Then the two girls, Zelide and Lina, retire to the subsidiary role of “feeding,” or merely swinging out the trapeze as it is required, and the three males get to work in earnest. First the safety net is removed, which lends to the act the spice of real danger. The Red Rose and the White Rose go through a routine which, though more spectacular, is only really the hors d’oeuvre to whet the appetite for the rich fare which is now to be provided by the stellar Purple.
And from the moment that he starts his first easy swing from his trapeze, one is conscious of being in the presence of genius. Gino Forelli is a Nijinsky among aerialists and his performance is so expert, so dazzling, that his partners, by comparison, seem as clumsy and as heavy as the elephants sitting solemnly below on their inverted tubs. And to the act the Purple rose brings not only the physical perfection of his face and body, but also that smiling, indefinable something that can only be called charm.
I am no connoisseur of male pulchritude. A fanatical concentration on the female form divine has left me little talent in that direction. In another age, perhaps, young Forelli, with his broad shoulders and narrow hips, might have attracted the chisel of a Praxiteles. His élan and virility must have made him particularly attractive to women. He was, in short, that traditional captivator of female hearts—the handsome young man on the flying trapeze.
After he has flashed, like a purple dragonfly, through a few more numbers, there comes the final announcement from the ringmaster:
“Ladies and gentlemen, you are about to witness the most difficult, the most dangerous feat ever performed by any aerialist in the world—the famous Two and a Half. In short, ladies and gentlemen, the Purple Rose will turn two and one-half somersaults in the air during the time that he is being swung from one of his partners to the other.”
The band starts up an important rat-tat-tat. The White Rose and the Red Rose, hanging by their knees from their trapezes, start to toss the Purple Rose from one to the other in what might pass for limbering-up exercises. Then the White Rose takes him and swings him higher and higher until, when he has reached the highest possible point, he will release him for the somersaults, after which the Red Rose, swinging out from below at exactly the right moment, will catch him as he descends.
The swinging is prolonged, for hours it seems, while the audience watches, heads moving in the rhythm of the trapeze, eyes wide with the pleasurable horror of anticipation.
The rat-tat-tat of the band grows louder. The moment of release comes at last, right up against the roof of the arena, more than sixty feet above the ground. We watch, breathless, as the Purple Rose curves gracefully, cutting the air cleanly in two and one-half circles. We watch as the Red Rose swings out from his side, hands outstretched to catch him, to break his downward flight.
The suspense is agonizing as the Purple Rose, righting himself from his final somersault, throws out his hands for his partner’s, clings for a brief instant and then—convulsively the fingers open and close, feverishly struggling to obtain a grip, but—they are one millionth of a second too early or—too late.
From the total height of over sixty feet the Purple Rose plummets sickeningly downward—down to the sawdust-strewn floor below.
No one could ever forget the cry, half gasp, half scream, which broke from that packed arena. I can well believe that, as I read next day, it was audible in City Hall, several miles away, above the roar of Philadelphia’s night traffic.
It was followed by a long moment of the deepest silence. One was vaguely conscious that a female figure, young, dark, and beautiful, had run forward and was bending over the body of Gino Forelli.
Nothing else stirred. The band had broken off to a man. During those terrifying half seconds of utter silence it seemed that the whole scene had frozen into complete immobility. As on a brightly painted canvas one saw the two Rose brothers, idle on their trapeze above; the foolish elephants sitting still on their inverted tubs; the red-coated ringmaster staring motionless at the dark young woman who crouched in the sawdust over the body of Gino Forelli. And all around the multitude was shocked into the vast silence of death.
Silence….
Then, suddenly, the silence was broken by a sound more weird, more primitive even than the cry which had just risen from the shocked spectators. It was the harsh, angry trumpeting of an elephant.
I was aware of rapid movement. One of the elephants, a hideously wrinkled pachyderm known as Edwina, had abandoned her tub in the side ring and, bellowing through a raised trunk, was rushing across the arena towards the prostrate aerialist.
