Mayhem, Mystery and Murder

by John A. Broussard

  The familiar voice was reassurance even as Lauder looked over his shoulder out of the phone booth. No explanation was necessary. It was enough that Lauder wanted to see him. “Sure, Cord. I can’t get away right now. There’s a client in my office, but come on over. There’s always coffee on.”

  The coffee was on and tasted as though it had been on since first thing that morning. Even so, Lauder felt he couldn’t have too much of the bitter brew. It was helping to clear his head. Perhaps, just perhaps, the caffeine would flush out some memories from the night before.

  And if the voice had been reassuring, the presence was even more so. Where Lauder was tall, and now thin from his alcohol diet, Krosniak was medium in height and solidly stocky. Sitting behind the mahogany desk he gave off an aura not only of success but also of confidence—confidence in being able to deliver on his promises. With Lauder, today, he made no promises. Mainly he listened.

  “Could I see the note?” was the first question he asked after Lauder had finished.

  Handing it over, Lauder commented, “I hadn’t thought about it, but maybe there are fingerprints.”

  Krosniak grinned, as he smoothed the paper. “I’m sure there are. All yours, Cord. How may times did you read it? How much did you handle it? Crumple it up? The envelope might have helped but, as you said, it’s long gone.”

  A gloomy nod.

  “Well, whoever it is doesn’t know you’re here,” Krosniak went on cheerfully. “And won’t know you’re staying the night at my place.”

  “I appreciate the offer.”

  “It’s more than an offer. As of this moment you’re my client, and this is part of the protection program. We’ll stop by Chin Lee’s for takeout, then head out to the apartment. I suppose what you have on is all the clothes you have. I’ll drop by your house after dinner and pick up some underwear and stuff.”

  Krosniak’s apartment was large, comfortable, and reflected the interests of someone who had spent over a dozen years in security and investigative work. Lauder smiled at the enormous collection of true-crime stories on shelves lining an entire wall. His own current predicament seemed minor compared to the lives described in the cover blurbs on the volumes he randomly checked while Krosniak was off collecting some fresh clothes for his guest.

  “Did Moneta ask about me?” Lauder could hear the plaintive quality in his voice on Krosniak’s return.

  “Uh-uh.”

  Lauder didn’t push.

  A shower, a shave, a clean set of underwear and one of his other suits did much to make the world seem a better place. But there was still something missing. He didn’t mention it to Krosniak.

  The latter surveyed the results and nodded approval. “You up to doing a little investigating?”

  “Tonight?”

  “The trail is warm and there may still be traces of scent. That’s when it’s best to start sniffing.”

  “Where do we start?”

  “I’m open to suggestions. Can you remember anything? The bar, or bars, you were in?”

  Lauder shook his head.

  “Then maybe we’d better start with what you do remember.”

  “The hotel?”

  “Right.”

  As they drove back through the night, Lauder became increasingly uneasy. The apartment had been a haven. Now, more than ever, he felt he needed something to bolster his courage. He said nothing.

  The woman behind the desk was busy applying a metallic-green polish to her fingernails. Fortunately, the two arrived at drying time, so she could give them some measure of attention as she blew through her fingers.

  After identifying himself, Krosniak did the talking. “Did someone come in here last night and leave a letter for my friend, here?”

  She shrugged as she looked at Lauder. “I don’t remember your friend. He must have come in before I got on. I came on late, last night. The old man kicked up a fuss, but he likes to hear his head rattle.”

  “Did anyone leave a letter here last night for anyone?”

  “Yeah. Some guy. He wasn’t anyone staying here. He just came in and handed me the letter.”

  “What did he look like?”

  “I dunno. Didn’t really look at him.”

  “Then?”

  She frowned, waved her hands in the air for a final drying. “He said it was for room 205. So I put it in the pigeonhole.” A green thumbnail pointed vaguely over her shoulder.

  Lauder gasped and said to Krosniak, “I was on the third floor.”

