The Language of Cannibals

by George C. Chesbro

  I reached across from the opposite side, grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked the blade from my flesh. For just a moment pain pierced through the pervading numbness of my body. Pain was life and, for the moment, I found that reassuring. I didn’t have time to gauge the balance of the knife—I could see the small hole of the gun’s bore pointing between my eyes—so I could only hope that one of my lesser-known skills hadn’t deteriorated over the years. The man’s finger was tightening on the trigger as I reared back and flung the knife out into the darkness that was rolling over me from all sides.

  I awoke in a place that smelled more like a hospital than heaven. Nor did Garth bear the slightest resemblance to an angel.

  “I assume I’m to live.”

  “Which is more than can be said for the other guy.” Garth was shaking his head. “You got him right in the heart. Not exactly dead center, you understand; about two inches into the left auricle. Of course, you’re out of practice.”

  I twisted uncomfortably. My side was stiff and sore and there were two needles hanging out of either arm. I didn’t need my brother’s sarcasm.

  He let out a long, low whistle. “Mongo, you’re not to be believed! A criminology professor, gymnast, former circus great, black belt karate expert, and private detective who just happens to be a dwarf knife-throwing expert. Be thankful you’re not the product of some guy’s imagination; you’d be rejected by every editor in town.”

  I wasn’t amused. “Who was he?”

  The smile left Garth’s face. “The Compleat Professional. No ID, no mug shots, acid burns on his fingertips. He’d even ripped the labels out of his clothing. We figure he was a big chicken coming home to roost. You’ve got to admit you’ve made a few enemies in your short career. Big ones.”

  “Uh-huh. Where’s the circus?”

  Garth thought for a moment. “Albany. Don’t tell me you think—”

  “Feel like going for a ride?”

  “Where?”

  “Albany.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “How serious is this cut?” I knew the answer before I asked the question. I could feel the tape over the stitches in my side; flesh wound, bloody but not disastrous.

  “You lost a lot of blood and they think there’s still danger of infection. They said about a week.”

  “With the shortage of hospital beds they’re going to keep me here a week?”

  “Ah, but there’s also a shortage of dwarf black belt—”

  “Knock it off, Garth,” I said tensely. “I have to see that circus. That’s where the key is. I know it. I feel it. I want to see it, and I want to see it tonight. If you don’t want to take me, I’ll walk.”

  I started to walk, or at least I gave it some thought. I swung one leg over the bed and willed that the rest of my body should follow. For a moment it seemed as if my head would reach the floor before my feet, but then there were Garth’s arms reaching for me, all twelve of them.

  I got out three days later, thanks largely to my natural dislike for hospitals and the nurses’ inability to track me through a labyrinth of hospital wards, laboratories and corridors. Garth threatened to take me to Albany in my hospital gown, but my natural dwarf charm finally won him over. I promised to sit quietly and do nothing but watch, on the condition that he buy the candy apples.

  We parked on State Street and headed for the Washington Armory. Once there, Garth automatically started toward the rear. I grabbed his arm and directed him back to the lines forming at the main entrance.

  “You’re not going back to say hello to your cronies? You want to stand in line with the masses?”

  “Right. Maybe I’ll go back later. Right now I just want to get lost in the crowd.”

  “You’re getting paranoid.”

  “Uh-huh. You just run interference.”

  Garth was humoring me, but I didn’t have to remind him that New York’s Finest still hadn’t come up with the identity of my attacker, or his motive for wanting to kill me. That left the strange series of incidents connected with the circus, including the deaths of Bruno and Bethel Jessum. I was convinced I had somehow been dealt a hand in a game I hadn’t even known existed; it was a deadly game, and I was going to lie very low until I learned the rules.

  The cashiers and ticket takers were strangers, local people hired for the occasion. Once inside the armory, I pushed Garth’s six-feet-plus into a large knot of people and dived in after, flowing along with the crush. It was tight quarters, but it made for anonymity, something I valued very highly at the moment. Ten minutes later I found seats that satisfied me, high up in the darkness. I immediately took out my field glasses and began to scan the arena. After five minutes I put them away and sank down in my seat to wait for the parade.

