Headless Lady

by Clayton Rawson

  Mac picked up the hat and turned it over. “Blood?” he said skeptically. “Dark brown stain. It might be anything, and it could have been there for days. You’ve got to do better than that. Dammit to hell anyway, Merlini, what’s got into you? The medical examiner—”

  Merlini cut him off. “Miss Hannum, were the Major’s glasses found with the body?”

  The photo had taken some of the starch out of Pauline; and the bloodstain, if that was what it was, seemed to have impressed her. Though I knew well enough that Mac was quite right and that Merlini, before the stain was worth a nickel as evidence, would have to have it tested.

  Pauline looked at Merlini without answering, as if she were thinking of something else and had not heard.

  Mac answered instead, angrily, and put his foot smack into it. “Yes,” he roared, “they were—what was left of them. They were in the breast pocket of his coat, smashed all to hell by the accident.”

  “And yet,” Merlini said quietly, his voice contrasting with Mac’s roar, “I found several small fragments of glass on the floor of the trailer here. The curvature of the pieces obviously suggests spectacle lenses.” He tipped the envelope and let them slide on to the desk top, where they glinted in the light. “If they should fit the pieces of glass that were in his pocket … ”

  Mac was hard to convince. “And suppose he did break them here; he might have dropped them—any time, a week ago, maybe.

  “It won’t wash, Mac,” Keith contradicted. “He put them on to look at some press clips of mine last night—less than half an hour before he left the front door. You should remember it; you were there. And don’t lie about it. Calamity was there, too.”

  “Okay, maybe he dropped them while he was here just before he left the lot.”

  Merlini asked, “Why would he gather up the frames and broken glass and put them in his breast pocket? No point in carrying them with him when they were smashed.”

  “How should I know?” Mac growled. “He did funnier things. You listen to me, Merlini. If there are any murders on this show I’ll be the first one to call the cops. But it’s going to take a damn sight more than this to make me think that—”

  Pauline put in, “The medical examiner said it was accidental death.”

  Merlini nodded. “Yes, but there seem to be a lot of things he wasn’t told about. There’s the burglar, for instance.”

  Merlini was at his old tricks again—taking unexpected rabbits out of top hats without warning. He got his effect. Pauline’s face went white; she sat down. Mac gave a distinct start.

  “Burglar?” Mac asked.

  “Yes, Miss Hannum, were your father’s keys found on his body—and who has them?”

  “Yes. I do.” Pauline spoke mechanically, like a sleepwalker.

  “Have you—has anyone—entered this trailer since the accident? As far as you know?”

  “I did—this morning. I got a suit of his clothes—for the undertaker.”

  There was a rattle at the door then, and Mac turned to pull it open. A voice outside said, “Seen Miss Pattison, Mr. Wiley? They sent me to look for her. She’s due on.”

  Pauline was suddenly businesslike again. “Joy, get out there at once. Henry, tell Walter to spot the traps after the concert announcement. She has to change yet.”

  “Yessir,” the voice said.

  Joy got up and walked toward the door. With her hand on the knob she turned and looked at Pauline.

  “Did you take anything else?” she asked coolly.

  I could hear Pauline suck in her breath. “So that’s it!” She got to her feet. “Get out!” she said. Her words stung.

  Joy looked at her for a moment longer, an odd expression on her face; then, without saying anything at all, she turned quietly and went through the door, closing it after her.

  Pauline turned to Merlini. “I’ve had enough of this! Are you going to the police with this story?”

  Before he could answer, Keith said, “I am.”

  “You don’t think we should, Miss Hannum?” Merlini asked.

  “No. You don’t have a thing except some wild accusations by Keith—and Joy. The photograph means nothing—the medical examiner has made his report. I know why Dad left the lot last night. And there’s no reason why he should have told Keith or Mac. The stain in the hat could be anything, and it may have been there a long time. He could have broken his glasses before he left. Joy has no proof at all that my father ever made a will. I don’t think he did. I looked for it and I found none.”

  “Then it was you who searched this trailer?”

  “I looked through his papers in the desk, yes.”

