Death from Nowhere (9 page)

A four-piece negro band on the stage swung into action. A buxom coffee colored singer swayed her hips and sailed into what she may have thought was a song of the Old South but which sounded a lot more like
The Boogie Woogie Blues.

Leatherlung Mike stepped down from the platform and came toward Horseshoe and his companions. “Hello, Kid,” he grinned. “Where have you been keeping yourself all this time?”

“Oh, I've been around, Mike,” Horseshoe said. “I'd like you to meet some friends of mine.” He introduced Pat, Mickey and Chan. Pointing to Woody he said, “This is Don Diavolo, the Scarlet Wizard. Maybe you've heard of him. He vanishes elephants and stuff.”

Mike pumped Woody's hand. “Yes, of course. Read about your elephant stunt in Billboard. I'd like to see it some time. We've got a few bulls out in the menagerie. Don't suppose you could give us an impromptu demonstration?”

“Why sure,” Woody replied unexpectedly. “Any time at all. Glad to.”

The Horseshoe Kid blinked. He knew that Woody's skill at conjuring consisted solely of one or two simple tricks with matches.

Then Woody covered himself. “Vanish them all for you,” he said. “Your boss might object, though. I haven't figured out yet how to bring them back again. When I vanish them they stay vanished.”

Horseshoe cut in quickly before Woody should be asked to demonstrate some more practical feat of sleight of hand. “And this,” he said, indicating Don, “is Woody Haines, star reporter for the
New York Press.
He's got an assignment to do a series of circus articles. He'd like to interview some of the performers. I thought maybe you could fix it for us.”

Mike nodded. “Sure. Doc Whipple's the man to see. He's the fixer and he runs the outfit when R.J.'s not on the lot. But you'd better wait until I can take you back. Doc's a bit touchy tonight and he might bite. I'll be tied up here for awhile yet. Why don't you all go in and catch the show for a bit until I can get away. Then—”

“What's wrong with Whipple?” Horseshoe put in. “He hasn't been having cop trouble, I hope? I heard there wasn't any grift on this outfit this season.”

“That's right,” Mike replied. “But we had a run-in with the law just the same. The fuzz in this town is poison. The chief of police hit the lot this noon with a damage suit some towner has been nursing ever since we played here last year. He attached the day's gate and threw Doc in the cooler just to make sure he collected and the show didn't move out from under. Miss Powers got Doc sprung just a little while ago. Took all the afternoon gate and part of tonight's advance ticket sale to make the bond. Whipple's fit to be tied. And besides that I saw Colonel Van Orman blow in a few minutes ago.”

“Van Orman? What's that mean? The Mighty Van Orman Combined Shows playing this territory, too?”

“I'll say so. We've been scrapping for the same stands all the way down through New England. And when the Colonel arrived he was asking for Doc and spitting fire. He says R.J.'s advance crew has been tearing his paper.
4
But it's six of one and half a dozen of the other. We caught a punk on the lot day before yesterday playing a mouth organ. My hunch is that Van Orman put him up to it.”

“You are having your troubles, aren't you?” Horseshoe said. “Sounds like old times.” Then, seeing the bewilderment on his companions' faces, he explained. “A mouth organ on a circus lot is the worst kind of bad luck. Leaving a hat on a bed, whistling in the padroom, a band that plays
Home Sweet Home
any time except the last show of the season — they're all bad, but playing a mouth organ is worse.

“If Van Orman put someone up to that it means he's trying to give the performers the jitters. That's bad because if you're trying to do a back somersault from horse to horse, or a two-and-a-half to a catch by the legs in the flying act, and you expect an accident to happen — it probably will.”

“That,” Don Diavolo said, “gives me a lead for an article. Circus superstitions.” He turned to Mike. “I'd like to do one on the sideshow, too, especially your Leopard Man. Is he the real McCoy?”

Mike nodded. “He is. Captain Schneider who works our cat act brought him back from India. Picked him up on one of his ‘Bring 'Em Back Conscious' expeditions.”

