* * * *
The caravan is delightful. Round, like a barrel, with sailmaker's canvas stretched over the frame; the oak from which it is made is intricately carved and even more exquisitely painted. The cold is banished by a cast iron “Queenie” stove, and the interior is so sumptuous, it rivals the most opulent hotel. Lavishly painted and comfortably furnished, it boasts a small bow window with lattice panes at the back, under which the bed frame has been built. Meaning one is not then obliged to draw the rich, velvet curtains that hang over the window, but is at liberty to lie in bed and gaze up at the stars. With its mahogany panelling and gold leaf on the mouldings, the caravan provides luxury and comfort, and combined with the gentle rock of the horse drawing it along, offers a lifestyle which has much to recommend it.
Except, it appears, when it comes to privacy.
You tell me the police were called after Colonel Tom Thumb peered through the latticework, saw carnage on the bed, and promptly raised the alarm. My first comment here is that you should go gently when interviewing him. Far from the Peeping Tom you take him to be, he is, in fact, a normal, lively six-year-old boy who just happens to have an unnaturally deep voice and has been coached to walk, talk, and behave as a man, even to smoking cigars, drinking whisky, and yes, I admit it, even cussing. The latter being a family trait—dear me, the mouth on his mother!
On the other hand, there's no need to tread softly when interviewing the bearded lady. She is none other than Samson O'Reilly, blessed, as luck would have it, with delicate, sculpted features not usually found in a family of dockers, and a minuscule Adam's apple that is easily disguised by a sparkling ruby necklace. As always with illusion, sir, it is a question of distracting the eye. Rather like our “Southseas Mermaid,” I suppose. A testimony to the skill of the taxidermist, the creature is half fish, half monkey to which blond human hair has been glued, but all this is beside the point.
Namely, was the discovery of Carla's body down to a young boy's natural curiosity, or a bit of prompting from a third party?
A question that hadn't occurred to you, I can see, but ask yourself this. What circumstances would make a man drive a bread knife into his sleeping wife's heart, knowing he'd get blood all over his precious stage suit, then fall into so heavy a stupor that he doesn't wake up even when the alarm has been raised, and is still sleeping when the police break down the door?
Wait, wait, wait. That was a rhetorical question, not a challenge, Inspector, though I do see your dilemma.
If I didn't kill Carla, then who did? Professional to the core as she was, and exceedingly pleasant to the eye, she wasn't popular with the troupe. Not at all. And I doubt you will find anyone who'll admit to liking her, not even Pepé, and usually he looks up to everyone. Which makes it a doubly difficult situation for me, given that a woman who makes no friends makes no enemies, either. Indeed, I defy you to find anyone who hated her for that matter, and a luke-warm dislike is hardly a motive for murder!
So then. We've ruled out love, hate, jealousy, greed, even revenge can be crossed off the list, since she was not a person who aroused high emotions in others, having no passion herself—
Oh, no, that screaming match when she caught me in flagrante was pure theatrics, I assure you. Granted, Inspector, it was ungentlemanly conduct on my part to seduce my assistant in the marital bed. But Jeannette dropped by unexpectedly to discuss the act, and somehow it just happened. One moment I was minding my own business, waxing my moustache in front of the mirror. The next I had a contortionist coiled round me like an anaconda, dislocating her joints in every direction.
Carla did not usually return before noon, and hand on my heart, I never intended to hurt or humiliate her. I was in the wrong, I admitted it, and took great pains to apologize for my behaviour. On the other hand, the manner of her outburst was completely unjustified, a cheap theatrical ploy designed to publicize my shabby conduct, thus adding to the list of reasons why I should not assault her icy virtue. I am not ashamed to say that, once Jeannette left, I threw the whole lot back at her, albeit in the form of a tired old joke.
About how I'd picked up this poor, bedraggled waif, who told me she hadn't eaten for three days.
"In my compassion, Carla, I brought her home and warmed up the shepherd's pie I cooked for you last night, the meal you wouldn't eat because it was too fattening."