  “You didn’t look in these linen cupboards and these other drawers?” Merlini indicated several near the wardrobe.

  “No, of course not. I wouldn’t expect to find—”

  Something in his expression stopped her. She reached up and opened a cupboard above her head. It was filled with sheets, pillowcases, and towels. They were mussed and disordered.

  “Every drawer and cupboard in the place looks like that,” Merlini said. “You see, you forget the burglar I mentioned.”

  “But I don’t—” Pauline began.

  “Other than a possible will that may or may not exist, what else did the Major have in this trailer that was of value, that someone broke in to hunt for?”

  Pauline shook her head. “I don’t—” Then sudden suspicion caught her. “How do I know that you didn’t do this before Mac and I got here?”

  Merlini hesitated over that one. Then he looked at me. “Ross,” he said wryly, “make a note of this. The next time you catch me agreeing to undertake an unofficial murder investigation I want you to kick me hard. You have no way at all of knowing that I didn’t search the trailer, Miss Hannum. I did search it, but I didn’t disarrange the contents of these drawers and cupboards. I found them that way. And I didn’t use a glass cutter to make a hole in that window.” He pointed toward it. “That also was here when Keith, Ross, and myself arrived. I only picked the lock on the door.”

  The surprised looks Mac and Pauline threw toward the window seemed genuine enough. But they both regarded Merlini suspiciously, as if they thought he was talking fast, trying to pull himself out of a hole.

  As a clincher, Merlini reached into his magical hat and drew forth still another bunny. He passed Joy’s flashlight to Mac. “You might take a close look at that windowpane just above the cut-out section. Tell me what you see.”

  Mac scowled, took the flashlight, and did as directed. I stood behind him and looked too. I saw on the glass three oval impressions that had a familiar shape.

  “Fingerprints,” Mac said. “So what?”

  “Don’t you notice anything odd about them?” Merlini asked.

  I looked more closely. Then I saw it. These prints were strangely, queerly different from any others I had ever seen.

  “They have no ridge markings,” I said. “No whorls or loops. They’re perfectly flat. What sort of a what-is-it—?”

  “That,” Merlini said, “is the question. Well, Mac?”

  “Well, what?” he replied. “You’re still making mountains out of mole hills. And we can arrest you for breaking and entering if you’re going to be stubborn, you know.”

  “But you won’t. Miss Hannum wouldn’t let you. There happens to be another case of illegal entry that cancels mine out.”

  The expression on Pauline’s face was ample indication that that shot had rung the bell and won the nickel cigar. But Merlini didn’t stop to collect. He went after a bigger prize.

  “I’ve a theory or two about the burglar with the curious fingerprints. One goes like this: Once upon a time, last evening probably, someone removed that piece of windowpane with a glass cutter, released the inside catch, and crawled in. He—or perhaps she—searched this room, hunting for something of an undetermined nature. Whether he found it or not we don’t know. But I suspect that he was interrupted in his illegal pursuits when the Major returned to get his
slicker.”

  Merlini was watching Pauline, Mac and Keith closely. He got just as much attention from them.

  “The burglar,” he continued, “couldn’t escape the way he had come, since that window is on the same side as the door. He hadn’t time to crawl out one of the others; the door was already opening. So, when the Major stepped inside, a blow from the dark hit him on the head. He fell. His hat rolled off. The glasses in his breast pocket smashed. The Major’s weak heart stopped. We don’t know if the marauder knew about the heart, but it makes no difference. Even if he only intended to knock the Major out, legally it’s still murder, since he was engaged in burglary when it happened.

  “Finding the Major was dead, the killer set quickly to work to cover up. He lifted the body, and some of the smaller glass particles from the broken spectacles trickled from the Major’s pocket. The body was carried out and placed in the trunk compartment of the Major’s own car. It was dark and stormy, and with reasonable care, the killer stood little chance of being seen. Hurriedly, so that no one would see that it wasn’t the Major who was driving, he drove the car off the lot. On a side road, where it wouldn’t be discovered until he had time to return on foot, he faked the accident. I imagine that he put the Major’s body behind the wheel, pulled the throttle wide open, and started it down the hill. The body, slumped over the wheel, would hold it fairly steady for some distance. The car hit the bridge. And that theory, you see, explains the cut windowpane, the bits of spectacle glass, the lack of blood on the body, the stain in the hat, and the apparently peculiar behavior of the Major. The Major didn’t act normally in leaving the lot because he was dead.”

