The Language of Cannibals

by George C. Chesbro

  “You want to know who she’s seeing?”

  Bruno shook his massive head. “I know who she’s seein’. Half the time they meet right in front of me.”

  I winced. “It’s not as hard as it used to be to get a divorce, Bruno. At least not in this state. All you have to do is establish some kind of residence, then state your grounds. You don’t have to prove adultery. I have a friend who’s a lawyer—”

  “You don’t understand,” Bruno said sharply. “I don’t want a divorce. I love Bethel, and I want us to stay together.”

  “You know who she’s seeing, and you don’t want a divorce. Why do you want a private detective?”

  It might have been a hint of impatience in my voice, or simply what Bruno considered my stupidity. In any case, he nailed me with his eyes in that way only an intensely gentle man can manage. “I didn’t say I wanted a private detective, Mongo. I said I thought maybe you could help me. As a friend.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “Go ahead.”

  “Last winter in camp we picked up this guy who calls himself Count Anagori. Real good. Works the high wire. Statler saw him at a tryout and signed him on the spot. He’s headlinin’ now.”

  “What’s his real name?”

  “Don’t know. Guess a guy who walks the wire like he does don’t need no other name. Ain’t unusual. I never knew your real name until I saw it under that picture.”

  It figured. Circus people are an insulated group, held together like electrons in an atom by strange, powerful bonds; a man’s name wasn’t one of them.

  “Anyway,” Bruno continued, “Bethel and this count guy hit it off real well together, like I told you. He’s a good-lookin’ man, sure, with lots of manners. But he’s no good for her. Havin’ a fancy European accent doesn’t make you good for a woman. He’s gonna hurt her sooner or later, and I want her to see that. I want her to see what a mistake she’s makin’.”

  “I still don’t understand what you want me to do, Bruno,” I said gently.

  “You got an education. You know all the words. I thought maybe you could talk to her, make her see she’s makin’ a mistake.” The tears in Bruno’s eyes were now a reality, and he made no effort to wipe them away. “Would you do that for me, Mongo?”

  Knowing Bethel, words weren’t going to do much good, but I couldn’t tell that to Bruno. Instead, I told him I’d talk to his wife after the show that evening.

  Bruno’s face brightened. “I’ll leave a ticket for you at the stage door. Best seat in the house.”

  “Then I’ll see you up on the swings?” I wanted to sustain the mood. When I knew him, Bruno had been one of the best catchers around. His smiled faded.

  “Don’t work the trapeze anymore. Got scared. Happened all of a sudden. One day I just couldn’t go up there anymore. Statler hired me as a clown.”

  I was sorry I’d asked.

  Bruno had been right; it looked as if the count was up in the world in more ways than one. His name was on every circus poster in town. It seemed odd to me that a talent like that should have been discovered in a winter tryout camp, but I didn’t give it much thought; the fact that Count Anagori might be a late bloomer didn’t seem to be part of the problem.

  I walked around to the side of Madison Square Garden and went in the stage door; it was like stepping back through time. Charlie Ruler was in a straight-backed chair, riding herd. Charlie was ageless, like an old prop the circus packed away at the end of a run and carried on to the next town. His pale eyes were watery and now almost colorless, but his grip was still strong.

  “Mongo! Bruno said you’d be here but I didn’t believe it! How’s the one and only superdwarf?”

  I grinned and slapped Charlie gently on the back. We talked for a few minutes, and I could hear the house band starting. Charlie got on the phone and a few seconds later Bruno came hurrying down the corridor leading from the arena floor. He was dressed, but the wide grin beneath the paint was real. For a moment I thought he was going to pick me up and whirl me around. He didn’t act like a man whose wife was cheating. He reached for me and I backed away good-naturedly.

  “Easy, Bruno. You have to remember that I’m basically undernourished.”

  “It’s all right, Mongo!” Bruno was practically breathless. “Everything’s all right! Goin’ to see you was the smartest thing I ever did in my life!”

