The Case

by Leopold Borstinski

  “One day, I walked into my office to see Selena bending over the oak desk and, with her rump squarely in my line of sight, I knew I wanted her there and then. I approached her quietly to make the tryst more exciting but as I got nearer, I realized the reason she was bending over the desk was because she had a miniature camera in her hands and she was taking photos of my paperwork.”

  “I GRABBED THE camera out of her hand and threw it on the floor. At that precise moment, she wheeled round and I grabbed her arms to prevent her from assaulting me. Then I stamped on the camera and its film spewed out onto the floor, exposed to the light.

  “I slapped her repeatedly about the face, but that made her angry rather than scared, as I had hoped it would. So I tore open her blouse and ripped off her bra, slapping her about the face if only to make me feel better as it appeared to make zero difference to her demeanor.

  “While still holding both her arms in one of my hands, I felt around on the desk until I came upon the silver letter opener, which Selena had used to open my correspondence for the previous eighteen months. I sliced her breasts and cut her left cheek from the corner of her mouth up to her ear. She screamed and pleaded, so much so that one of my attendants entered the room, but I told him to stay by the door.

  “Then I tore off her skirt and cut off her underwear, so she was naked and bleeding before me, and dragged her quivering body so she was sat on the desk in front of me. I undid my trousers and went inside her one last time.

  “Once I was done, I picked up the letter opener again and stabbed her in the vagina seven, eight or nine times. I did not keep a close count. I did not care to count.

  “My attendant took her bloody body from me. The next day I was informed she died of her injuries overnight and the following day, I had a new housekeeper. I only had to open my post once during this time.

  “After that, I left my housekeeper alone, but allowed a woman to visit me to tend to my more personal needs ...”

  Herman was silent for a spell and I had no idea what to think or what to say.

  “I’m not surprised you have trust issues,” I said under my breath. Herman smiled and nodded.

  “Yes indeed, Jake.”

  In the vacuum of this silence there was nowhere I could think of taking a conversation where this man raped and murdered his housekeeper. And then decided to share the story with me.

  The evening turned to night, and we hunkered down to sleep, although I only dozed because I didn’t feel that secure spending that much time with a man who killed his lover with his bare hands, more or less.

  What we never got to the bottom of was what Selena was doing taking photos of Herman’s letters. I didn’t feel a strong urge to ask him, funnily enough, but the implication was clear: the guy was powerful enough to kill someone without batting an eyelid and without any consequences for his actions.

  This old Nazi sure had some juice even to this day, and I figured the best thing was to let sleeping dogs lie.

  Two days later, I got the nod and handed Herman over to Kurtz’s people. After that night, he only spoke a handful of words to me. Perhaps that’s why he told me his tale: so’s I wouldn’t be too curious and to stop me wasting his time yapping at him. He really didn’t like small talk, for sure.

  The day after Herman left my care, I visited Kurtz in his makeshift serviced office.

  “Here is the rest of your fee. Count it if you like, but it is all there, every last dollar.”

  “Nothing personal, but I will: I’ve been stiffed in the past. I’m sure you understand.”

  “Naturally. One cannot be too careful.”

  I flicked through the notes in the brown envelope and, having checked that everything was kosher, I pushed the envelope deep into my inside jacket pocket.

  “One thing before we leave.”

  “Yes, Jake, what is it?”

  “Who exactly is Herman?”

  “Herman? Who?... Oh, Mr. Larsen.”

  “Yes, Larsen.”

  “He is a man you looked after for three days and is now no longer of your concern.”

  I looked Kurtz straight in the eyes and he stared right back at me and smiled. He wasn’t giving anything away, but then, if I were him, I’d have stayed shtumm too. Let’s face it, Larsen had a bad history when it came to employee relations.

  PART FIFTEEN

  NEW YORK 1978

  37

  HERMAN THE GERMAN was probably the most dangerous man I had to deal with, even though by the time I met him his worst years were behind him. I always felt I had met a member of the SS High Command, but I never found out who he actually had been. In the end, he became nothing but a distant memory by the time my strangest murder case turned up at my door.

  Marty had been poisoned, and the man sat in the chair opposite me wanted to know who had done it and why. Under normal circumstances, I’d have told him to go to the precinct house and ask his questions there. But this was different.

  Why? Marty was a horse and the man sat in front of me was Phileas Bertram - or at least that was his stage name. PB was the ringmaster of a circus which had put up its tent on the outskirts of Coney Island and the following morning, Marty had been found dead having frothed at the mouth until it took its last breath. There was a bottle of poison in the stables so the cause of death was obvious. But they had no idea who had given the fatal Socratic sauce.

  I reckoned I could make some easy bread fingering the nag’s killer without too much effort and have a bit of fun along the way. So there I was in the middle of the ring, sawdust under my feet, with the cast of Star Wars lined up in front of me.

  To say they were a strange bunch was an understatement. Every size of human being stood before me: tall, short, wide, narrow. Beards, mustaches and clean shaven too - and that was just the women. Other species were represented: chimpanzees and miniature ponies at least. I was informed the rest of the menagerie were in their cages and available for my inspection whenever I was ready.