  Pauline laughed, a high, nervous laugh, but one that also had relief in it.

  “So that’s it! All right. Take your story to the cops. Send them to me. But they won’t thank you for troubling them. There won’t be any investigation, Mac. It won’t be necessary. Merlini’s theory is so much moonshine!”

  “Oh?” Merlini said softly. “Why?” There was a faint undertone in his voice that sent a chill up my spine. I had an impression of a trap, beneath camouflage, its jaws open and waiting.

  “Because,” Pauline answered coldly, “I came in here with my father. There was no one else here!”

  The snap of the trap’s sharp jaws as they closed was distinctly audible. But, for a moment, Pauline appeared not to have heard them. Only the sudden and lasting silence that fell over the rest of us made her look around uneasily and then suddenly realize…

  “It’s hard to believe that,” Merlini said. “Just a moment ago you told us that you saw your father last at dinner. How do we know which—”

  “Damn you!” she said, her eyes throwing sparks. “I know that. I lied. I didn’t see that it was any of your business, but if you are going to accuse …”

  “I didn’t make any accusation. But you seem to be trying the shoe on. You’ve made two flatly contradictory statements. One must be false. Both might be. Your motive for saying that you came in with the Major is obviously the stronger.”

  Now what was he getting at? Keith had said that he saw Pauline with her father. Were there more concealed traps?

  “But if you did come, as you say, with the Major,” Merlini went on calmly, “my theory is pretty well shattered. I’ll have to discard it in favor of the other—the one that concerns the bull-hook which you carried in your hand when you came in.”

  Pauline’s face looked haggard—ten years older. “Then you knew all the time. Someone saw us… ”

  Merlini nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. I only wanted to find out what had happened. You wouldn’t answer questions. I had to trick you. You’ve admitted too much now. You’d better tell us just what happened.”

  “You—you won’t believe me.” Pauline’s fear was evident. “Nothing happened. We talked together for less than five minutes. I left. I forgot the bull-hook when I went. That’s all.”

  “The hook is Irma King’s. Why did you have it?”

  “She had left it behind in my trailer this afternoon. I was returning it when I remembered something I wanted to see Dad about.”

  “What was that?”

  “I can’t tell you.” Her chin came out stubbornly at this.

  Merlini left it at that. “Where did you go then, after leaving him?”

  “To my trailer. I went to bed.”

  “Did you meet or speak to anyone on the way?”

  “I— No, I—” She stopped, her jaw clenched. The muscles at either side of her forehead stood out in rigid lines. With an effort she stood straight. “I’ve heard enough,” she said grimly. “There’s just one thing to be done. But first I want to know one more thing. Is this everything? What else do you have?”

  Before Merlini could answer someone rapped sharply on the outer door again. “Miss Hannum,” a voice called. “Perch act on next.”

  “Tell him I’m coming, Mac,” she said, and then waited for Merlini’s reply.

  “There’s one more thing,” he said. “A question. Who is the Headless Lady?”

  Pauline’s eyes held a defeated look. But she made no answer. She turned to Mac. “Get the Sheriff. Take him to my trailer. And wait there until I finish this next act.”

  Mac didn’t like the way the wind was blowing at all. “But … but …” he started to object.

  “Do as I say, Mac! Get going now. Tell the Sheriff his name will be in every paper in the country tomorrow morning. I’m afraid Dad was murdered after all. But I’m not taking the rap. This show moves in the morning, and there’ll be no investigation. It won’t be necessary by then.”

  Mac’s face was dark with conflicting emotions. He shrugged helplessly, ducked his head, and went out through the door.

  Pauline gazed after him thoughtfully for a moment; then without looking at us she gathered her cape around her and followed after him.