  “I’m flattered, but I haven’t got the slightest idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Bethel!” Bruno absentmindedly put his hand to his mouth. His fingers came away blood red.

  “Take it easy, Bruno. Slow down and tell me what you want to say.”

  “Funny, the way it worked out,” he said, taking a deep breath and slowly letting it out. His joy was like that of a small boy who has won a reprieve from the woodshed. I was beginning to suspect that his shift from catcher to clown might have involved more than a bad case of nerves; heights, over a long period of time, can do funny things to a man’s head, even the best of them. “Right after I talked to you I told Bethel you were comin’ to see her. That’s when she said everything was going to be better.”

  “Just like that.”

  “Well, not exactly. At first she laughed, made fun of both of us. Then she went off to see Anagori.”

  “How do you know that?”

  Bruno flushed. “She always went to meet him that time of day. Anyway, about half an hour later she comes back and tells me she’s sorry. Asks me to forgive her! Can you imagine Bethel asking anybody to forgive her for anything?”

  I couldn’t, but the question was obviously rhetorical. I also couldn’t imagine her having such a rapid change of heart. “What did she look like?”

  “Real pale. Shakin’ like a leaf. Guess it hit her all of a sudden. I’m sorry if I put you to any trouble.”

  “No trouble, Bruno. It’s always good to see an old friend. I’d still like to see Bethel.”

  Bruno looked up sharply. “Why?” His voice was sharp, suspicious, as though the mere suggestion threatened to upset some delicate balance he had made in his mind.

  “Just for old time’s sake,” I said easily. “She was my friend, too.”

  The music was playing louder, and I knew Bruno was supposed to be out on the Garden floor. Bruno knew it, too.

  “Uh, can’t we make it some other time?”

  “You’re folding tomorrow.

  Bruno avoided my eyes and shuffled his feet. The sharpness was gone from his voice, and now he was just a man asking me to understand something he couldn’t understand himself.

  “I’ll spell it out for you, Mongo. Bethel doesn’t want to see you, at least not tonight, not here. I guess maybe she’s ashamed of the circus, now that you’re a college professor and all.”

  “Is that what she said?”

  Bruno shook his head. “I’m just guessin’. I only know she made me promise to tell you not to try to see her tonight. Maybe tomorrow, when she’s not so upset. We’ll both come see you and maybe have a drink together. Okay, Mongo?”

  “Sure.”

  “Mongo, I really feel bad about all—”

  “Forget it,” I said, smiling. “You’d better get in there before Statler has you selling peanuts.”

  I felt like the mouse who’d just removed the thorn from the lion’s foot. Bruno grinned, mumbled something about seeing me again real soon and ran back down the access tunnel to the arena floor. I absentmindedly took my ticket from Charlie, who was discreetly standing back in the shadows, and headed for the seats.

  It was an odd sensation, reentering that world, even as a spectator. People stared at me, as though the circus was the last place they would expect to find a dwarf as one of them. I found the seat Bruno had reserved for me and sat down, cloaking myself in the shadows as the last of the paraders exited and the lights dimmed.

  The first two acts weren’t much by professional standards, and it suddenly occurred to me that perhaps the circus was an outmoded institution in an age of nuclear te
rror, guerrilla warfare in the streets and mass refugee camps that no one could seem to find a way to eliminate. Yet the circus staggered on, and apparently there were enough throwbacks, enough men of skill, to keep it on its feet a little longer. From what I’d heard, the count was one of them. I was anxious to see him perform. His connection with the Jessums only sharpened my anticipation.

  Now the spotlight swung up to the ceiling, glinting off the thin wire strung here, then sweeping back and forth to reveal the platforms to which it was anchored. A balance pole, heavily taped in the middle, was in place, waiting for its master to take it and step out into the air.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Before we bring on the great Count Anagori, let me introduce another great performer, one of the finest circus acrobats of all time, a man who is our guest here tonight. Ladies and gentlemen, let’s have a round of applause for … MONGO THE MAGNIFICENT!”

