OFFICIAL PAPERWORK OR not, sir, I am the Great Rivorsky, and that is how I wish my name to be recorded. That’s R-i-v – but I see you’re already familiar with the spelling from the posters. How rewarding. Though perhaps you’d be kind enough to cross out the words no fixed abode in the address line. The phrase smacks of gypsies, tramps and circus performers, whereas my show is a reputable spectacular that just happens to tour Europe on a continual basis. An extravaganza of mystery, magic and illusion that has performed in all the major cities, and in front of royalty on more occasions than I care to count.
Indeed, our last such performance was before Archduke Ferdinand and his charming wife, Sophie, last year in Vienna, and take it from me, Inspector, His Grace’s proposals to grant ethnic minorities independence will guarantee him a long and glittering future. Unlike your own King Edward. How is his Majesty’s health, by the way? Still shaky? We played for him in Biarritz not long after his mother died, and he was chesty even then. Indeed, half the audience thought the smoke from his cigars was part of the act, and it certainly made Pepé disappear. Sick as a dog behind the stage door he was, but then Pepé is a dwarf. Working the wires from the ceiling, he was subjected to the full force of the royal smoke as it rose. And though there is only half as much of him as the rest of us, he seems to be doubly absorbant when it comes to toxic pollution.
So you see, no fixed abode gives quite the wrong impression, and while we’re about it, I wish to make clear that it is not customary for us to sleep in caravans and operate out of a marquee. Dear me, no. The Great Rivorsky? Working out of a tent? But after that unfortunate incident during rehearsals in Amsterdam – you did not hear?
It all came about when the fire-eater coughed at an inopportune moment, causing the curtains of the backdrop to catch light. The props immediately fell victim to flames, and of course our boxes are wood and we can’t have our contortionist squeezing herself into unseasoned timber, can we? To cut a long story short, Inspector, the theatre became an inferno before you could blink, and what else could an impresario do? With a troupe to pay and suddenly no income to cover the disbursement, my only option was to hop across the Channel and stage a series of impromptu shows.
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 love affair 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. Blonde 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 blonde 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. 28 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—
Hm. A rather unfortunate expression, given the circumstances, so I shall quickly skip on.
From the moment I saw how Carla had not only positioned her pitch to catch those who flocked to the clock, but also 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 black board 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 blonde hair is 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 practise, practise, practise, 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 account 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 saying. 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 like me to return them.
***
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 blonde 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 on 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 lukewarm dislike is hardly a motive for murder!
So then. We’ve ruled out love, hate, jealousy, greed, and 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 this up 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 per cent 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 in to the Rivorsky wagon, remove Carla’s gown and at the same time taking 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 sequinned 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 smoke-screen 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 also 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 home town, as it happens.
I must say, I feel partly 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.