Giles followed him into a spacious cabin full of expensive bric-a-brac.
The place was well lit and the gentleman, Giles had met in St. James’s Club, was seated at an ornate desk at one end.
Senhor Ramon Mordomo rose, came round from behind the desk, and shook Giles by the hand. ‘It is good that you come to our great circus and I’m sure that you will already experience our hospitality,’ he ventured as he took the bag from the American driver and laid it carefully on the floor. His English was easily understood though delivered in a clipped Portuguese accent.
‘My wire-walking friend is, I believe, capable of matching members of the Wallendas family; a group he worships as the greatest high wire performers in the history of the circus. But he is also one who can pull the wool over your eyes, as is said in your country. Everything he says must be taken with a pinch of your salt.’
Giles smiled as he assimilated the collection of mixed metaphors spoken by the Portuguese circus owner, who ushered the American wire-walker out of the trailer.
Senhor Mordomo closed the door, arranged a couple of comfortable arm chairs and invited Giles to sit down.
‘Did he explain about Khan? I’m sure he did.’
‘Yes, he said he was a gentle pussycat, like himself, and that I could stroke both of them off my list of suspects.’
‘There you are then. Do not take everything he says at face value.’
Ramon Mordomo got to his feet and moved towards his desk. When he turned he was holding a box from which he produced two large cigars.
‘Hank Findley may be correct about Khan not being a threat to me and my circus – but a gentle pussycat, he is not. He is a wild animal and could turn at the drop of the ringmaster’s hat. As for Hank himself, there may also be a part of the wild animal in him. If I were you I would not stroke him off your list!’
Ramon handed one of the cigars to Giles.
‘I hope you will join me and accept one of my best Cuban cigars. I have read that you occasionally smoke these when under some kind of stress,’ his tone was jocular. ‘But let us relax and I shall explain what I really want from you and how you will be well repaid.’
Giles took the cigar, noticed it had already been clipped, held it up to his nose to admire the flavour of the tobacco and nodded appreciation to his Cuban host.
‘Do you always pre-clip your cigars?’ Giles asked as he rolled the cigar between his fingers then held it to his nose to enjoy the aroma.
‘Not really! I only do the honours in advance when I know I am about to have guests who enjoy fine cigars or I am leaving my trailer and know I am going to smoke them in the very near future.’
‘I will gladly join you in a smoke,’ Giles said before putting the cigar between his lips and crossing one leg over the other. ‘But,’ he removed the fine Havana, before continuing, ‘Let me make it clear that I have not yet decided to help you. From what I saw, on my way into your winter quarters, there must be upwards of a hundred or more people involved here and to find out who is trying to take over your outfit could be an impossible task.’
‘Do not worry, my friend. The men you saw are the riggers; those who erect and dismantle the big top. Most of them have neither the know-how nor the inclination to take over my circus and are more interested in their sex lives and other amusements. The suspects can be narrowed down to a select few amongst the elite in our show and I shall introduce each one of them to you before you make a decision.’
Ramon produced an ornate cigarette lighter and, as he bent over Giles and lit the cigar, his dark eyes pierced deep into the clear blue eyes of the Professor.
‘I am a very rich man,’ the circus supremo disclosed as he straightened up. ‘You will be well rewarded…if you are as successful as you seem to have been in solving the Lockerbie problem.’
The lines at Giles’ eyes creased a little more as he remembered how he’d cracked the mysterious death of the patriarch of Maskelyne Hall in Scotland. He nodded and took several deep puffs of his cigar.
‘I have to agree you make it all sound quite feasible but I shall reserve judgement until after I meet those who are your top performers. For the moment the jury is out!’
‘Thank you my friend,’ the Cuban circus magnate said as he passed the wooden cigar humidor across to Giles. ‘Take a good look at that while I get you a drink. Will a Cognac do?’