  The light struck at me like a snake, blinding me. I immediately experienced two conflicting emotions: disgust and elation. Together, they made a heady brew. I slowly stood up and acknowledged the applause, which was surprisingly hearty considering the fact that Mongo the Magnificent is not exactly Richard Burton. For just a moment I experienced yet another emotion that I thought had been purged from my system forever—the desire, the need, to perform, to please, to entertain. I quickly sat down.

  The light swam away, flowing swiftly over the heads of the people in front of me and coming to rest on the quivering base of a rope ladder leading up into the darkness.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Statler Brothers Circus takes great pride in presenting the incomparable … COUNT ANAGORI!”

  I leaned forward as the band struck up a lively march. Nothing happened. The musicians went through the short piece, then started again. Still nothing happened; the ladder hung limp in an otherwise empty pool of light. Halfway through the third coda the music died, along with the light. For a few seconds there was utter darkness, etched only by a few electronic screeches as someone fumbled with the microphone.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! We give you the peerless … PAULA!”

  Music and light, and a very young and attractive Paula came bounding out and immediately went into an exciting mix of adagio and acrobatics. She was good, but my mind turned from events in the center ring as I pondered the question of just what had happened to the count. No performer, and especially a headliner, ever pulls a no-show unless there’s a very good reason. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the count’s reason might have had something to do with Bruno and Bethel Jessum.

  I rose and started down the concrete ramp toward the access tunnel leading to the dressing areas, but slowed down as I neared the entrance. After all, where did I think I was going, and why? Bruno wasn’t even a client; and even if he were, his last message to me had been friendly but unmistakably clear: Butt out. The fact that the count hadn’t shown up for his evening stroll didn’t give me the right to poke my nose into that business. Pushy, I’m not.

  There was a popcorn butcher with a full tray of wares dogging it near the tunnel entrance. He’d been staring at me, and I dislike people staring at me almost as much as I dislike moral dilemmas; the two taken together can make me quite insufferable. I walked up to him, gave him a quick and nasty critique of his parentage and manners and stalked back to my seat.

  Paula was followed by a dancing elephant. I decided there was no comparison and went back to brooding over the mystery that seemed to exist nowhere but in my own mind, searching for some connection between Bruno’s mercurial shift in moods, a performer who didn’t perform, and adultery that supposedly stopped at the mere mention of my name.

  I might have thought some more if it hadn’t been for the two pistol shots. I was up and racing out of the stands while most of the crowd was still trying to blame the ugly sounds on the whip hanging in the elephant trainer’s hand.

  There was already a crowd clustered around the door to the Jessums’ dressing room; they stood and stared as though there were a performance going on inside. I pushed my way through to the front and gagged. Bethel was sprawled across a small, scarred dressing table, her blood-soaked chest thrust forward. Somebody had shot her in the heart. Somehow Bruno looked even more the clown, sitting upright in a ratty armchair with his painted smile and most of the left half of his skull splattered on the ceiling. There was the smell of burnt powder in the air, emanating from the barrel of the gun trapped in Bruno’s lifeless fingers. I had seen quite enough.

  “You still don’t buy suicide, do you?”

  The cold professionalism in Garth’s voice grated on my nerves. I glanced up at the figure of my brother sitting next to me on the concrete apron of the center ring in the deserted arena. My eyes still hurt from the exploding flashbulbs of the police photographers, and the night smelled of blood.

  “I told you what happened earlier.”

  Garth shrugged his shoulders, and I suddenly realized that the only reason Garth had stayed behind was to soothe what he assumed was my hurt at losing a friend. The realization generated a dual reaction of gratitude and resentment.

  “She was stringing him along,” Garth said, “Playing games with his head. Some women are like that. I’ll bet she was snuggling up with the count five minutes after she gave her husband this bit about ‘forgiving her.’ This time she got more than she bargained for. She pushed and he flipped. Simple as that. You saw the gun in his hand.”

