Puzzle for Puppets

by Patrick Quentin

  Consequently, some time before their actual retirement, they had undertaken to supervise the training of the two young apprentices who were eventually to supplant them.

  Their choice had rested on two youths of Prussian birth who played clowns, tumblers, and other odd parts in the circus. These two showed some natural ability coupled with the application and patience necessary for their tedious training as aerialists. The ’prentices, Bruno and Ludwig Kramer—and they also were brothers—were not brilliant or colorful, but they were good specimens physically and they had stamina and doggedness, together with a marked oneness of mind and purpose which made them function excellently as a team. At this period they seem to have been serious, self-effacing youths who kept themselves to themselves and bided their time.

  Finally, and I think the date was about 1932, their plodding was rewarded and they were officially signed on as principals in the Flying Roses Act. Immediately Bruno and Ludwig signalized their adoption into the family by changing their names by letters patent to Rose and by marrying the two Rose girls, Zelide and Lina, who were to be their partners. That these unions were entered into cynically and for motives of ambition rather than affection is evidenced by the fact that the brothers matched each other with coins (as they later openly boasted) as to which of them should take which girl.

  And so, while the original Rosa brothers betook their arthritic limbs off to grateful retirement, the two Kramers (now the White and the Red Rose) took the act over and started to fly the trapezes in their own sweet way.

  It has always been a matter of surprise to me that Lina and Zelide (especially Zelide, who has the more positive personality) should have been willing to marry these two unprepossessing young Prussians. But who am I to analyze the subtleties of the female heart? Perhaps they felt it their duty towards the act. Perhaps they had a genuine affection for their husbands at first. Disillusionment, however, must have come quickly, for the two brothers soon began to show themselves in their true colors. The quiet, self-effacing youths had disappeared and their place was taken by a pair of tyrannical, arrogant knaves.

  Ludwig, the younger of the two, was not without some pretension to good looks, but his surly disposition and moronic viciousness of temper had made him an object of almost universal dislike in the circus world. Bruno, the White Rose, was more plausible and far more intelligent. He assumed a brusque, hearty manner, which, while it aped rugged sincerity, actually concealed a low form of patient cunning similar to that exhibited by his more notorious namesake, Bruno Hauptmann, the kidnapper. One characteristic they had in common. Both brothers showed, if not actual affection, at least a blind, unswerving loyalty to each other which was worthy of a better object. This was more than mere devotion; it was a unanimity of idea and desire which extended far beyond their teamwork on the trapezes. They shared everything—their ambitions, their pleasures, their hatreds. They would even have shared their wives had not the two women objected. Miss Crawford hinted that they tried to share their amours and it was common knowledge that, when they went on extramarital sprees, they pimped and procured for each other in a manner that must have shocked even the most hardened trollop.

  But, most important of all, each took on the animosities and petty spites of the other. A slight to Ludwig was repaid by some act of vicious retaliation from Bruno. And if anyone offended Bruno, he was apt to trip over some shin-barking obstacle as he left his dressing room in the dark, or to find some messy or malodorous object in his bed—a gift from Ludwig, whose moronic predilection ran to practical jokes.

  Their attitude towards women betrayed the Prussian in them. Women were chattels and each considered that he—or his brother—had a sort of divine right to enjoy any female who happened to take his fancy. They further showed their scorn of women, as soon as they obtained control of the act, by relegating their wives, whenever possible, to subsidiary roles while they themselves “hogged” the spotlight more and more.

  This was as unwise as it was unwarranted. Though efficient aerialists, the Rose brothers lacked that something which for want of a better word is called color. Applause dwindled to almost nothing. Rival shows such as Ringling’s and Barnum’s had better, more colorful trapeze artists. It soon became obvious to the circus management—if not to the principals—that The Flying Roses once again needed new blood if they were to survive.

  And new blood was soon forced upon them in the person of Gino Forelli, the brilliant and unfortunate youth who was later to be known as the Purple Rose. Bruno and Ludwig tolerated him at first because they felt that his training period, like their own, would take years of slogging work. He was no immediate challenge to their fading laurels. But here they reckoned without Gino.