“Haven't you gilded the lilly a bit though, Mike? Chan here knows India pretty well and he's never seen a leopard mask like that before.”

Mike grinned. “Well, maybe I did a bit. But you don't need to print that. Schneider says the leopard men are supposed to be able to turn themselves into leopards or something of the sort. But that's sort of a tall one to get the customers to believe. So I got R.J. to get his Outdoor Amusement Supply Company to fix me up that leopard head mask and the claws. It gives the act a little punch.”

“What about the heads? Are they window dressing, too?”

“Yes and no,” Mike answered. “One of them is the real thing. The others are papier mâché. When I tell 'em that Naga has killed a couple of dozen people I've got to have more than one measly head to make it sound good.”

“I see,” Don said. “Sideshow performers don't have much free time during a day, do they?”

Mike shook his head. “No, hardly. This is a grind show. We run a crowd through every time we get one together and the acts have to be on deck. We give two performances before the big show starts, one or maybe two while it's going on, another after it blows, and on the come-out after the concert—”

Diavolo interrupted. “What time is the main show over in the afternoon?”

“Five o'clock.”

“And Naga was on his platform all this afternoon?”

Mike frowned. “Yes. But why—”

“Did he have that leopard paw glove of his?”

Mike's frown deepened. These questions, even from a reporter, sounded a bit odd. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, “He had it, but I don't see—” Mike turned his head as the negro band music came to a sudden stop. “I've got to give 'em the fat woman and the knife throwing act yet. Then I'll be with you. But why do you ask if—”

“I write detective stories in my spare time,” Don said quickly. “I just had an idea for a circus murder. Your leopard man would make a good suspect and I was wondering if he'd have time to sneak out for a murder or two. But it looks as if you keep him too busy. I'll have to think of something else. But thanks for the information.”

“Sure,” Mike said. “Don't mention it.” He left them, puzzled and not completely satisfied with the explanation.

To the others Diavolo said, “We can't wait for him. This is rush. And I see trouble ahead. If the afternoon show was still in progress at four forty-five when Hagenbaugh.…” He stopped, frowned, and added, “Come on. We'll take a chance on Whipple.”

Don lifted the sidewall and held it as the others ducked under. Then they started across the lot toward the lighted expanse of the big top, toward the “backyard' where a line of trailers and trucks were drawn up facing the entrance the performers used in going in to the arena and the rings.

The brassy blare of the big top band told them that the performance was in full swing. As they approached the music changed, a whistle shrilled, and a swaying line of elephants emerged and moved off toward the menagerie.

Then Horseshoe pointed toward two men standing near the entrance. “There's Van Orman now,” he said. “By the backdoor. The peppery little bird in the ten-gallon hat. He looks mad.”

He sounded mad, too. He hopped up and down and waved his arms like a windmill in a high gale. “Whipple,” he spluttered at the lean gloomy-faced individual before him, “if those hyenas on your advance don't leave my paper alone, I'm going to show Hagenbaugh what opposition really is! And you don't need to yell if somebody gets hurt. You can tell that double-crossing, four-flushing son of a spavined camel for me that—”

Whipple took a long stogie from his pocket, angrily bit off the end, spit it out nearly in the little man's face and drawled with apparent but deceptive calmness, “Go tell him yourself, Colonel. And get the blazes off this lot! I'm beginning to have a damned good notion who was behind the shakedown we were handed today, and if I could prove it—”

Two husky working-men suddenly materialized, one on either side of Van Orman. “Okay, boss,” one of them said. “Maybe you better mosey along.”

“Why you — you—” The colonel, purple in the face, stuttered, snorted, shook his fist once under Whipple's nose and, turning, started to stomp off.

Don Diavolo said, “Just a minute! Colonel. I want to see you.”

The colonel stopped. “You want … Who the devil are you?”

