Puzzle for Puppets

by Patrick Quentin

  The case against the Roses for assault and battery was clear. But the more serious charge of murder presented obvious difficulties from the beginning.

  That the Roses had deliberately conspired, maliciously and feloniously, to kill Gino Forelli there was probably no doubt in the minds of the prosecuting attorneys. The evidence, however, was of a most unsatisfactory nature, being pure hearsay and dependent on the words of three women who were palpably biased against the accused. Then there was the eternal difficulty with regard to wives giving testimony against their husbands, and the fact that no disinterested party had overheard the “confession.”

  The defence attorneys doubtless realized that all this was in favor of their clients. But they had their difficulties, too. They knew that, at a public murder trial, the appearance of Lina and Zelide, bruised and damaged as they were, would be hopelessly prejudicial to their two husbands. They were probably even more afraid of Eulalia Crawford, who would be fearless in using her money and in exploiting her social prominence to any degree that might encompass the downfall of the brothers.

  Finally the defense hit upon a compromise—and a wise one from the point of view of their clients. They persuaded the two Roses to try to bypass the assault charges by the offer of heavy compensation to the injured women and, in the case of Forelli’s death, to plead guilty to involuntary manslaughter. There was a question, of course, as to whether this latter plea would be permitted. That was for the court and for the prosecution to decide. And the prosecution knew their difficulties only too well. The abortive poision attempt and the ill-considered night attack would, they felt certain, be inadmissible as evidence at any murder trial. They were not proved at the time and they did not result in serious injury to the victim. Only the benzedrine remained as a peg for obtaining a murder verdict. And the court may well have pointed out the weakness of this peg, since benzedrine is not a poison in the ordinary sense of the word and it was only made lethal by the extraordinary nature of the circumstances under which it was administered. All of which would be extremely difficult to present convincingly to a hard-headed jury.

  Consequently the plea was allowed.

  And so the Rose brothers pleaded guilty to involuntary manslaughter and admitted that they had substituted benzedrine for Gino’s sodamint tablets. They gave as their ridiculous reason: “They hoped thereby to break off relations between their partner and Miss Crawford, which relations they considered undesirable and against the interest of their act.” Their claim was apparently based on a belief that benzedrine is a sort of anaphrodisiac—and there is some vague medical evidence to support this. Of course they feigned ignorance of any properties in the drug which might have been disastrous to an aerialist, and they expressed surprise and sorrow that, by their relatively innocent action, they had involuntarily brought about their partner’s death.

  Since the maximum penalty allowed by law for involuntary manslaughter is comparatively mild, the Roses had good reason to congratulate themselves.

  But their exultation was short-lived. The women were not through with them yet. Captained by Eulalia, who had grimly insisted on paying all their hospital bills out of her own pocket, the three Indomitables now moved in solid phalanx against the Rose brothers. Knowing that they could never exact adequate retribution on the score of Gino’s murder—for man cannot be brought into legal jeopardy twice for the same crime—they concentrated on their own injuries.

  Scorning all offers of compensation, they pressed their charges relentlessly, adding assault with intent to kill to their earlier charges of assault and battery. And here they had evidence aplenty. Their gaping wounds cried out with mute mouths against the brutality of the Roses.

  And they won, of course. The net result of their victory was a sentence—or rather a series of sentences—for the Rose brothers which totalled approximately ten years at penal servitude. Even so, they should have been grateful, for they deserved a far heavier punishment.

  They should have been grateful, as I said before, that they escaped the publicity of a murder trial and all the unpleasant notoriety which is the inevitable concomitant of a cause célèbre Their photographs were not published in the press and I doubt if more than a handful of the spectators who saw Gino perish in that crowded arena ever bothered to follow the fate of his murderers. Even so, the public memory is short, and Ludwig and Bruno will be unrecognized and unremembered when they come out of prison.

  When they come out. … What will their thoughts be then? What will be their plans?

  Perhaps I can answer my own questions.

