EQMM, September-October 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  What? Sack the fire-eater? Certainly not. It was hardly his fault Zorba the Freak chose that moment to drop his trousers and show Mimi his enormous—Which is why I'm not worried about the insurance claim. The company have agreed to settle, but these things take time, though Mimi has not been the same since. Such a sensitive soul. Not at all the type of girl to whom a man should expose his enormous—Oh, I was as shocked as you, sir. Absolutely. So when Mimi shrieked, it was quite understandable that the fire-eater jumped, causing him to cough on the kerosene. Terrible. A perfectly good spring season ruined, all thanks to one fist-sized navel.

  Ooh. Tea. How very kind. But if I may be so bold as to correct your report while you stir in the sugar?

  When I mentioned the contortionist a moment ago—that's right, Jeannette Ridoux, though you've missed off the “x” at the end of her name. Not that she'd take offence. In fact, she'd bend over backwards to accommodate anyone, but my point is, you've written loveaffair in the margin and I feel I must take issue with that. Affair, certainly, but love? Perish the thought, though when you meet her—and I see from your notes that you haven't yet—you will understand the attraction. Not to put too fine a point on it, Inspector, the combination of raven black hair, blue eyes, and the ability to wrap her left ankle around her neck is quite powerful, though your observation was correct. All the ladies in the troupe are stunning, but then that is a requisite of the magician's trade. Their beauty is necessary to distract the eye, where even the slightest movement will suffice. She moves her hands in a natural gesture, and see? The ten of diamonds was the card you picked out earlier, was it not? Yes, yes, put it back anywhere you like, and oops, there it is again. Ten of diamonds. No, sir, not in the deck. Underneath your notes. Which, unfortunately, bring us back to my dalliance with the lovely Jeannette Ridoux, and the dispute it caused with Madame Rivorsky.

  You say you have twenty-three witnesses who heard Carla screaming at me two days ago, and the only surprise is that the number is that low, Carla being theatrically trained. Then again, what virtuous woman wouldn't raise her voice when she walks in to find her husband playing “Find the Lady” with his contortionist in her own marital bed?

  Very well, if you wish to split hairs, my arrangement with Carla did not actually constitute a legal contract of marriage. But I am a gentleman, sir, and honour bound to protect a lady's reputation, even though, technically speaking, I am still married to the first Madame Rivorsky. And perhaps a couple of others, I can't be sure, though that ceremony in Rome was declared unlawful a year afterwards, and I still have my doubts about Lisbon.

  But dear me, you have not brought me all the way to your police station to charge me with bigamy.

  You have arrested me for Carla's murder.

  * * * *

  Carla Bonetti had it all. Blond hair, flawless skin, perfect memory, sleight of hand. Everything, in fact, that made her a first-rate mind-reading act.

  The first time I saw her was in Prague. Our schedule took us there two years ago, during that particularly vicious hot August. I had wandered into St. Nicholas church to cool down, passing a pleasant hour or two imagining the magnificent baroque paintings that used to adorn the interior, until the late Emperor Josef ordered them to be removed. Silly fool. Anyway, walking back into the square was like stepping into a furnace, in which the entire population seemed to be melting. Except one.

  She'd set up a table in the shade of the town hall, well aware that each day, hundreds of people flock to see the famous astronomical clock. If you haven't seen this gigantic masterpiece of engineering and entertainment, allow me to enlighten you. Every hour, on the hour, larger-than-life-size figures of Christ and the apostles march past the upper window, turning to look out over the square as they pass, while the skeleton of death tolls the bell. It is a spectacle admired by princes and peasants alike and the crowds are ferociously large. But what attracted me to Carla, Inspector, wasn't that while her audience were mopping their foreheads and fanning themselves, she remained cool as the proverbial cucumber, in her virgin white dress and blond hair swept up, as she slid koruna after koruna into her tin. It was that she'd chosen to work the Mystical Card trick right under the great circle of the zodiac that is mounted directly beneath the clock.