  For Gino was something quite out of the ordinary even in a circus. Born of Italian parents, literally within the circus enclosure, the boy knew no other life and cared for little else. His mother was an equestrienne, his father one of the keepers in charge of the elephants. From earliest infancy Gino was the joy and pride of Welland’s Circus. Everyone loved this laughing, dark-eyed boy—including Edwina, the oldest and most hideous of the circus elephants. He adopted her as his special pet. There is a story, none too well authenticated, that once, when the animal’s ugliness of appearance and disposition made her destruction advisable, Gino went to the authorities and pleaded for her life. With a cunning prompted by affection and desperation the boy suggested that the pachyderm’s gnarled appearance might be turned to profitable account. She might be billed—and heaven knows how this could be proved or disproved—as “Edwina, the Oldest Elephant in Captivity.” Gino had his way; the slogan captivated the public and Edwina became the most celebrated elephant since Barnum’s Jumbo. After being the outcast of the herd, Edwina knew the joys of a stellar role with all its comforts and perquisites. One reason the more for gratitude and devotion to her young patron.

  Edwina is a digression but not an unimportant one.

  Gino’s ability in the circus did not end with the animals. He appears to have been a youthful prodigy with a versatility equal in his own humble sphere to Mozart’s in the world of music. At the age of ten he was able, so I am credibly informed, to fill in expertly in almost any given act. He was a champion tumbler, a juggler, a funambulist, an intrepid rider, and an adequate performer on most instruments in the band. One story, which for obvious reasons is frowned upon by the circus authorities, relates how sixteen-year-old Gino once took the place of Tito, the Fearless Lion Tamer, when that worthy was suffering from an infected hand and could not enter the cages. Gino controlled the big cats so nonchalantly and gave such a courageous performance that Tito almost sent in his resignation immediately.

  And Gino was just as anxious to conquer the air as he had conquered the ground. To be an aerialist had always been one of his ambitions. Madame Zelide has told me how, after the performance was over, he was often to be found swinging from trapeze to trapeze, trying out difficult figures and utterly indifferent to the fact that there was no safety net below him. Zelide also told me—and here she must be regarded as an expert—that when Gino started to train with the Rose brothers, he mastered in a few weeks routines which normally took years to perfect. His timing, she said, was perfect; his technique flawless. In an incredibly short while he was taking his place, not only as a principal, but as a star among the Flying Roses.

  From his first public performance the applause was terrific. Soon the act was receiving top billing again and it was restored, as the pièce de résistance, to the final place on the program.

  Since we know their characters, it is not difficult for us to guess how the Rose brothers must have felt about the success of their brilliant colleague. They were scrupulous in observing all the principles of teamwork during the training period, in rehearsals, and throughout actual performances. They pretended to welcome the “comrade” who had raised the act to such dizzy heights. Perhaps only their wives really knew what was going on in those warped, patient minds. Indeed, Zelide has since told me
that, in her opinion, the brothers would have eventually eliminated Gino even if Eulalia had never entered the picture at all.

  But Eulalia Crawford did enter the picture and Gino died.

  We know the manner of his death and the events which led up to it. Now let us turn to the events which followed it. Or, rather, let us shuttle back to the point where Miss Crawford left me so abruptly in the Bellevue-Stratford cocktail lounge and consider the steps that were taken to bring about the eventual arrest and punishment of the two Roses.

  Although I have not seen Miss Crawford since the day she voiced to me her more than embryonic suspicions, I do not have to rely upon guesswork as to her subsequent actions. For soon afterwards I had the pleasure of meeting Madame Zelide, and from her somewhat fragmentary account I can piece together the story.