  Krosniak grinned and asked the girl who was now reaching under the counter for a magazine, “Could I look at your register?”

  “Why not?” A set of green fingernails twirled the ledger around for the pair to examine.

  A Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Smith had occupied 205 on the previous night.

  “They still there?”

  Green Fingernails found the question amusing. She pointed further down the ledger to where it showed the room had been vacated that morning and reoccupied briefly by someone else that afternoon.

  Later, back at the apartment, Lauder found his way around to the subject he’d known he would have come to sooner or later. “When’s your next AA meeting, Hal?”

  “Sunday noon. No guarantees, you know.”

  “No guarantees, I know.”

  “There’s something else, Cord.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I farm out our bookkeeping and accounting. I could bring it in-house and come out ahead. Care to work for a private eye?”

  Lauder smiled. “I can think of worse things. In fact I think I’ve already been through something much worse. Do you still have that note, by the way?”

  “Yup.” As he spoke, he took out his wallet and handed over the creased and folded paper.

  Lauder spread it out on the coffee table, tried to press out some of the creases and then reread the words. “I don’t suppose there’s any way of ever locating Joseph Smith and warning him, is there?”

  “No, but don’t sweat it. It’s only in crime novels that people get notes telling them they’re going to be killed before they really are. This was just a warning to him… or to Mrs. Smith.”

  “You didn’t tell me it was just a warning.”

  “Well, for one thing there was no guarantee that this couldn’t have been the exception.”

  “For one thing? What else?”

  “When you took it at face value, it did seem to make you take a good look at yourself. I didn’t want to spoil that effect.”

  There was just the trace of a smile on Lauder’s face as he read the words once more, then carefully folded the note and placed it in his wallet. “You’re right. I’ll keep it as a reminder. Maybe take it out and read it now and then when the going gets rough.”

  MY BROTHER, THE CLOWN

  Fred didn’t run away to the circus. He went off to clown school, with Dad’s blessing. I think the old man really thought Fred had made a better choice than I had when I joined the police force.

  But that was a lot of years ago, and now Fred’s circus was coming to town. Most people these days, what with television, don’t even know that there are still some traveling circuses. They don’t measure up to the Barnum and Bailey heydays, of course, and they look more like glorified carnivals than the old big tops. But the kids still get a kick out of them.

  Fred took me out to see the lot while the crew was setting up. He introduced me around as chief of the town’s police force, not mentioning that the whole force consists of five officers, and that includes me.

  I was surprised to see how big the spread was. It covered most of Hank Jones’ twelve-acre fallow. The tent was still deflated, but the semis that hauled The Mighty M from town to town had been unloaded and were neatly parked. The individual trailers, small, dilapidated affairs, each with a single wooden step up to the door and hitched to beat-up cars, were home to the performers and were off at the edge of the field. The crew was busy slapping together the booths, and the air resounded to the sound of sledge
s, the loud bantering of the workers and the barking of the circus dogs.

  Fred was going to take me over to see Mary, his wife, but thought better of it when we approached their trailer. “She’s probably napping,” he said. “She’s got two shows to do today,” he added, mostly in explanation, but maybe in apology, too.

  I’d met Mary only once—at the wedding. I’d actually been Fred’s best man. But I didn’t have much feeling about Mary one way or the other. Of course, I just hadn’t been around her long enough to form an opinion. She was slender, but obviously athletic, as her performances required. She smiled, said little, and I couldn’t gauge much about her intelligence, or any of the rest of her personality, for that matter. She did strike me as being a fussbudget, as she went around straightening pictures and generally tidying up the house on the one day she spent with us. Of course, I have to admit that Dad and I didn’t exactly keep a neat household after Mom died, so that didn’t tell me much.

  Dad was still alive back then at the time of the wedding, and he’d made up his mind. At the reception after the ceremony, he muttered an aside to me. “Fred’s bought himself a peck of trouble, today.” We never talked about Mary again.