  Let me clarify. You see these? They are the very pieces she was using that day, and as you can see, they are leather. They could just as easily have been parchment or wood, the material's irrelevant, but you see how she's painted mystical symbols round the edge of each of these five little sheets? Then inscribed four numbers across and four down in a square in the middle? Once the ink was dry, she'd have scrubbed the leather to make the pieces appear ancient, reinforcing her claim that these little treasures came from a pharaoh's tomb, an Indian mystic, an Aztec princess, whatever.

  I shall dispense with the hocus-pocus for now. The power of the symbols . . . The channelling of energy . . . The transference of your thoughts to mine . . . I shall simply point out what you will have already noticed, namely that the numbers range from one to thirty-one, and now ask you to tap each of the pages on which your birthday appears. Aha. Twenty-eighth April. A most pleasant time of the year to be celebrating, though I see even you, an experienced police officer, are surprised. Of course, you are right. The numbers are not written randomly at all, and I confess, the date is not mind-reading, but basic arithmetic. Guessing the month, though? Sadly, I am not at liberty to disclose how that's done. The Magic Circle would have my head in a noose—

  Hmm. A rather unfortunate expression, given the circumstances, so I shall quickly skip on.

  From the moment I saw how Carla had positioned her pitch, not only catching those who flocked to the clock, but that she'd primed their minds with the zodiac signs, I realized that here was a highly polished performer, who deserved a wider, and more lucrative, audience.

  She jumped at the chance to tour with us, and from the moment I watched her opening act, in which she invited spectators to draw a picture on the blackboard, then opened a pre-sealed envelope to reveal that same drawing, I knew my instincts were right. Without resorting to stooges or trickery, she would manipulate the audience with her “psychic” abilities, and have them eating out of her hand. With her dazzling white dress and soft-spoken voice, who would suspect such a fragile creature of being an actress? Even Archduke Ferdinand was enchanted by Carla Bonetti. When she called for volunteers during our tour in Vienna, I clearly remember him jumping up and shouting,

  "I'll give it a shot!"

  Inspector, you should have seen the look on his face, when she gave all three members of the royal party a bundle of baggage labels bearing the name of a different city, asked them to memorize any one that took their fancy, then lifted the sheet on a blackboard on which she'd already written the names of the cities they'd chosen.

  I was spellbound. Full of admiration for making fragility part of her act when, in fact, that soft-spoken voice carried to the back of the theatre. But at the same time, sir, Cupid never strays far from a theatrical troupe. In no time, I had lost my heart to this beautiful, talented, but above all professional lady, and within three months of that meeting beneath the clock tower, Carla Bonetti was my wife.

  That is to say, we went through the motions of a civil ceremony, for I know false papers when I see them. And whatever other characteristics the Italians might have, fair skin and blond hair are rarely among them. Especially when accompanied by a Scandinavian accent.

  Who cared? None of us is perfect, sir, none. The point is, her fame increased, her popularity grew, and within six months she was almost as famous as The Great Rivorsky himself, and I begrudged her none of the limelight. Quite the contrary, in fact. We were a team. We were in love. We had such a brilliant future ahead of us! She talked of expansion. Of America. New York, San Francisco, Boston, Chicago, dear me, she almost had the itinerary booked! But what I had forgotten—the quickness of the hand deceiving the eye and all that—is that, at heart, Carla Bonetti was a con artist.


  Fate may have brought us together that hot August day, but from that moment on, she had been feeding me the way she fed her audience. Were I not so besotted, I would have realized. Good Lord, I'd even remarked on the speed with which she'd pocketed those korunas, attributing this to a fear of thieves and pickpockets in Prague's crowded main square. With hindsight, though, it was obvious. Carla, Inspector, was motivated by one thing, and one thing only. Money.

  She had no friends, no relatives (at least none with whom she kept in touch), and no desire to mix with the rest of the company. She led me to believe she was a lonely, damaged individual, and maybe that part was true. But in her eyes, I was nothing more than a stepping stone to bettering herself, and she threw herself into honing her act.

