting tired of it. Before we came up here, tonight, we emptied a lead ball out of one muzzle and discovered that the firing mechanism has a bypass that ignites the ramrod sleeve instead of the muzzle.”
“We also found the marked slugs laying on the floor in the blood, mixed with the broken shards from the dish,” said Alan.
Liu Yang stared intently as Ben talked, then at Alan, closing her eyes as soon as the men stopped talking. “Well, that’s pretty much it in a nutshell,” she said. “The gunsmith did all the fine metal work, very expensive, like buying a tiara at Tiffany’s. Eugene and I were the only ones to handle the rifles off stage. We kept them under lock and key. We didn’t trust our thieving assistants not to do what you did and figure how they worked. Next thing you know, they’d have sold that trick in a Hong Kong minute, ruined it all for us. So who are you going to tell?