Not the first dinner I had prepared for her that had been passed to the dogs.
"And since the orphan's clothes were so ragged, I gave her that blue dress I bought you on our honeymoon, which you never wore because you said it's too tight. Along with the straw bonnet I bought as an anniversary present, but which has never come out of the box, because you feel the flowers on the brim aren't dignified enough."
Again, all true.
I pressed on. “I donated the velvet choker Mimi gave you for Christmas that you don't use simply to annoy her, along with those expensive button boots you never wear because Chief Red Sky's wife has an identical pair, as well as the jade brooch you've never put on, because you say I have no taste."
Carla was taken aback by my bitterness, Inspector, but I wasn't done.
"In fact, the waif was so grateful for my sympathy and support,” I continued, “that as I walked her to the door, the poor girl turned to me with tears in her eyes and said, Please, sir. Do you have anything else your wife doesn't use?"
The joke was intended to soften the effect, though too late I remembered Carla had no sense of humour. But if motive is a sticking point in her murder, so, too, is opportunity. Knowing as we do that all four parts of the twin stable doors were bolted from the inside, how could anyone get in? And it has already been established that the lattice window is too small for even my contortionist to squeeze through, which means, and apologies if I appear to be doing your job, the solution lies in the character.
Take you, for example, Inspector. From what I've seen, you obviously pride yourself on being objective, and do not readily accept theories without proof. Neither do you suffer fools gladly. But what of the qualities that are not quite as apparent? Let me see...
Yes, I'm starting to sense that much of the time you are unruffled and in control, yet when you are alone with your thoughts, there are times when you are prone to worry. About your family, at a guess. Your wife and your children, and also over your finances. Feelings are also coming to me that you are self-critical, constantly strive to do well and earn the respect that you deserve, especially from your superior officers, and that you also read books to broaden your mind. In addition, I'd say you thrive on a certain amount of challenge and change—not too much, though—but become deeply frustrated when your efforts are hampered by pettiness, bureaucracy, and shortage of time. I will even go out on a limb and suggest there have been times in your life, Inspector, and more than one, when you have had serious doubts about whether you've made the right decision. Am I right? Of course I am, but my skills are nothing compared to Carla's.
Now I don't wish to disillusion you, sir. Not at all. But that character reading applies to one hundred percent of the population in one way or another, being so vague and ambiguous that the assessment cannot help but fit. A few frown lines indicate a tendency to worry, your frayed cuffs point to money problems, and the library card on your desk is well used. Carla, though, was far better at manipulating her public, relying on them reading a lot more into her words than there was substance. After all, sceptics don't pay to visit psychics and mind-readers. Only those who already believe.
What, to the “psychic,” is a vague but nonetheless suggestive assertion is simply bait for the sitter to take. If there is no response, or the assessment falls wide of the mark, the “psychic” will quickly change tack and fish for alternative clues, constantly reading the sitter's response and taking their lead from that. Like illusionists, they bank on people seeing what they want to see. Never underestimate the human desire to make sense out of the most incongruous rubbish!
So there we are, Inspector. Now we know how Carla was
killed, and by whom. It will soon lead us to why.
Ooh, more tea. How lovely. When it comes to hospitality, you English just cannot be beaten.
* * * *
If no one got in and no one got out, ipso facto the killer must be in the caravan. Yet your men found only Carla and me, which brings us, Inspector, to the open- and-shut case.
Earlier I mentioned my “Slicing the Lady in Three” trick. Providing you give me your oath not to tell anyone else, I shall enlighten you as to how it is done. The knives are real, so are the hands, the feet, and the face that smiles through dismemberment. Yet there is a gaping hole in the middle where my assistant's torso should be, and a compartment at the side where it actually is.
Or where it appears to be, I should say.
Once my assistant steps into the box, she puts her face through the window, and also her hands, and her feet through the holes at the bottom. She wiggles them all to prove it is real, and the audience pass her their personal items to hold. But once they have returned to their seats, she kicks off her left shoe and twists her body flat to the side of the box. Using her right foot, she manoeuvres the shoe to make it look like it's moving, alternating with the foot that is actually poking through the hole. Her hands remain in position.