  When I proposed marriage, she saw an even faster route to financial success. Half my takings, half my savings, possibly even more, had I coughed up for that ill-fated American Dream, for I feel sure she had no intention of remaining with me. I hand her the money for the transatlantic crossing, bearing in mind the number of berths this troupe needs—and pff! Carla Bonetti disappears in the night, while Madame d'Orcale turns up in New York, an angelic psychic to whom you'd entrust your life.

  And the silly thing is, she'd have got away with it, had greed not got the better of her.

  Pardon me leaning closer, but what I am about to tell you is a delicate matter, and I would beg you to think carefully before you commit such confidences to paper. You see . . . how can I put this? What with one city after another, the packing, the unpacking, the rehearsals, the hiring, the firing, that lawsuit with the Siamese twins (and despite what they claim, I am certain Pepé was not the father of the dark-haired one's baby; Zorba is not known as The Freak for nothing). But my point is, these activities take time and, ahem . . . energy. For several months, the Rivorsky marital bed saw little activity other than sleeping, and when I finally had vigour enough to rekindle the spark, Carla made it clear she was no longer interested.

  I worship you as a husband, a leader, a father-figure to myself and the group, she told me, and dear me, there were even tears in her eyes. The pedestal I have put you on is so high that I need time to adjust and put a proper perspective on our marriage. She kissed my cheek. I will be a wife to you again, darling, I promise. Just give me time.

  The brush-off didn't bother me, Inspector. I already had the measure of Carla by then, and it was around this point that Jeannette joined our company. You have seen my “Slicing the Lady in Three” trick? Oh, you should, sir, you should. Bring your wife, she'll be amazed. Far superior to “Sawing the Lady in Half,” which has become somewhat overworked of late, and also requires two female assistants to be successful, whereas this relies on just the one. Let me explain how it works.

  We start with a tall, upright box whose door has a large oval hole at the top for her head, two small round ones for her hands, and two more at the bottom to accommodate her feet. My beautiful assistant steps into the box. I close the door. She places her head, hands, and feet through the openings, and I invite the audience to pass her any small object of their own for her to hold. Sometimes it is a comb, sometimes a pocket watch, sometimes an embroidered hankie or necklace, but whatever they choose, it is important that the items belong to members of the public and they can see there is no sleight of hand.

  I now bring out my blades and show people that these are not trick pieces that collapse or disappear into the handle, and that by heaven, the edges are sharp. Fashioned from the finest steel, these are truly the deadliest of weapons, which is why we always keep them under lock and key. And also why my assistant and I need to practice, practice, practice, sir. One false move could be fatal.

  But of course it was not Jeannette Ridoux who was murdered.

  Nor one of those blades that killed the lovely Carla...

  To continue. Having locked Jeannette in the box, where she is merrily waving the audience's personal effects, I brandish the first blade, then proceed to push it across the full width of the box at roughly the level of her armpits. She twists her lip a bit, and frowns, but eventually it goes right the way in. I then repeat the process at a point about mid thigh—which, incidentally, is a very shapely one—and, as you would expect of a knife sawing off your legs, she winces even harder. But my assistant is no cry-baby, sir. She continues to wave the pocket watch, hankie, or whatever, her smile broader than ever.

  Now for the moment of truth! I push on the side of the box. Heave, heave, heave, and hey presto! To a rumble of drums, the middle section, the part between the two blades, slides to the left, leaving Jeannette—ta da!—in three separate pieces.

  The top part is still in its original and upright position. You can see her smiling, and waving whatever the audience gave her to hold in her left hand. The bottom part hasn't moved either. You can still see her wriggling her pretty little toes through the cut-outs. But with the middle section pushed completely to one side, there is nothing now but a gaping hole where Jeannette's torso used to be, and yet, look! Her right hand, now stuck out way to the side, is still waggling the object she'd been given!