Now everybody started to move at once. The ringmaster hurried forward, his hand raised in a vain effort to check the front-seat spectators who were surging blindly forward. The Rose brothers slid down from their lofty perches. Everyone was milling around like ants, seemingly unconscious of the danger from Edwina, who had gone berserk. I saw her, still bellowing as she moved purposefully forward, bring down her raised trunk on the shoulder of the White Rose, throwing him to the ground.
Then the other elephants started to get excited, and pandemonium reigned. Our party was near the front and things were getting dangerous. It became my patent duty to ease my fair companions out as expeditiously as possible.
Before leaving for home we learned that Gino Forelli was dead. His fall had broken his neck and he had died instantaneously.
The inquest was held the next day. Through the influence of Mr. Newton I was fortunately enabled to attend it.
It was a drab, pedestrian affair. First the circus authorities gave evidence that the act was performed as usual; that it had been rehearsed and shown to the public on literally hundreds of occasions; that the perfection of the performers was such that no safety net had been considered necessary. Mesdames Zelide and Lina were called next. They corroborated that the act had been performed as usual. They added—and here I fancied that I detected a slight reluctance—that there had been no failure or negligence on the part of the surviving partners.
Then it was the turn of the Rose brothers. Dressed in subdued black and echoing each other’s words, they testified that their dear comrade had been a fine aerialist, a great artist. Never had he shown signs of slipping until—well, recently. Pressed by the coroner, they sorrowfully admitted that recently he had seemed to be losing his nerve. In short, Gino had confided in them that he had been resorting to a certain drug which, taken shortly before a performance, seemed to bolster up his flagging courage. That was all they knew; all they had to say, except that they had both seen him taking pills of some sort before coming into the ring.
Mr. Annapoppaulos, the ringmaster, and a man of obvious probity, bore out their testimony that the young man was in the habit of “taking something.” He, too, had seen Gino slipping tablets into his mouth on several occasions. He had been told that they were to settle a queasy stomach.
Medical evidence more or less clinched their statements. Post-mortem analysis had revealed the presence in the body of a considerable quantity of a drug known as benzedrine, or amphetamine, which at that time was easily obtainable without benefit of a physician’s prescription. Likewise a supply of the tablets had been found in Gino’s dressing room.
Expert medical testimony was then brought forward with regard to the nature of this drug. The experts stated that, while relatively harmless in the usual way, benzedrine had a marked effect not only on ocular accommodation, but also on nervous and muscular co-ordination. In short, while it gave a feeling of courage or confidence, it was an extremely dangerous drug if taken inadvisedly by anyone (an aerialist in particular) engaged in the performance of an act where split-second timing and complete co-ordination of all reflexes meant the difference between success or failure. Or, in this particular instance, the difference between life and death.
The verdict, as expected, was death by misadventure.
Throughout the proceedings I found myself watching with considerable fascination a beautiful young woman whom I had recognized at once as the girl who
had first run out into the ring the night before. Her expression during most of the testimony was one of indignation or frustrated anger rather than sorrow. I noticed also that, on several occasions, she opened her mouth to speak or to utter some protest. But each time she apparently decided against it.
I seized the opportunity of following her and introducing myself as soon as the inquest was over. Miss Eulalia Crawford, who seemed never even to have heard of me, refused at first to pay me any heed. But when I mentioned that I was a well-known criminologist she paused in her headlong stride and, wheeling round to face me, exclaimed: “Criminologist? That’s a sort of private detective, isn’t it?”
Overlooking this insult in view of her overwrought condition, I urged her to come with me to some quiet place where we could talk. Abstractedly she followed me to the cocktail lounge of the Bellevue-Stratford. But she volunteered no remark, not even after we were seated and I had ordered a bottle of their finest champagne.
Nonetheless, some instinct told me that she was eager to unburden herself of those remarks which she had left unspoken at the inquest.
Finally, I said gently: “You were fond of poor Gino, weren’t you?”