  I managed to meet just about everyone connected with the Mighty M. The juggler was a morose little man, with an indifferent handshake that matched his attitude. The bicycle rider was a muscular Charles Atlas, heavy on tattoos. And there was the horse trainer, a string of acrobats, and then I lost count. I did meet Mr. M. himself, who I would have thought was the circus fat man if Fred hadn’t already told me that freaks were a thing of the past. Mike Martin must have weighed at least three-fifty. He was standing outside his Air Stream. No shabby second-hand trailers for him. My hand, which isn’t exactly tiny, was lost in his big mitt. “Glad to meet you Chief,” he said. “I hope you enjoy the show. We’re going to knock ourselves out for Fred’s home-town audience.”

  I really hadn’t expected to enjoy the show, but I did. Fred, especially, was top-notch. He had that startling talent of the mime to be able to do so much with so very little. The opening act hushed the audience as the spotlight centered on someone who seemed quite small at that distance, though I knew that Fred had an inch or so advantage over my own six-feet. The baggy-trousered, flappy-footed figure swept invisible dust into an invisible dustpan then spilled the contents as he was attacked by an imaginary fly who managed to evade the wild swings of the broom. The children in the audience were in ecstasy. The laughter was contagious, and I caught myself joining in, along with most of the adults.

  Fred figured in many of the other acts. The bicycle rider came hurtling into the ring on an elaborate contraption, making circles around the clown, who was desperately twisting his head to keep up with the gyrations. The cyclist’s simulated arrogance and his contempt for the befuddled figure on foot quickly moved the audience to sympathy for the creature in the baggy costume. And then the rider removed the handlebars and tossed them to the clown. More and more pieces of the contraption followed. The high point was the removal of the front wheel, in the midst of frantic peddling. Despite themselves, the audience cheered the unicyclist as he made the circle of the ring, ramrod straight. But the cheers grew even louder when the bundle of baggy clothes and flapping feet resurrected the cast-offs and was suddenly in a wild chase on his own unicycle after the astonished rider. To loud applause, the pair went pell-mell off into the wings.

  I felt the interaction between the clown and the juggler was nothing short of superb. The cheers from the appreciative audience encouraged the juggler to add more and more balls to the ones he flung so effortlessly into the air and caught with even greater ease. The clown sidled up to him, substituting an orange for one of the balls. The juggler kicked out at him, still never missing a beat. Then an altercation and a decision to juggle flaming torches. The clown would light one, but it would go out as soon as the juggler tossed it. And then another and yet another meeting the same fate. The crowd was amused at the juggler’s frustration. Then the clown lit three torches simultaneously and juggled them with studied ease. The crowd roared in appreciation of the clown’s newfound talent and at the discomfiture of the professional juggler.

  I felt Fred was by far the best part of the show. But the dog act was good, too. The recalcitrant little mutt who performed independently from his fellow canines and brought exasperated gestures from the trainer captured the fancy of the audience.

  And Mary was excellent. Her first act had come on early in the show. The big white gelding who paced the circle with clock-like precision was definitely a crucial part of Mary’s performance, but there was also no question but that she was one of the best of her breed. Right from the first effortless run across the ring and the graceful leap to the broad white back, Mary kept me and the rest of her audience enthralled. Her companion, a slender male figure, lacked her poise, but helped to complement her flawless performance.

  The two hours went swiftly. The final ten minutes, with all the performers going through their acts in the crowded circle, built to a climax. Applause rang out as the lights dimmed. But Fred’s act now seemed to lack something. I caught him eyeing the pacing white horse being ridden only by the male rider.

  I probably responded the way I did because Fred and I had always been close as kids. We’d been able to almost read each other’s minds. Now I was positive he was thinking something was wrong, so I slipped out quickly to beat the crowd. Within minutes the performers were scattering out to their living quarters, some with admiring kids trailing behind them.

