Page 28 - The Gluckman Occasional Number One
P. 28

an  outsider  to  settle  a  terribly  serious  matter  that  is  troubling  us:
         murder.”
           “Eh? Who was murdered?” Trixie perked up a bit.
           “Poor Provornin,” said Stellanova.
           “Well,” said the dog with a jagged grin, “that’s one less mouth to
         feed.”
           “Fool!” squeaked another voice, Raskeloff’s. “Be serious! We must
         know if one of us killed him deliberately. We are a close-knit group:
         we cannot go on with this awful cloud of suspicion hanging over
         each of us.”
           “Yes,” continued Karpechki, “our performance is suffering.  None
         of us is objective enough to figure out what happened. So we are
         asking you to look at the case. If there is a murderer among us, he—
         or she—must be punished.”
           Trixie thought of all the wonderful ways a flea could be punished.
         She yawned. “Oh, very well, go ahead. But don’t all talk at once: I’ve
         got a hangover.”
           Karpechki  was  the  first  to  speak.  “It  happened  yesterday,  at  the
         first  matinee.  We  each  have  our  own  specialty  acts,  you  know:
         pushing  a  tiny  baby  carriage,  juggling  bits  of  confetti,  doing
         somersaults  on  a  thimble,  and  so  on.  Only  a  couple  of  numbers
         require  us  to  act  in  concert.  It  was  during  one  of  those  that  the
         tragedy occurred.”
           “Wait a minute,” said the dog. “How many of you were involved in
         this trick?”
           “We all were, either as acrobats or as spotters,” Karpechki replied.
         “Here is how it worked: I rolled over on my back and Raskeloff here
         tossed a small steel ball onto my feet. It’s painted bright pink and
         yellow, so the audience can’t miss it. I started spinning it with my
         feet,  as  fast  as  I  could.  Meanwhile  Gurmovnik  was  getting  into
         position at a pre-arranged spot. As soon as he was ready, his spotter,
         Stellanova, signaled Raskeloff, who still stood by my side. Raskeloff,
         in turn, made sure that I was in my stride, and gave a sign to the
         ringmaster, who blew his whistle.  At that moment I launched the
         pellet into the air with a mighty hind-legged kick.”
           “And that in fact is what happened?” asked Trixie, brow knitted in
         concentration.
           “Yes, of course. We had done that routine dozens of times before.
         This time, however, Gurmovnik was not at the other end: Provornin
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