And quietly, but with that flaming candor which was so characteristic, she replied: “He was my lover.”
For a moment neither of us spoke, and then, with sudden intensity, she flared: “Those were lies, all lies you heard this morning. Gino wasn’t losing his nerve. He didn’t take that damned drug.”
“But, my dear young lady, the medical evidence …”
“Damn the medical evidence,” she broke in. “I know. I tell you I know those two devils were trying to kill Gino. I know why. And you”—she turned on me almost accusingly—“you’re supposed to be a crime expert. Well, figure this one out and see what you think.”
Miss Crawford’s story was told me passionately and excitedly. I was under the spell of her beauty, and of the champagne, as I listened. Recollected in sobriety, her tale was somewhat as follows:
Eulalia Crawford had joined Welland’s Circus about a year previously, as much—I imagine—to escape the inanities of postdebutantism in Boston as to gain experience in her chosen field. Being already a skillful maker and manipulator of puppets, she had no difficulty in obtaining a position in one of the sideshows. The Bohemian life appealed to her and she found her fellow artists—the male element especially—refreshing and invigorating. Though by no means a femme galante, Eulalia was certainly no prude. She was frank to admit that at first she had been vaguely attracted by the sulky masculinity of Ludwig Rose (the Red Rose). She had even toyed with the idea of accepting him as a sort of casual lover, in spite of the fact that he was married to Madame Zelide. But Ludwig, though violently attracted to her, was only one of a two-man team. He and his older brother Bruno (the White Rose) were as inseparable in their amours as in their trapeze act. When Ludwig hinted at this unnatural state of affairs to her, Miss Crawford was utterly disgusted, the more so because she found Bruno as physically repulsive as he was mentally cunning and crooked.
She sent Ludwig about his business (and I can well picture her doing it) in no uncertain terms.
But Nature, who abhors a vacuum, was quick to compensate Eulalia with one of Her own children. For Gino Forelli was a veritable child of Nature and he loved Eulalia with a natural unihibited passion which was utterly satisfying to them both, and which left no room for the outside world. They were both young, both physically beautiful, and both exceptionally talented. Small wonder if they aroused the envy, and often the jealousy, of those around them.
And smaller wonder that they aroused the jealousy of the Rose brothers. Ludwig had taken his dismissal with the worst possible grace and, on several occasions, ignoring the unwritten code of the circus, had forced his attentions upon Eulalia. Once Gino caught him and a fight ensued. Let me give the sequel in Miss Crawford’s own colorful phraseology:
“Gino was as strong as a lion and he fought like one. But as soon as he had knocked Ludwig down he changed in a twinkling. The poor darling couldn’t really bear to hurt a fly. He picked Ludwig up; wiped his bloody nose with his own handkerchief and fussed over him with all the tenderness of a woman. He even apologized for losing his temper; said it must all have been a mistake and actually embraced Ludwig, calling him his ‘good comrade’ and ‘friend.’ Then he made us shake hands all round and got out a bottle of Orvieto. Ludwig drank with us, but I shall never forget the look on his face. Now I know that when Gino knocked him down he was actually signing his own death warrant.”
Miss Crawford’s fine dark eyes flashed dangerously as she continued her story. From that very day, she asserted, things began to go mysteriously wrong with Gino. He complained of vague stomach pains after meals, especially after meals eaten in company with the Rose brothers. This magnificently healthy young animal, who had never known a day’s illness, was obliged to go to a doctor. The physician poohpoohed his ailment as heartburn and prescribed sodamint tablets. The trouble ended as mysteriously as it had begun.
Next, Gino was the victim of an assault one night just as he was coming from a visit to Edwina, the elephant who was a special pet of his. A cloak was thrown over his face and he felt himself being dragged backwards. The location of the attack, however, was unfortunate for the assailants, since Edwina, hearing Gino’s smothered cries for help, broke loose from her pen and routed his adversaries. Though no physical damage was suffered by anyone, it was noticeable that the Rose brothers thereafter carefully avoided the proximity of Edwina, who had developed for them a most embarrassing dislike.