  “See anything?”

  “Yeah,” I said tightly. “A bunch of people waiting for the circus to begin.”

  “And what is your conclusion, Sherlock?”

  “Hippies are out and the Great Silent Majority is in. What the hell do you expect? I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I just know it’s here.”

  I made no attempt to disguise the impatience in my voice. I could feel hot flashes of fever running up and down my body, sapping my strength; I felt like a pinball machine about to register TILT.

  “Easy, Mongo. Easy. If I didn’t take your hunches seriously, I wouldn’t be here.” Garth paused and grunted. “How’s your side?”

  “It’s fine.” It hurt like hell. The few days I’d stolen from the hospital were going to cost me, but this had to be done; circuses move on, and personnel change.

  The first clean notes of a circus piece cut through the smoky haze of the arena as a team of clowns bounded out into the center ring and immediately went into an overripe slapstick routine. I put the glasses back to my eyes and scanned the opposite side of the hall. This time I found a familiar face. Garth’s voice was strained and low.

  “You look like hell, Mongo. That white on your face isn’t greasepaint, and if I don’t get you home into bed it’s liable to become permanent.”

  “Uh-huh.” I handed Garth the glasses and pointed to a white-garbed figure moving in the aisles on the opposite side. “Check him out.”

  Garth put the glasses to his eyes and adjusted the focus. “The popcorn salesman?”

  “Right.”

  “Nice clean-cut fellow out to make a buck. What about him?”

  I took the glasses away from Garth’s eyes, waiting until I had his full attention. “That same man was pushing popcorn in the Garden.”

  “Maybe there’s good money in it. So?”

  “So, concessionaires don’t travel with the circus; they’re all locals, the same ones that work ball games, carnivals, and so on. There’s just no reason why that man should come one hundred fifty miles to sell popcorn. He’d make more on welfare.” I hesitated a moment, groping for the connections. “In fact, I ran into him at the entrance to the access tunnel. I’ll lay you ten to one he was there to watch out for me, to keep me from going in. Look at him; he’s not trying to sell anything—he’s using that tray as a prop.”

  Garth squinted through the glasses. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “That badge is probably a phony, too.”

  At last Garth was listening, truly listening. The trouble was that I didn’t have too much else to say. I decided to let my tongue go for a walk and see where it would take me.

  “Now, pick up on this,” I said quickly. “Bruno didn’t kill his wife, and he didn’t shoot himself. They were killed because … because of their connection with me. I couldn’t tell whether it was the fever or reasonable logic, but a picture was forming in my mind, a very ugly picture.

  “Bruno’s reasons for coming to me were real. His wife was running around and he didn’t want to lose her. His mind was going and he thought maybe I could stop it merely by talking to her. He told this to Bethel and she laughed at him. That is, she laughed until she talked to Anagori. Are you following me?”
<
br />   Garth said nothing. He was following me.

  “When Anagori found out Bethel knew me and that I was coming to see her he blew. Why? Because I might also see him, and he couldn’t risk that. He put a big scare into Bethel and she went into her act with Bruno, the idea being to head me off. Probably he figured I’d go home again.”

  “Then Statler gave you the celebrity treatment.”

  “Right. And Anagori panicked. He faked an injury to stay off the wire. The Jessums had become a liability to him because of their connection with me, so he sent someone to kill them while he was in the hospital.”

  “Someone like a phony concessionaire?”

  “Someone like a phony concessionaire. Then, to tie up any loose ends, he sent a torpedo after me precisely because he was afraid I might not go for the coroner’s verdict.”

  “Why? Who is Anagori, what’s his operation, and why run it from a circus anyway?” Garth asked.

  The questions hung in the air unanswered. “I’ll let you know when I see Anagori.”

  Garth nodded tensely and leaned forward on the edge of his seat. “I’m going to round up some local help.”