  Last year, when I was preparing this review of their case, I managed to obtain an interview with the Rose brothers in Philadelphia, were they are at present confined at the Eastern Penitentiary and where, incidentally, their behavior is said to be exemplary.

  Exemplary their behavior may be, but I will stake my reputation as a psychologist and physiognomist that their hearts are still unchastened. When I told them that I was anxious to include a history of their case in this present series, their reaction was extraordinary. They were not flattered and elated as hardened criminals usually are to hear that their exploits are to be given to the public. They were not indignant as innocent men would have been. Nor did they exhibit the silent shame that betokens true penitence. They talked to me and they talked volubly. Bruno’s somber eyes lit up with fanatic light as he spoke, while Ludwig lisped enough venom to poison a family of rattlesnakes. Why were they so articulate? Because they saw in me, a writer, someone whom they might persuade to excoriate the “women who had betrayed them.” Themselves impotent and imprisoned, they wanted me only as a vehicle for their pent-up spite. I listened in shocked horror as they vied with each other in pouring out obscenities against Eulalia Crawford and their wives (now ex-wives, I am glad to say). Their words are unprintable, nor would I corrode my pen with such filth. But they were impressive and they impressed me with one unshatterable conviction. The Rose brothers are monomaniacs and their psychopathic vindictiveness must one day find some outlet.

  Outlet! When they come out! And, as they say in the vernacular, it won’t be long now. Ten years, with time off for good behavior, have almost slipped by and soon—unrecognized and unremembered—the prison will spew forth two vicious killers burning with blood lust for revenge.

  What will they find in the great world outside the prison walls? Welland’s Circus in no more, its stock-in-trade having been taken over by the Madden interests. The Flying Roses no longer fly. The act died with Gino Forelli.

  But the people concerned in the drama of the Roses are still alive. Eulalia Crawford has left the East and is patriotically donating her talents to wartime America in San Francisco. Lina, happily remarried, is living there in retirement also. Zelide, alone of the Roses, remains in harness, delighting visitors to Madden’s Circus with her troupe of all-female aerialists known as the Bird Ballet Edwina, at this present writing, is in harness too and still “The Oldest Elephant in Captivity.”

  Beware, Edwina, if your longevity shall have extended to the day when your two enemies are released from prison.

  Beware, Zelide; though you are a bird, you cannot soar high enough to escape the crooked arm of vengeance.

  Beware, Lina; the drab plumage of happy domesticity will not shelter you when the day of reckoning comes.

  Beware, Eulalia; your fame will make you an easy mark and the police, overtaxed by war duties, will be too busy to protect you.

  And to myself, self-elected interpreter and prophet in this tragic case, I say, Beware, Emmanuel Catt!

  When they come out! …

  For the Roses will come out into a world preoccupied with a grim holocaust which dwarfs even the most lurid fancies of their twisted minds. The mass murder of war will be a giant camouflage net, lending them cover, anonymity, protection for the lesser murders that will be in their hearts. They will strike silently, swiftly, and then, swiftly, silently, they will disappear—back into the shadows … remorseless … unregene
rate.

  CHAPTER XVIII

  I closed Crimes of Our Times. Our polite equivalent of a prison cell was very quiet and the rousing Bewares which had brought the essay to its dramatic close still rang in my ears. Whatever his shortcomings, Emmanuel Catt had at least proved himself a true prophet. The red rose and the white rose had indeed meant blood and, although we had saved Zelide, both Eulalia and Lina had fallen before the brothers’ bloody, prison-fostered revenge.

  Eulalia, Lina, Zelide, Edwina, those four females, who had figured only as names or corpses in our life until then, had been kindled into vivid reality for me by Emmanuel Catt. Eulalia, the beautiful Boston Fury bent upon the destruction of her lover’s murderers; Lina, the brow-beaten little wife who had had her one moment of courage; Zelide, the warmhearted artiste who, for justice, had risked her life against two formidable killers; Edwina, the ancient elephant who had loved a man and fought for him like a warrior.

  They had been a valiant quartet.