Giles nodded, took the humidor and opened it to face an array of the finest Cuban cigars, complete with wrappers. The wood appeared to be a mixture of walnut and, Giles guessed, Spanish cedar. There was no smell of ammonia, which usually came from cigars that are very young. These were mature Havanas being correctly humidified. Giles was impressed.
Senhor Mordomo passed over a large Cognac.
‘I see you are impressed, my friend. Cigar smoking is an art not a science – just as enjoying a Cognac is. Walnut is a fine wood to choose but it is the Spanish cedar lining that is the big plus. It not only aids as a buffer against the outside climate, but discourages pests and transmits a flavour to the cigars which many smokers appreciate.’
Giles relaxed back into his chair. He was warming to his companion and slowly coming to a decision that might plunge him into a situation that...could end in murder.
Enjoying his cigar the Professor, who lectured in illusions, couldn’t help but admire the artefacts of quality that purveyed the roomy trailer. Handing back the humidor his eyes caught sight of an object of great significance.
This was no illusion. It was a classic vintage car mascot in a prominent position on the luxurious desk.
‘Can that possibly be a Lalique? He enquired, pointing at the objet d’art.
‘Yes, Professor! That is Spirit of the Wind-Victoire. It is one of the twenty nine pre-war car mascots produced from high quality glass by Rene Lalique.’
Giles took hold of the object; a female head with the hair shaped as if flowing backwards to a point. As he caressed it Senhor Mordomo continued.
‘It is one of my prize possessions. These mascots were produced to grace cars of Hispano Suiza, Bugatti and Bentley among others. Now drink up and we’ll have a meal brought to us. You must be hungry?’
‘I have to admit I am a little peckish!’
‘I can satisfy that. How would you like some roasted pork with black beans and rice and after that I will take you to see Khan?’
‘Thank you. That will do nicely.’
The Cuban lifted a telephone, pressed a number and spoke in Portuguese.
He laid the receiver down, looked at his Rolex Oyster Perpetual watch and said ‘Our meal will be here shortly, but we have a guest about to join us. She should be here very soon.’
At that there was a knock on the door. It was opened and in stepped a fair-haired young woman in her late twenties.
‘Come in my dear. Let me introduce Professor Dawson, a historian in magic and illusion, who is here to cast his spell over our circus before we take to the road in April. Giles, may I present Miss Ingrid Dahlberg.’
‘Delighted to meet you, Miss Dahlberg.’
‘Please call me Ingrid, Professor. I do not wish us to be too formal. And…may I call you Giles?’
‘Indeed you may.’
‘Splendid, splendid!’ Senhor Ramon’s enthusiasm was catching as he continued. ‘Ingrid is one of our exceptional performers but I doubt if even you could correctly guess what act she does that excites audiences so much.’
Giles loved conundrums and here before him stood a physical one.
He took his time and his gaze absorbed details of an incredibly beautiful specimen of femininity.
She was petite, with blonde hair cascading down her back. Had there been a wind blowing her head and hair would have come close to resembling the car mascot he still held in his arms. Her blue eyes and pert nose gave her an endearing boyish look. Her long neck, slim arms and wrists complimented a slender but firm body.
She was dressed in a tight pink sweater that accentuated her small, but perfectly fo
rmed, breasts. Her sky blue slim line trousers, with matching shoes, completed the ensemble.
Giles was almost lost for words as he stared at this stunning woman. She reminded him of another girl he had cast eyes upon, not so long ago, on a station platform in Scotland. The colour of hair and eyes were different but the effect on Giles was electric. He quickly put the flashback out of his mind.
‘You want me to guess what role she plays in your circus? Well I think,’ he said hesitantly. ‘She could be either a trapeze artist, a bareback rider on one of your horses or…’ Giles paused as a thought sprang into his mind. ‘She might even work with your Bengal Tiger, Khan!’
‘Neither,’ said Ramon, grinning. ‘Ingrid is an impalement artist, or knife thrower, and the best in the business.’
Giles’ gaze shifted between Ingrid, Ramon then back to Ingrid.