  “Negative,” I said quickly. “Sooner or later that other torpedo is going to be around here. Without you I’m naked as a bird. Let’s wait until we find out the whole story.”

  Garth didn’t like it, but I was right and he knew it. He leaned to one side, half shielding me.

  “Just don’t pass out on me.”

  “Not likely.” It was, but there didn’t seem any percentage in stressing the point. I took deep breaths, rationing my strength.

  I watched Paula perform her act, but the hall had an annoying tendency to slide in and out of focus.

  “Ladies and gentlemen! Statler Brothers Circus proudly presents … that master of the high wire … COUNT ANAGORI!”

  The count had the impact and presence of a laser beam as he sprinted from the wings, a long, black silk cape billowing out behind him. He was rewarded with the greatest homage an audience can bestow upon a performer, a breathless gasp of astonishment and anticipation. Anagori paused once in the circle of light, released the cape and was halfway up the rope ladder before the cloth finally settled on the floor. I leaned forward, squinting into the bank of bright lights that followed him, lighting his way to the platform sixty feet above the floor of the armory. The hall suddenly righted itself with a sharp jolt as the adrenaline squirted into my bloodstream, staving off the effects of the fever.

  I had hoped for the exhilarating shock of instant recognition. It didn’t come. As far as I could tell, the man standing on the platform was a total stranger.

  His élan, the electricity of his stage personality, made him seem larger than life. I judged his height at around six feet, his weight somewhere around one hundred eighty pounds. Age was more difficult, but I guessed he was in his early thirties, like myself. Every muscle rippled beneath his crimson tights.

  “Who is he?” Garth’s voice was strangled.

  I could do nothing but shake my head, uncertainty falling around me, chilling me like a cloak of ice.

  “Damn it, Mongo! Who is he?”

  “I don’t know … I’m not sure. Not yet.”

  Extremely confident, eschewing the traditional equipment checks, the count hefted his long balance pole and stepped out onto the thin, metal umbilical cord that was all that remained between life and a rather messy death on the concrete below; the count used no safety net. My hands trembled as I lifted my field glasses to my eyes and adjusted the focus; the figure of the count blurred for a moment, then sprang into focus. I blinked away a few drops of sweat and stared hard.

  Anagori was good, incredibly good. He danced on the wire, pivoting and swinging back and forth, his face a mask of indifference. He might have been practicing in the middle of a gymnasium.

  Yes. His face—dark, intense and brooding for all its indifference—was somehow familiar, but who was he, and where had I seen him?”

  One thing was certain: Count Anagori had not developed his skills overnight. He had started at a very early age. A man like that isn’t discovered in a Florida tryout, not unless he goes that route intentionally. Knowing Statler, the idea of where Anagori came from had been quickly submerged in the sea of dollar signs implicit in the artist’s skills.

  I left the man’s face and concentrated on his style; his smooth, flowing motion and muscular control, his repertoire of moves. Somewhere … somewhere I had seen someone else move like that, many years before.

  “You still don’t know who he is?” Garth’s hand was resting on the butt of his gun inside the waistband of his trousers.

  “No,” I said. Then, as an afterthought: “Nyet.”

  Nyet? Nyet!

  Once again I was cold, cold as the brutal wind blowing across the Russian steppes. Suddenly I knew who Count Anagori was and why he was here.

  “Vladimir Denosovitch Raskolnikov.”

  “Who?”

  Garth had leaned close, but other things were happening now, emotions bringing on reactions I couldn’t control. The name had brought with it images: the mutilated head of Bruno Jessum staring with dead eyes at the equally dead body of Bethel; the pale eyes of the killer who had left his knife in my body.

  Two innocent people killed because of an accident, a coincidence. Two innocent people dead because Vladimir Denosovitch had simply picked the wrong circus in which to work.

  Rage gripped me by the neck and shoulders, pulling me up out of my seat. Garth grabbed at me but it was already too late. I had already cupped my hands to my mouth.

  “Raskolnikov!”