But the guileless Gino never dreamed of suspecting his “comrades,” his two partners. Not even when Zelide, Ludwig’s own wife, came to him secretly and begged him to leave Welland’s Circus. She would give no definite reason for her request, but it was obvious to Eulalia that she had overheard her husband say, or half say, something that made her fear for the young man’s safety. Miss Crawford had added her own pleas at the time, voiced her own suspicions, but Gino had merely laughed at her, insisting that the Roses were his good friends who loved him like a brother!
“And so,” Eulalia concluded, “he stayed on and let himself be murdered. Yes, deliberately murdered.”
For a while we sat there in the Bellevue-Stratford lounge without speaking. I filled the champagne glasses. Hers was practically untouched.
At length, as tactfully as possible, I suggested that if her suspicions were as strong as all that, she ought to take them to the police. Unless, of course, her reputation …
“Damn my reputation,” she snapped. “But if I really could prove—”
She broke off with a jerk and sat staring stonily in front of her. Then, speaking to herself rather than to me, she murmured: “Perhaps I could. Perhaps Zelide and Lina would help me. Perhaps …”
Once again she broke off. Then, suddenly, and without another word, she got up and left me—left me, incidentally, to finish the better part of a quart of lukewarm champagne by myself.
I have never seen Eulalia Crawford since that day. Two or three weeks later I happened to notice the following small paragraph on one of the inside pages of The New York Times.
FLYING ROSES ARRESTED
Today the police are holding Bruno and Ludwig Rose, known to the circus world as the White Rose and the Red Rose, and famous for their trapeze act styled The Flying Roses. The brothers were held on charges of assault and battery preferred by their wives, Lina and Zelide Rose, and by Miss Eulalia Crawford, puppeteer in Welland’s Circus. Police authorities refused to comment on the rumors that the two acrobats [sic] are also being questioned with regard to the recent death of their partner, Gino Forelli (the Purple Rose), who broke his neck in a fatal fall in the Circus Stadium in Philadelphia on June 4 last. Prisoners were remanded without bail.
It looked, I reflected, as if Nemesis, or Miss Crawford, were catching up with the two Rose brothers.
But while Nemesis presses relentlessly forward, let us turn our mi
nds backward awhile for a glimpse at the events which led up to our catastrophe.
Somewhere in Italy, some time in the late eighties, were born two brothers Rosa who developed uncommon gifts as trapeze artists. When or how they came to America I do not pretend to know. I can state positively however, that by 1908 the two of them, together with the women they had trained and lawfully married, were part and parcel of Welland’s Circus, their act being known, even then, as The Flying Roses. My boyhood impressions recall two thin-legged young men with heavy mustachios and two plump, smiling women who swung from the trapezes in permutations and combinations more dazzling and exciting than anything I had witnessed before.
They were a popular feature until the late twenties, by which time their wives, the original Mesdames Rose, were growing a trifle too plump and too varicose, and the mustachioed signors a little too stiff and too lean in the shanks.
But The Flying Roses were an act. And in the circus an established act must never die.
Fortune had endowed the Rosa (now known as Rose) brothers with talent and industry. It had crowned their efforts with success. But it had denied them one thing necessary to perpetuate that talent and that success in their own family. They had no sons to carry on the tradition. Each brother did, however, have a daughter. The two cousins, Lina and Zelide, had been cradled, weaned, and reared on the trapeze. Consequently as soon as they were old enough, they were called upon to supplant their mammas in the act.
But their papas were getting tired too, and perhaps a trifle arthritic. While zealous for the act which they had established, they were sensible men who knew the handwriting on the wall when they saw it. They knew that middle-aged aerialists, even though partnered by graceful young girls, were not aesthetically pleasing to a finicky public. They knew that the best act grows anemic unless young blood is pumped into its veins. And since this could not be their own blood, they had agreed that it must come from another source.
Puzzle for Puppets Page 17