  Fred and Mary’s trailer was near the end of the line. As I moved in its general direction, the juggler joined me. His morose expression had changed to concern. “You looking for Mary, too? That’s not like her, she’s never missed an act since I’ve known her. Must be sick, or something.”

  I carefully avoided the broken wooden step and knocked on the trailer door. The juggler stood back and watched me. No response. I knocked again, and then swung open the door. There, right inside, was Mary’s body—unquestionably a body. My occupation had long ago brought death and me together on familiar terms. A quick call on my cell phone to Jerry Wills, my second in command—who I’d seen in the audience—brought him running along with others who joined the collection of curious spectators. Emerging from the tent in the distance I could see the circus clown, hesitating, then kicking off his flip-flops and rushing headlong toward me and the trailer.

  There wasn’t any question about my role. Hank’s pastureland wasn’t even in my jurisdiction, and I wouldn’t have done the investigation even if it had been, so the first thing I did was to call the sheriff. Even so, I knew I had to gather whatever information I could during those important first minutes after a murder. And it was a murder. Even my quick examination revealed that Mary had been strangled. I hadn’t been watching the clock, but I was certain she couldn’t have left the ring after her second performance more than a half-hour before I found her.

  Suspects? Husbands are always the primary suspects. Questioning only two or three of the crew provided Fred with motive enough. His powerful hands, which I’d seen him use all too effectively on fellow schoolmates back in schoolyard days, were more than adequate means. And, like all the other performers, he had plenty of breaks between his acts. Any of those breaks would have provided the needed opportunity.

  But could Fred actually have done something like that? I had to admit that if he’d become angry enough, it was a real possibility, a possibility the sheriff would have to evaluate. The bicycle rider had provided the same damning information as others had given me, only he did it more vehemently. He’d been unequivocal in his description of Mary. “Maybe she didn’t screw every guy in the crew, but I’ll bet she didn’t miss many.”

  While waiting for the sheriff, I decided to check out the trailer. At my request, Jerry joined me, agreeing that it would be a good idea for me not to be alone with what might be incriminating evidence—evidence incriminating Fred.

  We carefully
stepped around the still form as I surveyed the ten-by-fifteen trailer. I could see no positive signs of a struggle, but a salt shaker had tumbled over and spilled part of its contents on the drop-table that crowded the already cramped quarters. An empty saucepan that had obviously fallen from the apartment-size stove lay upside down on the floor. Otherwise, nothing seemed noticeably out of place. Fred would have to view the scene and make the final assessment.

  It was when I was stepping over the freshly broken step that the first glimmer of light broke through the clouds. I put one of my newly-arrived officers in charge of keeping the curious away from the trailer, and headed off to Mr. M’s Air Stream.

  Afterwards, the sheriff asked me what tipped me off.

  “I guess the first thing was the state of the trailer. I remembered that Mary was a fussbudget. She would never have just let a salt shaker lie on its side, or a pan sit on the floor. Except for that, the inside of the trailer was neat as a pin. Some clumsy oaf must have accounted for the two exceptions to the orderliness. But the clincher was the broken step. It hadn’t been broken when I saw it before the show. So I asked myself how that could have happened. Three hundred and fifty pounds of circus owner seemed like a very likely answer.

  “Catching him off-guard the way you did, and when you did, made it a lot simpler for us,” the Sheriff said. “I’m convinced that reading him his rights right off scared him into admitting what he’d done. You didn’t give him time to recover from killing her. And now he’s signed a complete confession.

  “He went into the trailer when she answered his knock. But when that bulk of his started knocking things around in those cramped little quarters, I think it was that more than the fact that he was figuring on getting some of what everyone else had been getting that made her mad. She called him a fat slob, told him to get out in no uncertain terms. It was too much for him. He’d been wanting some of that from the first day she joined the circus. Her not only rejecting him but insulting him and laughing at him was the last straw. When he stormed out after killing her, just like you figured, that was when he broke the step.”