  “Poor Eulalia,” Iris’s voice cut into my thoughts. “She was wonderful, so brave. And all the family ever did was to snoot her because she’d had an affair with an Italian! And what an affair! Darling, if only I’d heard about Gino Forelli’s death, some little thing about it, we might have been able to save her.”

  I looked around the small, musty room. I was remembering where we were and not liking it.

  “The essay says the Red Rose had a lisp, Peter,” Iris was saying. “Then it was the Red Rose who killed Eulalia and the White Rose who killed Lina. The Red Rose killed the girl who’d tricked him, and the White Rose killed the wife who’d betrayed him. Mr. Catt even had that figured out beforehand. That’s why he sent Eulalia red roses and Lina white roses.”

  “And they both wore my uniform,” I said. “That’s another fancy use they made of me. They put Lieutenant Duluth on the scene of both crimes to make them look like the work of one man. That way each of them could get an alibi for one of the murders.” I shrugged. “They’re smart, all right.”

  “Smart. They’re more than smart.” Iris gave a shiver. “If I’d ever known who we were up against, I’d have given in before we started.” A faintly smug smile crept oyer her face. “But we fixed them, didn’t we, darling?”

  I was feeling a little smug myself. “Yes, baby,” I said. “We fixed them.”

  “And won’t Hatch be proud of us?”

  “Yes,” I said, remembering with some satisfaction how low Hatch’s opinion of my intelligence had been.

  A key scraped in the lock and the door opened. Our policeman came in. The I’ve-caught-a-murderer expression was wiped off his face. He looked confused and irritable. That, I felt, was a good omen.

  “The Inspector’s ready to see you,” he said.

  We got up. “Did you call Williams and Dagget?” I asked.

  “Yeah. They’ve been contacted. They’re coming over.”

  That news gave me the extra fillup I needed. I felt quite jaunty as Iris and I followed the policeman through the drafty central office and through a door marked: INSPECTOR ROBERT WEBB.

  We entered a large, private office. At one end of it, a police inspector, presumably Inspector Webb, sat behind a desk. He was a slight man with white hair and dark, world-weary eyes. At his side, brandishing a copy of Crimes of Our Times and talking emphatically, stood Mr. Emmanuel Catt. Zelide was sitting in a chair by the window next to the solid, amiable figure of Mr. Annapoppaulos. Cecil Grey was there, too, self-important among a group of policemen. They were all paying respectful attention to Mr. Catt and did not notice our entrance.

  “… and so I must impress upon you …”

  “All right, all right, Mr. Catt.” The Inspector’s mild voice broke into the Beard’s monologue. “You have convinced me, and we have already contacted Philadelphia. Soon we will have the complete files on the Rose brothers and we’ll be able to make positive identification.”

  Cecil Grey saw us then. He spun around, pointing at us, getting all he could out of his moment in the limelight.

  “There they are. And he was wearing a civilian suit when he made me drive him to Sloat Boulevard last night. He’s the one who …”

  Mr. Catt turned from the desk and fixed a thunderous gaze upon the actor. “You are an ignorant young man and will be so kind as to keep your opinions to yourself,” he boomed. As Grey wilted, he progressed towards us, his hands outstretched, a smile beaming through his beard. “Lieutenant Duluth and Mrs. Duluth, let me be the first to congratulate you. As I have been impressing upon the Inspector, although my own—ah—indisposition prevented me from aiding the ladies, you two seem to have acted with great courage and daring. I am most anxious to hear your account of what happened.”

  “Yes, yes.” Madame Zelide was upon us in a flurry of feathers and cape. “The manager, he just telephone from the circus. My ropes are indeed cut almost through. I should have gone boom to my death like poor Gino if eet ees not for you. I thank, I thank. Such courage, such skeel.”

  With Italian ardor, she threw herself at Iris, kissing her and then started kissing me. I hadn’t been prepared for so much enthusiasm. Sheepishly, I disentangled myself from the world-famous aerialist and muttered: “Any little thing we did, I’m sure …”

  A discreet cough from Inspector Webb put an end to the love fest.