  “Okay everyone. My name’s Jake and as PB has explained, I’m here to find out who gave Marty a fatal dose,” I said in a loud voice hoping they all could hear me. I wasn’t used to bellowing in front of such a large crowd: there must have been forty, fifty, maybe more, people in the ring. Then I lowered my voice having got their attention.

  “Chances are someone stood here today did for Marty. By the time I’m done, we’ll have you caught.”

  There was a general murmuring and shuffling of feet on the sawdust, which made the footfall sound muffled yet sizzling. Besides, no-one likes to be accused of murder and I knew that. A quick survey of the faces gave me a head start to pick which groups I should interrogate first.

  “If anyone saw anything, or thinks they might’ve seen anything that’ll help us catch the felon, just tell me. My door is always open - especially as I don’t have a door.”

  The attempt at levity fell flat, but it didn’t deserve a big laugh anyway, so I let it go. There was nodding all round and several people peered at each other from across the ring. There were three clowns who had made eye contact, for example, with four midgets and I figured they’d be a good place to start. As expected, no-one came up afterwards and offered an eyewitness account of the slaying of Marty the horse.

  After they had all shuffled out of the tent, I turned to PB, who was looking at each of his staff with deep distrust.

  “YOU SHOULDN’T STARE at them like that.”

  “Why not? One of them bums killed my Marty.”

  “Sure thing. But unless this becomes a remake of Murder on the Orient Express, all but one had nothing to do with the death. You’ll need them to continue to trust and follow you, wherever you guys take this carny.”

  “Good point, Jake. For the record, though, we are a circus, not a bunch of carnival performers.”

  “Whatever floats your boat,” I responded and, shoving my hands into my pants pockets, I wandered off to speak with a bunch of guys whose shoe size was well into double digits.


  I left the main tent and wondered around the collection of small marquees about two hundred feet away from the entrance where the performer’s camp had been set. I spotted Larry, Curly and Moe stomping into a red and yellow striped affair and I figured I’d follow them.

  By the time I passed by the flap and entered, the three amigos were practicing pratfalls. The regularity and lack of communication between them made me think this was their standard warmup routine.

  Most interesting of all was that, even though I had appeared, they plain ignored me and carried on pushing each other over and knocking hats off.

  I waited to see if this would be a permanent state of affairs and, after two minutes, I got bored and coughed.

  “Hi there. I need to take a few moments of your time. It’s about Marty.”

  “The nag’s dead. They die all the time. It’s in their nature. Why are you so in a twist over this one?” Larry queried.

  “I care about Marty because PB cares about Marty.” Beat. “Anyone got any idea who wanted the beast in the ground?”

  Larry sideways glanced to Moe, who stared at the ground while Curly stared at Larry, eyes wide open, as though he wanted to encourage Larry to say something.

  I moved a step towards Curly.

  “What d’ya think?”

  “Me? I know nothing. I have known nothing. Right now, if you come back tomorrow, I’ll know nothing then too.”

  “You’re a real know-nothing!” quipped Larry, and they all chuckled as though he’d referenced a private joke they were excluding me from.

  “Funny, but someone forced a defenseless animal to a slow death and I doubt if that was out of malice towards the horse.”

  “Yeah, Marty was PB’s pride and joy, so he was,” Moe commented, letting the words trailing off into nowhere as the three contemplated Marty’s final hours.

  “So would I be right in thinking the perp was more interested in attacking PB than the horse itself?”

  “I reckon so,” added Larry, whose piercing bright blue eyes were a remarkable contrast to the deep browns of the other two in his act.

  “Okay then. Who had it in for PB?”

  That question generated zero response, but I had to ask it anyway. Trouble was I also understood it would be tricky for me to get them to talk again now that question was hanging in midair.

  “Did he have any enemies outside the circus?” I prompted.

  “No-one outside the circus, for sure,” offered Larry, but again his voice trailed off. What was unsaid had more significance than what had actually been said. If I believed Larry then his enemies were inside the circus and no further.

  “HOW DO YOU guys get on with PB?”

  “Mighty fine. We get on mighty fine,” asserted Larry, who was their spokesman, perhaps because he was at least one foot taller than the other two.

  “And does everyone get on well with PB?”

  They looked at each other and Larry turned his head and looked at me. Then Curly elbowed him in the side to encourage him.

  “Wouldn’t say everyone, would we?”

  Heads shook aplenty.

  “Why’s that then?”

  “Well, since the start of the season, there’ve been a few tensions between some of us.”

  “Tensions? What sort of tensions?”

  “PB has been trying to make a few changes to the running order of the show and not everyone’s been cool about it.”

  “Whose noses have been knocked out of joint?”

  Larry smiled and then Curly elbowed him again. There was no turning back.

  “Miriam and her elephants, the dwarves, Hercules the strong man for starters. Others as well. We’ve had five minutes shaved off our act so that there’s more time for Theresa and Marty. We haven’t complained or nothing, but we haven’t been happy either.”

  “Why give the animals more time?”

  “PB says the paying public prefer primates over people.”