He struggled to say something but words died in his throat.
He fought to gain composure and, at last, could only conjure up ‘Well I never!’
‘I agree it is difficult to believe but, in her profession, she is, as I said, a knife thrower or better known in circus parlance, as an impalement artist.’
Giles shook his head and his mind wandered back to similar acts in theatrical magic and illusion.
‘Most are male,’ Ramon continued. ‘With the female role being that of the target figure and, although there are a few pairs with roles reversed, Ingrid is most definitely one of the best.’
There was a knock at the door and two waiters entered with several dishes which they put on a dinner table set for three. Giles was shown where he could freshen up and when he returned he was seated opposite a slip of a girl who was capable of throwing knives at a male target figure – intending not to draw blood.
Dinner was exquisite with fine Portuguese wine. Conversation was mostly about the exceptional talent this Cuban circus had at its disposal; Giles having already met two of them. The first being Hank, the funambulist, as the Cuban owner described him; the second being the girl opposite him at the dinner table, who was an impalement expert making a living throwing knives at a human target.
‘You are incredibly silent, Giles,’ it was Ingrid who woke Giles out of a spell of vocal inactivity. ‘You seem miles away.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ Giles replied, then cleared his throat. ‘I have to admit that you are not the first person to suggest that. In my defence, however, I can assure you I accumulate more top class information, as a listener, than…’
‘Could it be that you wish to ask me about myself but are reluctant to do so?’ Ingrid’s blue eyes sparkled and her lips had a provocative smile.
‘As a matter of fact I was hoping an opportunity might arise.’
‘Well here’s your chance, so ask away.’
‘An impalement artist is surely a slight misnomer,’ Giles began, tongue in cheek. ‘Correct me if I’m wrong but I believe impalement is something such an artist would be trying to avoid. What induced you to start a career throwing knives?’
Ingrid’s smile became more pronounced. She looked towards Ramon then back to face Giles. ‘It was easy! I never had any doubts, from an early age. My father was a knife thrower! He learned his skills in Sweden and Germany before moving to the United States where I grew up watching him perform in burlesque shows. I never wanted to do anything else.’
‘But isn’t it usual for the girl to be the target rather than the other way round?’
‘Of course. But my father made it clear that the safest place to be was at the throwing end.’
Giles nodded. ‘Your father was more than a knife thrower. He was a shrewd gentleman. I can see that. If someone got hurt, it would be unlikely to be the knife thrower and would be classified as an accident.’
‘My father was one of the best and he taught me well and I make it my business to prevent an accident.’
The circus boss had been silent throughout this exchange between Giles and Ingrid, but now spoke with eager delight, ‘Ingrid is practising very hard and is working on her own version of the Wheel of Death which involves throwing knives at a revolving circular board on which an assistant is strapped. She might even become a funambulist and impalement artist at the same time as she is learning to walk a tight rope while throwing knives at a revolving target’
Ramon rose and filled the wine glasses before proposing a toast. ‘To the Wheel of Death!’ he said.
Giles responded, sipped from his glass and wondered what was next on the list. The circus owner soon clarified that doubt.
‘When you are ready I‘ll take you to see our Bengal Tiger after which I’ll get someone to escort you to your accommodation and you can have a good night’s rest.’
The remainder of that first evening at RAF Winkleigh was something of a blur to Giles. How he came to find himself in a strange trailer, lying on a bed that somehow lifted to a dizzy height when he tried to sit up, was a complete mystery. He’d had that feeling before…after a hectic Hogmanay. His lasting memory, before sleep grabbed him, was Khan.
It was almost one o’clock in the morning when Giles looked at his watch. He struggled to get off the bed, realised that he was still fully clothed, and then became aware that his travelling bag was on the floor within reach.
Once he’d changed into his night wear, and slipped between the sheets, he lay awake for a while searching his memory bank to access what he remembered from the previous night.