  He said: “Lieutenant and Mrs. Duluth, will you please step over here? The Rose brothers will soon be brought in. They’re removing their clown costumes and cleaning them up. Before that, I want to hear your story.”

  He waved Zelide and Mr. Catt away. They took up their places on chairs next to Mr. Annapoppaulos. A police stenographer sat by the Inspector, his pencil poised over a notebook.

  “Firstly,” said the Inspector, who was nothing if not G.I., “you will please give us your full names.”

  I gave him our names. Then, while his alert eyes studied my face and the stenographer scribbled, I started our story. I told them of Mrs. Rose giving us her room at the St. Anton, of the man with the lisp who telephoned us to ask if Iris was Eulalia, of the theft of my uniform in the Turkish bath, and of our first, dramatic meeting with Mr. Catt in the St. Anton ballroom. It was rather difficult to disguise the extent of Mr. Catt’s unfortunate “indisposition,” but I did my best After that, I explained our actions up to the point where we had found Eulalia Crawford dead in her apartment.

  Inspector Webb interrupted me there for the first time to murmur: “You realize, of course, that in failing to report the murder you were breaking the law?”

  “Yes,” I said meekly.

  But Iris, her spirit roused, cut in: “What else could you expect him to do? He’d been framed. If he’d called the police then, he’d have been arrested. There’d have been no chance to save Lina…”

  “Perhaps, but …” The Inspector gestured with his hands. “Continue, Lieutenant.”

  I continued. Throwing a handsome and merited bouquet to Hatch for his contributions, I reviewed our search for the Beard, my disastrous trip to Wawona Avenue, the mysterious return of my stolen uniform, and the second disappearance of the Beard from our hotel room.

  I realized that my narrative was not presenting either myself or America’s foremost criminologist in a very flattering light. I shot him a furtive glance. He was staring with immense dignity out of the window. If he heard my references to his “malady,” he was magnificently ignoring them.

  It did not take long to tell of our flight to Hatch’s apartment and the sensational trip to the circus that ensued.

  “That’s everything,” I concluded. “We never exactly knew what it was all about. We just blundered on, I guess, and tried to do what we could. Hatch Williams and Bill Dagget will be able to check on it all when they show up. I suppose they’re O.K.?”

  “A most reputable firm,” murmured Inspector Webb. “Always on the side of the law.” He glanced at the stenographer, who stopped scribbling and then gazed up at us. “Well, as a police officer, I can hardly commend your behavior, but
I have to admit that you acted with courage and resourcefulness in a most awkward situation. You also were responsible for saving Madame Zelide’s life.” He paused. “You will be in San Francisco for a while?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve got to get back to the base to-night.”

  Although I’d known that all along, saying it came as a shock. I had only a few more hours with Iris. We’d frittered my whole precious leave away with those unspeakable Rose brothers.

  Inspector Webb was looking grave. “I’m afraid I will need you for the inquests and the arrangements. If you give me the name of your commanding officer, I will see whether we cannot arrange an extension of leave.”

  He said that completely dead-pan. For a moment I didn’t take it in. Then I grinned. Then Iris grinned.

  “That would be swell,” I began. “I—that is, I think it might be arranged.”

  The Inspector shrugged. “I will do my best. We’ll need Mrs. Duluth too, of course. And now, perhaps, if you’ll take a seat over there…”

  Iris and I found seats together at the back of the room. We sat down. I took Iris’s hand. I had stopped thinking about the Rose brothers. I was thinking more intimately again, in terms of the cupids’ behinds.

  Inspector Webb had called Mr. Catt and Zelide back to his desk. They were all gabbling together. I didn’t listen. Then, from a door behind the desk, a policeman came in with two men. One of them was thin and greying, in a dark suit; the other was big and chunky. One wore a green tie; the other wore a red tie.

  Iris nudged me. “Peter, there they are at last. The Red Rose and the White Rose.”