  Keith, puzzled, frowned and asked of no one in particular, “Now what does all that mean? “It’s those fireworks I mentioned,” Merlini replied. “Put your fingers in your cars. The fuse is sputtering merrily and rapidly. We have started something now. But I’d like it lots better if I knew just what sort of shooting stars were going to burst.”

  Merlini flipped a fifty-cent piece meditatively in his hand, made it vanish and reappear once or twice in an absent-minded way; and then went to the wardrobe where Joy had hidden and started to examine its floor.

  I watched him for a moment with a vague uneasiness, a subtle, uncomfortable feeling that I couldn’t quite define. I rather thought, from his actions, that Merlini was similarly disturbed. He got to his feet after a moment, frowned at a smallish piece of dried mud he had scraped from the wardrobe floor, and then wandered to the rear of the trailer, where he stopped to look again at the odd prints on the windowpane.

  Suddenly, in my mind, a skyrocket rose and flared brightly. I knew what was wrong.

  “Merlini,” I said at once, “I don’t like this. And I know why. It’s too familiar. I’ve read it all before. The chief suspect, cornered, announces like a damned fool that she knows all and is going to tell—later. And, while the Great Detective and all the forces of law and order sit quietly around twiddling their thumbs—the murderer promptly goes to work again! Bang! Chapter ending! And this suspect … ”

  Merlini’s half-dollar fell from his fingers to the floor and rolled across the linoleum, “—is going to climb up on top of a tall pole and stand on her head! Ross—” His voice stopped with startling abruptness.

  Through the open door, as he spoke, I could hear the big-top band playing a smoothly flowing waltz; but now, strangely, the tempo stumbled, the whole structure of the music seemed to break apart, coming to a ragged, slurring halt as if the instruments had ceased not all together, but one by one.

  The interval was short, and when the music came again it was a frantic, uneven march in double-quick time.

  Merlini moved as quickly as I have ever seen him do. As he flew through the doorway, he said:

  “Ros
s, you’ve called it!”

  Chapter Seven

  Center Ring

  “… The zenith in deft and daring high perch accomplishments. The lovely Miss Pauline Hannum high above the center ring, revolving at breakneck speed atop the dizzy pinnacle of a thirty-foot pole … ”

  THE muzzle velocities of Hugo and Mario Zacchini, fired from their mammoth cannon, were never any greater than the speed with which we left that trailer. Merlini took three lightning strides, ducked low, and shot through the doorway. I projected myself after him, springing outward from the doorsill to hit the ground, running. I heard Atterbury move behind me.

  I plunged after Merlini’s flying figure, regardless now of guy ropes, stakes, or deep ruts the animal trucks had left in the springy turf underfoot. We ran the length of the menagerie top and turned right toward the back yard and the big top—the big top that for one bewildering moment seemed to have vanished completely. Then, against the stars, I saw its black silhouette loom out. Where the lighted expanse of canvas top and side walls should have been was only darkness—the dark and a low, deep crowd noise, a vast uneasy rumble of sound that was ominous and afraid. The music of the band beat at it frantically, trying to stave off panic.

  I swerved abruptly and avoided disaster by inches.

  The few lighted windows of the trailers along the left gave just enough light so that I made out the ponderous, lumbering shapes of the elephants a bare second before it was too late.

  A woman’s voice in the darkness, hard and unyielding, swore at them. “Elsie! Back, dammit, back! Steady, Modoc! Steady, Rubber! Hold it, girl!”

  Just ahead now, by the performer’s entrance, there was a hurried, confused movement of flashlights and a shouted tangle of commands. One deep voice rose above the others, hard with authority. “The cars! Get those headlights on, somebody! Hurry it!”

  Someone else had already had the thought and acted on it. The roar of a starting motor came from near the end of the line of trailers and cars; and then, in a moment, two bright headlights swung around and rushed down at us. Dark figures scattered before the light, and a frightened horse reared wildly. The shapeless figure of a clown, his white face tense, jumped for the bridle, got it, and hung, pulling down hard as the frightened animal bucked. The car turned, aiming its lights at the arena entrance. Another clown, a red-nosed, baggy-trousered tramp, stood there and swung a beckoning arm.