The informed discussion at the evening meal had centred on the circus greats such as The Flying Wallendas, famous for their seven-and-eight-person pyramid wire walks, and another German group, The Gibsons, knife throwers who were credited with bringing the Wheel of Death to America, and were featured in Ringling Brothers’ and Barnum and Bailey’s shows.
Thinking back; it had become evident that the circus boss, with his wealth, was aiming to surround himself with circus greats.
As memory came flooding back, he recalled the circus owner taking him to a caged area, comfortably warmed by generators, where he came face to face with a specimen of Bengal Tiger that defied belief.
Khan was a royal animal in every sense of the word: a magnificent creature which would rank alongside the other artists for top billing, but only if he was kept under total control and not allowed the freedom of the place.
The superb colouring of his stripes and, in particular, the musculature of his massive frame, alerted Giles to the fact that, if Khan ever got free, he could destroy, not only those in his path but the future success of the circus as well.
It had been at that point that Giles had experienced a rapid increase in heartbeat and the cold sweat on his brow bringing him back to earth with a jolt. His hand had been shaking as he pointed to the door of the cage: a door that was clearly unlocked.
A grateful and relieved Ramon had thanked Giles after securing the cage door. He was clearly shaken as he cited the episode as yet one more example of a deliberate attempt to make him relinquish ownership.
But that was last night and sleep beckoned as Giles drifted into a fractured land of nod where he found himself, wearing thin and flexible leather-soled slippers, trying to balance on a violently vibrating wire, whist dodging knives being thrown at him by a fair-haired girl doing her best to make him fall into the path of a waiting Bengal Tiger below.
Chapter 3
THE PLOT THICKENS
Pale soft sunlight was filtering through his trailer window when he next looked at his watch. It was after nine o’clock.
A note had been pushed under the door.
Take your time. When you’re rested visit our canteen and have breakfast. Spend the day meeting the artists then come to my trailer at seven for dinner and we can talk terms.
Ramon
After a hearty breakfast Giles went to one of the two hangers where he met a group of clowns rehearsing a scene where they were rescuing a maiden from a burning building. It was here he was told that the burning effect, to be used, was created using lycopodium, a dried Mexican
club fern processed in New Jersey.
Giles was aware of the substance which had also been used in demonstrations by magicians. When it is in a container, it is not flammable but, when blown into the air and in contact with a flame, it makes a dramatic fireball that looks real but doesn’t burn. It had been used in the “Wizard of Oz” movie. It was an illusion that could be part of a variety of magic routines but, as Giles was only too aware, could also be replaced with real fire by anyone seeking to create panic in the circus.
The leading clown introduced himself. He was a Canadian in his mid-to-late forties by the name of Chuck Marstow and he informed Giles that the trapeze artists would be working in the hanger in the afternoon if he would like to get acquainted.
Much of the day was spent wandering around the two hangers where he also met a group planning circus routines and he got to know the ringmaster, band leader and the circus magician. They were some of the people he wanted to meet as, in his estimation, all of them were possible suspects capable of trying to oust Senhor Mordomo. He’d been given their names and nationalities but his head seemed unready to absorb those and he knew all he had to do was consult the circus boss and he’d be given a proper list. He would interview each one of them, individually, at a later date.
He watched Eastern Europeans perform elementary moves on the trapeze using a safety net, saw an Australian juggler and twin Chinese girls practise an acrobatic balancing act. He scrutinised each individual, making mental notes he could use later, if deciding to take up Ramon’s request. It seemed enough for one visit.
Daylight was fading when he went to what had been the airfield control tower. As he entered he was immediately conscious of the past. There was an unnerving presence about the place. The building had been tidied and made more amenable for use as a control centre with chairs, tables and a few circus posters, but nothing could remove the atmosphere of wartime triumph and disaster that had elated and destroyed the hopes of so many men and women. He was about to leave when he heard the noise of something landing on the floor beside him. It landed with a heavy metallic sound.
Gauntlet of Fear Page 3