  Raskolnikov froze on the wire, then swayed, his pole bouncing up and down like an antenna in a hurricane. The crowd moaned; somewhere to my right a woman screamed. Raskolnikov regained his balance and headed back toward the platform.

  At the same time something whistled past my ear, collided with the steel beam behind my head and sang off into the darkness. Garth’s gun exploded in my other ear and I turned in time to see the white-coated man drop his machine pistol and grope at the hole Garth had opened in his belly. Even as I watched, life blinked out in the man’s eyes and he toppled forward, his blood soaking into the popcorn he had dropped in the aisle.

  I looked back up to the platform; Raskolnikov was gone. The rope ladder was still, which meant he hadn’t come down. He was still up there, hiding somewhere in the darkness of the steel latticework supporting the roof of the armory.

  People were milling and screaming. Garth struggled to make his way down through the crowd, his gun in one hand and his police shield in the other. I knew he wasn’t going to be successful in what he was trying to do. By the time he got reinforcements, Raskolnikov would be gone.

  Where? How? I scanned the ceiling. The armory lighting system was old. Even with all the houselights on there were still patches of darkness staining the roof like squares on a checkerboard.

  At the far end of the armory, high up in a large field of night, was a long bank of frosted windows left partially open for ventilation. In my mind’s eye I could see Raskolnikov walking the girders, zig-zagging back and forth through the patches of darkness, making for those windows. If I remembered correctly, there was a sloping roof outside. Raskolnikov would find a way to get to the ground.

  I had no idea how a man dressed in red tights would manage to hide in the streets of Albany, but if Raskolnikov was who and what I suspected, I knew such small details had already been anticipated and planned for. Statler would be out one high-wire walker, and the police one killer; but if I was right, there was a good deal more at stake. I had a strong hunch Raskolnikov’s talents ranged far beyond those of a mere circus performer.

  High up as we were, the first tier of supporting girders was just behind and above my head. I tried to ignore my light-headedness and the ache in my side as I leaped up and grabbed the lower lip of the first I-beam, swinging myself up and over until I was sitting astride it. The throbbing hurt beneath the thick
bandage suddenly exploded into a fireball of scorched nerve endings and I bit into my lower lip to keep from screaming. Still, the wrench to my freshly stitched wound was not entirely unrewarding. I had traded dizziness for searing pain. In view of where I was going, I did not consider it an entirely bad bargain.

  I heard Garth yelling at me from somewhere below, but I didn’t look down. Frankly, I don’t like heights; still, the only thing between a killer and his freedom was a certain four-foot-eight-inch dwarf. I had to cut Raskolnikov off from his escape route. I could only hope that I could bluff the other man long enough for Garth to get some help. I knew a great deal depended on how much Raskolnikov knew—or didn’t know—about the seriousness of my knife wound; the Russian wasn’t likely to hang around very long for a dwarf that could be blown off his perch by a moderately strong whistle. Ah, well. It was time to find out just how unbelievable I was.

  I clung to the currency of my pain, using it to buy my way up the interlocking maze of girders to the very top tier. Occasionally the sounds of the crowd below drifted up but, for the most part, I moved in a sea of silence broken only by the scrape of my shoes on the steel. Sweat poured off me, but it was the special dampness, the thick, warm wet in my side, that worried me most.

  I headed for the bank of windows as fast as I could, balancing with my arms, taking a straight route. It was reasonable to assume that Raskolnikov had taken his time, moved carefully along his route, and that I was ahead of him. Reasonable? My life depended on it. In a few moments I would find out if he had been as reasonable as my assumption.

  I passed into the lake of darkness covering the windows. If Raskolnikov was already there, waiting in my path, I was dead. It would simply be a matter of waiting behind one of the vertical beams, then pushing me as I passed. In my condition, I’d be able to offer no defense.

  I stepped quickly through the dark tangle of girders. Raskolnikov wasn’t there. I chose a wide girder about seven feet from the windows and sat down hard, bracing my back against a vertical beam.

  That was it. I was broke. My physical and emotional bank accounts were empty. I was a hollow shell filled with whispers.