The dangerous part comes when I push in the blades. If you look closely, you will see that the blades are not quite as wide as the box, the operative words there being “not quite.” The contortionist has to really flatten herself against the wall, while still keeping her face pointing forward. This, sir, is no mean feat. The trick will not work without the most accomplished contortionist.
And of course the other thing is, such is the optical illusion of the wavy lines painted on the woodwork, that the box appears to be the same thickness on both sides. In reality, the left side is a good few inches wider, which, when coupled with the slightly narrower blades, allows just enough space for my assistant's body turned sideways. After that, it is simply a question of her stretching her arm in the part I slide sideways, and hey presto, the illusion is complete.
There is nothing in the middle except air!
And unfortunately it is air that lies at the heart of this mystery. While I drink my tea and read your excellent Times newspaper, I suggest you return to the caravan, Inspector, and examine the suitcase on top of the wardrobe. I'm betting it has holes bored in the back. Curled up inside, you see, Mademoiselle Ridoux would have needed to breathe.
I suspect you will also find traces of blood on the inside. Carla's blood, obviously, for one cannot drive knives into people without certain consequences. And at the same time, I suggest you have men search Jeannette's caravan, where you will surely find the bloodstained leotard that she hasn't yet had time to wash. Why not? Oh, for the same reason you haven't interviewed her. She was still coiled inside the suitcase when the police broke in this morning, and with your men tramping in and out, undertakers and so on, she'd have been obliged to remain there until the coast was clear.
Let me tell you what I believe happened last night.
After Carla finished her mind-reading act, she returned to the wagon, where she stowed her dazzling white gown in the suitcase, as she did after every performance, to protect it. Clad in an ordinary frock, she then attended the regular post-performance party—a short celebration, but an important one. The troupe need to know they are appreciated, even those who work behind the scenes. Jeannette would have used the diversion to slip into the Rivorsky wagon, remove Carla's gown, and at the same time take the opportunity to drug the port or the brandy with bromide, possibly both.
When you search her quarters, I daresay you will also find the white, sequined dress, and I suggest you ignore any assertion that Carla asked her to look after it for her, because, dear me, this of all items? The gown she wore every night on the stage? Carla Bonetti would never entrust such a precious gown to anyone, much less the woman she'd found in her own bed with her husband!
Yes, as to that unfortunate incident—As a man of the world, Inspector, I am well aware when a woman has no deep emotional feelings for me. But a lonely heart will take comfort where it is offered, though once again, I failed to see that the affair was set up. A smokescreen to cover Jeannette's plan to kill Carla, then frame me for the murder.
What I suspect happened is this.
Jeannette asked Carla for a reading, little realizing it was nothing more than a cheap display of manipulation, suggestion, and flattery. Like illusion, where people see what they are expecting to see, when it comes to mind-reading, fortune telling, and psychics, sittters are predisposed to hear what they expect to hear, and invariably remember the successes over the failures.
I don't know what secret Jeannette was hiding, but for a sceptic to resort to consulting someone like Carla, she must have been very afraid. She'll probably tell you she was running away from a violent husband, and was terrified he'd track her down. I suggest a more likely scenario involves the police, and since Carla's murder was so meticulously planned, I doubt it was beginner's luck.
Naturally, I don't know what Carla told Jeannette, either. Indeed, I doubt she'd even remembered herself. To her, this would have been just another routine exercise, picking up clues then feeling her way as she went along. Whatever she'd told her, it would have been exceedingly nebulous, yet that scam, sir, cost Carla her life.
Jeannette would have seen things from a different angle entirely. In her eyes, Carla knew her every dark secret and, for that reason, had to be silenced. So she seduces the Great Rivorsky in his own bed, no doubt planting something of Carla's in the caravan knowing my poor wife would be needing it during rehearsals. The steaming row would have been the icing on the cake.