  “Perhaps, perhaps,” I murmured under my breath and all three laughed because I had noticed the alliteration.

  “Thanks, you’ve been very helpful.”

  “Pop by later if you like and we’ll throw a custard pie in your face.”

  “I might well do that,” and I wondered off to find someone else who’d talk about mighty Marty the magnificent mare.

  Two tents further down were Huey, Louis, Duey and Uncle Scrooge: the midgets. They were sitting around, smoking and drinking coffee on their little chairs. Even though I wasn’t supposed to laugh, I had to bite my lower lip because they looked funny. Plain funny.

  Whatever my thoughts on the little people, they were welcoming and offered me a cigarette and a mug of java. I accepted the drink and rejected the smoke.

  This time I started with some general chat rather than going headlong into the main bout. Huey and Louis were the most communicative, but Uncle Scrooge also spoke plenty. Conversation twisted and turned and I steered the topic over to Marty.

  “Tough break for the nag, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Sure thing,” replied Louis, “but he did have it coming to him?”

  “Say what?”

  “Yeah, the beast had thrown a couple of riders the past week so I wouldn’t say anybody was surprised to see revenge served cold.”

  “Who had Marty thrown then?”

  “There was Theresa and Hercules, but not at the same time.”

  “Theresa?...”

  “PB’s girlfriend. And she’s a trapeze artist too.”

  “And Hercules?”

  “Would you be surprised if I told you he was the strongman?”

  “Probably not. I don’t surprise easy,” and I took another sip of my coffee.

  “Would either have been mad enough at the nag to have killed it?”

  All four of them sat and pondered that question. Then I realized they all had the answer but weren’t prepared to say it out loud.

  “I’m not here to rat on you. Whatever you say, stays with me. I’m here to find out about the nag, then I’m gone.”

  DUEY PIPED UP: “The trouble is that Theresa has a fiery temper on her and Hercules could strangle that mare with his bare hands. So it’s anyone’s guess which one of them woulda actually done it.”

  “Makes sense. But tell me, I can understand why a trapeze artist might start their act on a horse, but what was Hercules doing riding on Marty’s back?”

  “He likes horses,” was the depressingly honest and obvious reply from Uncle Scrooge. I only named him that because he was about six inches taller than the rest of the bunch.

  “Figures,” I laughed, and they chortled back at me, which eased the tension that had been building up ever since I talked about Marty.

  “So tell me, how long have Theresa and PB been an item?”

  “Most of the season. He hired her about five months ago and we reckon they shared a bed within a week or two,” answered Louis.

  “Some of us think he only hired her so he could shtup her,” added Huey.

  “But either way, we needed a new leading lady for the trapeze,” contributed Duey.

  “And why was that?”

  “Because we buried her predecessor in Newark,” Uncle Scrooge informed the tent. Served me right for asking such a dumb question. I was hoping I’d hear about a bust up and how the last high-wire act had wanted to get revenge for being sacked. But a broken neck was a broken neck.

  “Tell me about Theresa, then. What’s she like?”

  Uncle Scrooge snorted. “Great tits.”

  Duey added: “One of the few good things about being this height is that I can stare at her crotch and she never notices.” They all chuckled at that. Me too.

  “Seriously, what’s she like?”

  The guys settled down after a short while and they inhaled deeply on their smokes.

  “Her biggest problem is herself,” said Louis, with a somber air I’d not seen from him before.

  “The trouble with Theresa is that she takes herself extremely ser
iously. Now, she’s up on a high wire hundreds of feet off the ground, so I get why she’d be deadly about her act. If I was dangling from just my ankle up there, I’d be taking it serious myself.”

  “But ...?”

  “But she’s like that on the ground too. She thinks her trapeze act is the most important part of the show and looks down on the rest of us.”

  Duey smiled. “And we don’t need people looking down on us any more than they have to.” Again, bunch of chuckles ensued, although I didn’t join in this time because it wasn’t that funny and I wanted the midgets to stay focused.

  “And what’s that got to do with Marty? I don’t get it.”

  Huey looked at me and shook his head.

  “You don’t get it? Bud, why’s PB hire you if you can’t understand the simple stuff?”

  “Explain to me then.”

  38

  “OKAY, MAC, THIS is the story: at the start of every hire wire act, you need a gimmick to get from the ground to the wire. Some use a trampoline, others just climb the pole. Theresa would ride round on Marty to make the audience think she was a horse riding act and, just when she’d finished a couple of jumping tricks, she’d stand on his back and leap up. She was on a wire and that’d make her fly up into the rafters. Looked real cool and almost always got a gasp from the paying crowd. Then she’d undo the harness that got her up there and the real act would start in earnest. Nice touch.”

  “And without Marty, her big intro has been ruined.”

  “Now you’re getting it, fella.”

  “If it’s all about the high-wire then why hurt a horse? Why didn’t they take out Theresa? There must be loads of ways to knock out a high-wire act, for sure.”

  “I dunno nothing ’bout that. There were a lot of people who resented Theresa enough to want her act ruined to teach her a lesson. I’m not sure anyone wanted her dead. That’s a whole different ball game. We’re not a sideshow carney, you know.”