  “Somebody could have put it there.”

  “Who? The count? You already checked him out.”

  It was true; the first thing I’d done after recovering from the initial shock was to go after Anagori. It hadn’t taken long to find him, or at least find out where he was—in the hospital. It turned out he’d twisted his ankle just before he was scheduled to go on and had insisted on going for X rays. It was understandable; the count’s ankles were his bread and butter. However, that eliminated the prime suspect. The accident had occurred a half hour before the double killing.

  “Because Anagori didn’t kill them doesn’t mean that someone else didn’t.”

  “Or that they did.”

  “Okay,” I said tightly, rising to my feet.

  “Hey! It’s your turn to buy coffee!”

  “I’m going to do some checking. Statler still stay at the same place?”

  Garth came over to where I was standing. His eyes gleamed with the cold light of a policeman’s curiosity. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s in the Plaza, uptown. At least that’s the address he gave me. What do you want with Statler?”

  “I want the show’s stop list. I want to know where the circus has been and where it’s going.”

  “What the hell for?”

  I wished he hadn’t asked. I had no answer.

  “You’re fishing, Mongo,” Garth continued, “looking for something that isn’t there.” He paused, and when he continued his voice was softer. “You’re blaming yourself for what happened. There’s no way, brother. No way that works out. First Jessum tells you he wants you to talk to his wife, then he tells you to stay away. You were the one who said he seemed unstable. It’s not your fault if he suddenly decided to kill the old lady and blow his own head off.”

  “Yeah,” I said, turning away and heading for the exit. “You’ve got a rain check on that coffee.”

  Garth was right, of course. I was blaming myself for what happened, primarily because I kept remembering how close I had come to going all the way down the access tunnel. I might have prevented it.

  Garth was also right when he said it looked like a clear-cut case of murder and suicide. Still, I had an itch down deep in my soul. Asking Statler for the show’s stop list and combing those cities for a man with a motive for killing the Jessums might be like chasing a rainbow, but at the moment I felt I needed the exercise.

  I went out the stage door, turned right on the empty street.

  Somebody else was looking for exercise; the man behind me was coming up fast, almost at a trot. I don’t like people comi
ng up fast behind me. I stepped to one side to let the man pass and almost blacked out with pain as the knife skewered me, it’s point slicing white hot into the flesh of my side, scraping along my ribs like fingernails on a blackboard and emerging four inches from the point of entry. I twisted with the force of the blow, taking the knife with me. At the same time I reacted instinctively, smashing the side of my stiffened left hand into my attacker’s kidney. The man grunted and went to one knee. He seemed surprised, but that was about all. He slowly rose and stared at me, his pale green eyes absolutely expressionless.

  I happen to have a black belt, second Dan, in karate, and usually when I hit a man in the kidney he stays down. This man was no mugger. He knew how to absorb pain; a professional, with skills at least the equal of mine. There was no doubt but that the man intended to kill me, and the knife in my side having effectively neutralized my usual bag of tricks, it didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility that he was going to succeed.

  Blood was squeezing past the sharp metal plug in my side, my shirt and jacket were soaked, and I could feel the sticky warmth spreading. Dwarfs not having that much blood to begin with, I as beginning to feel dizzy—and cold, very cold.

  However, the man had no intention of allowing me the simple dignity of bleeding to death. I watched, fascinated, as he slowly reached into his jacket and pulled out a pistol. Carefully, deliberately, he began to screw on a silencer. His pale eyes never left mine. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, which was understandable since the street was empty and it was obvious that I wasn’t going anyplace. Despite the blank screen of his face, I knew the man was enjoying himself; all of the best are endowed with generous streaks of sadism, and this one had to be at the top of his profession. It was my time that was running out, not his, and he liked that. Vaguely, I wondered which of my enemies could afford this guy.

  I couldn’t stand to see the man so happy. I decided to give the sand in the hourglass a little kick.