I'll bet the bitch even sharpened my own bread knife while she was at it.
* * * *
Ah, there you are, Inspector. And me not halfway through this excellent paper. You found the holes in the empty suitcase? Blood on the inside? Carla's stage dress under Jeannette's bunk. Good. Well, not good. For all her faults, poor Carla is dead, and this is not how I would have wished the marriage to end.
And you have also unmasked Jeannette Ridoux? Amazing detective work, sir, I compliment you. Janet Reed from Basingstoke, eh? Wanted for poisoning three elderly gentlemen for their life savings, and no doubt planning to spend it, once she was free of your English borders. Probably why she chose this particular troupe. In a matter of days, we'll be gone again, won't we? Budapest, my hometown, as it happens.
I must say, I feel partway responsible for Carla's death. If I hadn't succumbed to Jeannette's entwining charms, she could not have put her plan into action.
Or yes. Maybe, Inspector, you have hit the nail on the head. Maybe she would have found someone else to frame for the murder. A man who would not have been able to prove his innocence, and been hanged for a crime he didn't commit...
But I, of course, am the Great Rivorsky. I can get out of any tight spot.
Contortionists, on the other hand, twist their joints and their bodies, just as in Jeannette's case they twist the truth.
Though I fear that, this time, the hangman's noose is one thing Janet Reed won't wriggle out of.
Copyright © 2010 Marilyn Todd
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Fiction: THE LAST LAUGH by Bill Pronzini
A Grand Master of the Mystery Writers of America and author of one of the longest-running detective series (Betrayers, the thirty-fifth book in his Nameless series was published last month by Forge), Bill Pronzini is also one of the most versatile short story writers we know. His stories for us are often historical, but this one's based on elements from several actual recent cases involving petty crooks. The Hidden, Mr. Pronzini's new stand-alone novel, will be published by Walker and Company in November.
* * * *
Art by Mark Evan Walker
* * * *
All my life people been telling me I'm not very smart. “You need a diagram to tie your shoes,” Ma said to me once. And about six oth
er times she said, “You got two brain cells, Bernie, and one of them's asleep half the time. That's why you keep getting yourself in trouble.” My own mother.
I been in trouble a little, sure, but it was all minor stuff. Couple of car-theft raps, couple for shoplifting, a B&E. Three convictions and some jail time that wasn't too bad, except they worked my tail off on the honor farm. But it ain't because I'm stupid that I kept getting caught. Stupid's not the reason I can't seem to hang onto the jobs Ma and my probation officer get for me, neither. It's bad luck. I mean, I'm just about the unluckiest guy you'll ever meet.
Like for instance, when I was working for the A&P as a stock clerk, one of the best jobs I ever had, and the manager caught me sacked out on a pallet of fifty-pound sacks of dog food and fired me on the spot. It was plain lousy luck I happened to fall asleep right there in the open part of the warehouse instead of in the little storage closet behind the freezer where I usually hid out to catch some z's.
Or the night I busted into a brand-new Cadillac and stole a fur coat and some other stuff that was lying on the backseat, on account of I was broke and out of work and didn't have nothing else to do. Wouldn't you know a cop'd be driving by just as I was heading off with the bundle in my arms. I told him I found the coat and the other stuff in a trash bin, but he didn't believe it, probably because there wasn't no trash bin around there. Neither did the judge that sent me to the slam for a year and a half, my longest stretch.
Another cop that busted me, the time I broke into Klausmeyer's Novelty Store and set off a burglar alarm I didn't even know they had, he said I was a typical dumb criminal. I heard that from some other people, too, including Ma. Always made me mad, and hurt me, too, on account of it's not true. A dumb criminal is one like this guy I heard about swiped some jewelery from a store down in L.A., and he's on his way home when the cops pick him up and they find the stuff in his pants pockets. What do you think he says to the cops? “I didn't know it was in there,” he says. “These ain't even my pants."
EQMM, September-October 2010 Page 19