  To prove there are no mirrors involved, I plunge my arm through the gap, then throw a ball through the space, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, to prove there is nothing there except air. I walk behind it, bending down, making faces, pushing my hand through, then invite the owners of the items to come forward and verify that these are indeed their possessions. The middle section is then slid back into place, out come the blades, click, click, and when I open the door again, out steps Jeannette, all in one piece!

  The applause is rapturous, as you can imagine. But because the trick is new and, I repeat, extremely dangerous, timing is everything. My new assistant and I spent many hours together, perfecting the act, and I suppose it was inevitable that contortion and illusion would eventually join in collusion.

  Which is why I wanted to make clear just now that it was purely a physical attraction, one in which love played no part. Jeannette is supple and sultry, and whilst one could argue that one good turn deserves another—especially in her case—Cupid had already hit me with one misguided dart. I was in no hurry to lose my heart again, and besides, I needed to dislodge that first mischievous arrow, and here was a conundrum, if ever there was one. Do I fire Carla and lose the best mind-reading act I'd ever had? Or put up with the situation, no matter how difficult, and try to make the most of it?

  A tricky predicament, as you'll agree. One that, unfortunately, pales in comparison to the one I find myself in now, though I do see the logic behind the arrest.

  You find me covered in blood . . . beside the body of my bigamous wife . . . in the marital bed . . . with a bread knife sticking out of her heart . . . and the caravan locked from the inside.

  Might I have another cup of tea, do you suppose?

  * * * *

  Motive, means, and opportunity. The Great Rivorsky has all three, and in terms of a police investigation, I fully understand why you see this as an open-and- shut case. So do I. Carla was looking to bleed me dry, and money is a magnificent incentive to murder. Knives are commonplace in a theatrical troupe, especially with Chief Red Sky's knife-throwing act, though how many Cherokee Indians you see in Glasgow is dubious. Or red skies, come to that. And finally, of course, who else had the opportunity to kill Carla, since all the bolts on the caravan doors were in place when you broke in, and with a wound like that, it was clearly not suicide.

  It doesn't look good for me, does it?

  On the other hand, you have to take into acount that I am an illusionist, sir. A master of deception, disguise, and dexterity, who makes his living from things that are not what they seem.

  For instance, look how you found me. Dressed in my stage suit, with its hidden pockets, false buttons, even this lovely white rabbit. Incidentally, you wouldn't have a lettuce leaf on the premises, would you? It's well past this little chap's breakfast. Thank you, thank you. Most kind.

  Anyway, Inspector, as I was say
ing. Did you not think it odd that the police broke in this morning to find me fast asleep and still in the clothes in which I had been performing? The prosecution could argue that I had fallen into a drunken stupor, and there's no denying I enjoy a port and brandy or two after the show. But if I had been so hammered as to fall asleep fully clothed, would I have had the presence of mind to lock the caravan doors—four bolts, don't forget—and then drive a knife into a sleeping Carla?

  Or hadn't you noticed that she was killed as she slept?

  No rumpled bedsheets. No arcing spurts of blood. No tangled nightdress or hair that had been messed up in a struggle.

  And I know you will already have established from witnesses that she was alive when I entered the caravan, and this, I feel sure, is the reason you've charged me. Half the company would have seen us through the open doors, possibly overheard us dissecting the night's performance and debating how it could be improved on. For if there was one thing to be said in favour of that disastrous relationship, it was a sense of professionalism.

  I was still drinking port and brandies when the church bell tolled midnight, and shortly afterwards I locked up. I remember waving to Pepé and blowing a kiss on my fingers to Mimi, or at least that's what I had intended to do, it just came out the wrong way round. No matter. The important thing is that Carla took herself off to her side of the bed, I bolted all four sections of the small stable doors, and that's the last thing I remember until your flat-footed sergeant hauled me off the bed and into a pair of handcuffs. I gave them back to him several times, but he insisted on replacing them.

  I have them in my pocket, by the way, if you'd care to return them.