  Zelide is a strange mixture, as outstanding artistes so often are, of sense and sensibility. And, at the time of Gino’s death, she must have been tugged to emotional ribbons. She had loved the young Italian with the affection of a warmhearted woman and the appreciation of a fellow artist. They were, in a sense, compatriots. She had no love for her husband and he had aroused her suspicions sufficiently to make her warn Gino of his danger. But it is one thing to warn a man while he is alive and safe and quite another thing to accuse someone else of wilful murder after his death.

  And—on what exactly could she found her accusations? Zelide had testified at the inquest and she had testified what she believed to be the turth. The act had been performed as usual. Both the brothers had fulfilled their parts with their usual precision. With tears in her eyes she told me that, even if she had been looking for it, she could not have noticed anything wrong. The fault, as far as perceptibility was concerned, must have rested with Gino. But a dozen or more imperceptible things might have been done by the Red Rose as he swung out from below to catch his descending partner. Zelide knew—and who could know better?—that a millionth of a second’s error in timing, an invisible closing, a tiny withdrawal of a hand, a contraction even of a finger at the moment of contact—any one of these might have passed unnoticed by Zelide, yet anyone might have had a fatal termination.

  In short, the Rose brothers had been in a perfect position to commit a perfect murder in full view of thousands, and to commit it in such a way that it would look like an accident—an accident for which only the dead man could be held responsible.

  Zelide, being a sensible woman, realized all this. Lina realized it, too. They had both liked Gino and they were further outraged by the desecration of their beloved act. But they both agreed that there was nothing they could do.

  And then Eulalia came to them, outraged on her own account and fulminating suspicions that, to her, were certainties. At first she must have run up against a stone wall, for neither Zelide nor Lina liked Eulalia. Brought up themselves in the closely knit world of the circus, they regarded this society girl as an interloper. They had resented her intimacy with Gino and felt that she had been bad for him, both as a man and as an artist. Probably they also resented the fact that their husbands found her attractive.

  One can picture the first conference between the three women, who were united only in their common sense of outrage. One can savor its atmosphere of secrecy—for that was essential to them all—of warring emotions, common dislikes and distrusts. One can picture the swift glances that pass between Lina and Zelide as they silently ask each other whether they care, or dare, to confide in this alien girl their own dark suspicions of their husbands. One can feel their dislike and distrust mounting as Eulalia crashes on with her own story. One can realize how hopeless it must have seemed to them ever to work together in full co-operation.

  But there was another female who had been outraged by Gino’s untimely death. Her suspicions were stronger even than Eulalia’s certainties, for they were based on even keener instincts—an animal’s. I refer, of course, to Edwina, the elephant. She had been swift to avenge the death of her beloved. She had rushed out to attack the White Rose immediately after the disaster and had succeeded in breaking his collar-bone. A few days later she hurled herself at the Red Rose as he passed near her pen, and only his agility in swarming up a nearby post saved him from annihilation.

  Edwina was convinced, and she had the courage of her convictions. Zelide assured me quite positively that it was Edwina’s certitude (and perhaps fortitude) that strengthened the hand of the three wavering women and somehow consolidated them into unity.

  Finally, after several more conferences, they conceived a plan.

  And here I should point out that it took considerable courage and determination to do what they did, for the obstacles in their paths must have seemed almost insurmountable.

  They really had nothing to go on except their female intuitions. Tangible evidence was out of the question. Even to show that the brothers had entertained feelings of malice towards Gino was well-nigh impossible. The two Roses had never committed any overt act against their younger partner. They had always been outwardly friendly during his lifetime and they acted with sorrowful decorum after his death. The stomach pains suffered by Gino, the mysterious night assault, proved nothing at all. Even the fight, which might have been adduced as malice-making, had ended in handshakes all around and renewed professions of comradeship. Ludwig and Bruno, industrious, assiduous Prussians that they were, had covered their tracks perfectly. As for Edwina and her trumpetings—those could be laughed off as the senile acts of a crotchety and unpredictable pachyderm.

  There was only one way—and that the most difficult—to prove that the Roses had acted deliberately and with malice. This was to obtain from one, or both, of them a confession.