Don addressed his answer to Whipple. “The name's Haines. Reporter for the
New York Press.
I thought you might appreciate a word of warning. The cops are going to be on your neck again any minute. And instead of throwing Van Orman off the lot, perhaps you'd better hang on to him.”

Whipple stared at him. “What—?”

Don Diavolo had decided that perhaps a sudden bombing attack might be the quickest way to get the information he needed. “Because,” he said, “Van Orman's got a motive. Hagenbaugh was murdered this afternoon!”

The little group around the entrance stared at him dumbly. Inside the tent the music of the band blared a lilting sprightly waltz. A group of baggy-trousered, flap-footed clowns hurried past into the arena.

Don threw a flying squadron of words at his listeners. Somehow, within the next few minutes, he had to get authority to ask the needed questions.

“I'm after a story,” he said. “I'm following a lead that says the murderer is on this show. There'll be cops here any minute saying the same thing. If you can hand them the killer when they arrive, you'll have a chance to move this show in the morning. Otherwise, it'll sit here until they get through investigating. Whipple, if you get me the answers to some questions, I may be able to swing it for you.”

The circus manager eyed him suspiciously. “I don't believe it,” he said. “How do I know—”

“You don't know,” Diavolo said quickly. “But you will when the police get here. I want to know if any member of this show was absent from the lot this afternoon. Who can tell me?”

This continued insistence on police seemed to make an impression on Whipple. He hesitated a moment, then turned and shouted, “Schneider! Come here a minute.”

Captain Schneider was a wiry, dynamic young man dressed in a military coat of scarlet, white riding breeches, and shiny black boots. He wore a whistle on a cord around his neck and he carried a cane.

“Schneider doubles as equestrian director,” Whipple said. “Captain, did any of the acts miss the matinee show?”

Schneider shook his head. “No. Everybody worked. Why?”

Don said, “Most of them double in more than one spot, don't they?”

“Sure. All except Belmonte. He's a feature—”

“He was through at what time this afternoon?” Don cut in.

“Two-thirty,” Schneider answered. “He asked to go on early.” Schneider turned to Whipple. “Say, Doc, what is this?”

“It's trouble,” Diavolo answered. It was too. He didn't like the answers he was getting at all. Don had never quite believed the tight-wire walker theory he had thrown at Inspector Church in an effort to distract attention from himself. And now, if what Schneider said was correct, all the performers except Belmonte were alibied. Anyone who had worked the show later than three o'clock couldn't have been in New York at four forty-five.

“What about the sideshow?” Don asked Whipple. “Everybody on deck there, too?”

“I'd have heard about it if they weren't,” Whipple replied. “When did—”

“I want to see Belmonte,” Don said. “Quick.”

“Now just a minute,” Whipple objected. “I want to know more about this. You bust in here with a tall story and a lot of questions and—”

In the distance Don Diavolo heard the rising whine of a police siren.

“Hear that, Whipple?” he said. “Schneider, where is Belmonte?”

The Captain, taking his cue from Whipple, did not answer. But he didn't need to. From the inside of the big top at that moment the announcer's voice came, thundering through the amplifiers: “
And now, ladies and gentlemen, high above Ring No. 3 Hagenbaugh & Powers present an incredibly hazardous exhibition of high-wire balancing by that Dare Devil of the upper air
, The Great Belmonte!”

Woody Haines, from where he stood on the edge of the gathering crowd that encircled Diavolo and the others, could see straight into the big top through the entrance. He saw Belmonte, a slender brightly costumed figure, bow to the applause, lift the heavy balancing pole, and then run with light confident steps out upon the nearly invisible slender steel strand.

He was like a man walking in air — for a moment.

Then Woody broke into a run; the music of the band faltered, caught itself and went on; a long shuddering gasp came from the crowd; a woman screamed!

Belmonte, no more than six feet from his platform, had suddenly pitched forward into space. The pole in his hands hit the wire and bounced sideways in a wild swinging arc. Then it dropped. Belmonte's figure still clung to it.

There was no net beneath.