  But the close-mouthed Ludwig, the cunning Bruno, having attained their desired end, were hardly likely to oblige with an admission of guilt. It had to be tricked out of them somehow.

  And there was one weak spot, one chink in the Roses’ armorplating; and it was here that the three women decided to attack. This point, or Achilles’ heel as we might call it, was Ludwig’s infatuation for Eulalia, which, since it was unsatisfied, smoldered with ever-intenser heat. The leading role fell to Eulalia, therefore, and a very unpleasant one it must have been.

  She faced it squarely and with fortitude. First of all she abandoned any appearance of grief for the dead Gino. She was gay and inviting, letting it be known that she was by no means inconsolable. She even hinted publicly in front of Zelide, who whispered it to her husband, that the young Italian’s virility was not all it might have been.

  One does not care to speculate on the exact lengths to which Miss Crawford was obliged to go. Let it suffice that she soon had Ludwig eating out of her hand. Whether, when it finally came to the point, she relied on the tongue-loosening effect of passion to gain her desired ends, or whether—and there would be poetic justice in this—she preferred the tongue-loosening effect of benzedrine, we will not inquire. Anyhow, by flattery, cajolery, and subtle denigrations of Gino, she gained Ludwig’s confidence completely and finally managed to maneuver him into a situation where, with Lina and Zelide concealed within hearing range, she induced him to confess, nay to boast, about the measures that he and Bruno had taken to eliminate their unfortunate partner. Once having started to talk, Ludwig said enough to put a rope around both his own neck and his brother’s. And Lina and Zelide were in a position to hear every word.

  He bragged—and here I have Zelide’s positive testimony—that he and his brother first experimented with mixing ground glass into Gino’s food, but this was abandoned as being too “sissy” [sic]. The night attack, which was made on the impulse of an intoxicated moment, was more manly according to Ludwig’s standards, but too imprudent according to Bruno’s. It was Bruno who thought of substituting benzedrine pills for the sodamint which Gino had been taking ever since the glass experiments. The idea had come to him from a newspaper article describing how benzedrine affected muscular control and accuracy of aim in certain forms of athletics. And then, during the act, Ludwig
was to make certain by…

  Unfortunately Zelide never heard exactly what they had planned for Ludwig to do during the act. She could bear it no longer. Trembling with indignation, she burst from her hiding place, dragging Lina after her. As she faced her husband, he must have realized at once how he had been trapped.

  “Never, never I forget his face,” cried Zelide as she recounted the story to me. “It was black like Satan and snarling like a tiger. His eyes were bloody …”

  His actions, too, were bloody. With the savagery of a tiger he launched an attack upon the girls. He crashed his fist into Zelide’s face, knocked Lina down, and plunged murderous fingers into Eulalia’s throat. The screams of the women, ironically enough, brought not the help they needed, but an ally for Ludwig in Bruno, who was never far absent. Sensing what had happened and, infected by his brother’s fury (here, perhaps, we have a true case of a folie à deux) he joined in the cowardly attack. Unable to use his hands because of his broken collar-bone, he availed himself of his feet and kicked his prostrate wife so brutally that she sustained an injury to the hipbone which has prevented her from ever performing again.

  Help came at last, but only just in time. When the Roses had been finally overpowered, it was found that, in addition to Lina’s damaged hip, Zelide had a fractured jaw and Eulalia was within a hair’s breadth of death from strangulation.

  These injuries, shocking as they were, served at least one useful purpose. They enabled the police to hold the Rose brothers in custody until the three women were recovered enough to bring charges against them for conspiracy to murder Gino Forelli.

  And, in due time, they did.

  I now come to the least satisfactory part of this history. It is unsatisfactory because legal details are, by their very nature, uninteresting. Also, it is unsatisfactory to me because it is the only part of my narrative where I have neither full understanding nor complete documentation. The ethics of the legal profession prevented me from questioning the attorneys, for either the prosecution or the defense. Consequently, since I am unversed in the niceties of the law, I can only offer a layman’s interpretation of the concepts which underlay the legal actions of both parties.