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The Tiger's Egg

Page 23

by Jon Berkeley


  They approached the circus gate with its brightly painted signs lit by strings of red and yellow bulbs. “A word to the wise,” said the tiger.

  “Yes?” said Miles.

  “Remember what I just said about calling me the queen of Sheba?”

  Miles nodded.

  “I wouldn’t put it to the test, if I were you,” said the tiger.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  A SUNDAY ROAST

  Miles Wednesday, sparkle-suited and spotlight-blinded, climbed into the star-painted box and lay down while Stranski the Magician closed and locked the lid. A murmur rippled through the crowd as Stranski rummaged in his box of tricks and produced a saw with a long gleaming blade. The magician seemed more taciturn than ever, and Miles wondered whether it was because Fabio had shortened his act to allow an extra slot on the playbill for Miles Wednesday and the Lord of the Monsoon. The tiger had allowed himself to be placed in a cage for dramatic effect, and the knife-throwing part had been dropped from Stranski’s act to make time. The mute magician flexed his saw blade, which sang under the lights. The audience held its breath.

  Miles readied himself to curl up into a ball. He reached for the lever that operated the flaps and hinges inside the box. The lever seemed to be jammed. He pulled again, but it wouldn’t budge. He was still laid out flat, and there was no room for him to bend his legs. “It’s not working,” he whispered to Stranski. Stranski leaned over the box and positioned the saw to begin cutting. He let out a little giggle. Miles started in surprise. He had never heard a sound of any kind escape the dour magician. He squinted his eyes against the glaring spotlight, trying to make out Stranski’s face. The blade began to rasp its way through the box. Something was very wrong. Stranski seemed to have changed somehow, like people in a dream will change into someone else without warning. His face was rounder, and what’s more, the badger’s bum smell had been replaced by a cloud of cheap cologne. “Stop!” hissed Miles. “The box is jammed. You’ll cut me in half.”

  “What a pity,” whispered the Stranski who wasn’t Stranski, and he giggled again, a jerky laugh like a machine wound too tight. He wiped his brow with his sleeve, and his face caught the light for a moment. A moment was enough. From this close Miles had no trouble recognizing the impostor in Stranski’s suit, mustache or no mustache. It was the Great Cortado, and he was sawing for all he was worth.

  “Surprised to see me, instead of that half-wit bell-with-no-clapper?” whispered the Great Cortado. “He’s on sick leave.” The saw bit deeper. Miles opened his mouth to shout for help, but the Great Cortado was ready for him. Quick as a lizard he tipped the contents of a small bottle into Miles’s open mouth and pinched his nose. Miles swallowed involuntarily, and a sour liquid burned in his throat. He tried again to shout, but his voice seemed to have deserted him. His tongue felt thick and numb, like a marshmallow. He sucked in his stomach. “No good trying to make yourself thinner, Selim,” said Cortado. “Of course, I do know your real name, but Selim will do fine for me. A backward name”—he giggled—“for a backward child. Who would have thought Barty and Celeste would produce such a snot-nosed little runt?” He paused again to mop the sweat from his forehead.

  Miles turned his head with difficulty, trying to see if there was anyone who might recognize the danger he was in. The audience stared openmouthed, confident that he would be miraculously made whole after he had been halved. Fabio, he knew, was backstage making hasty preparations for Miles’s act with the tiger, and Umor and Gila would be settling the elephants for the night. There was never anyone in the ring with Stranski and Miles, so his heart leaped with surprise when he saw someone sitting on a stool beside Stranski’s box of tricks. Miles tried desperately to summon up a shout. Whoever it was sat only a tiger’s leap away, but his face—or hers—seemed to be surrounded by a shadow of its own. Miles could not make out who it was, nor could he make a sound. He found it difficult to keep his eyes open.

  The Great Cortado resumed his sawing, and Miles felt the shining teeth of the saw begin to snag his sparkly jacket. “I know about your stripy little secret, Selim,” Cortado whispered to him. “That bug-eyed fool Tau-Tau finally tracked it down for me, though it took him long enough. And once I’ve carved you up like a Sunday roast, I’ll just reach into the box and see what the tiger has laid. I can wash the cotton candy off it later, or whatever it was you last ate.”

  Miles’s head was swimming with the hot lights and the numbing concoction he had been forced to drink. It was obvious that the Great Cortado also believed the Tiger’s Egg was in his stomach, but he could no more tell him otherwise than he could shout for help, and what chance was there that Cortado would believe him anyway? He turned again to see the figure on the stool. It was a Sleep Angel, he realized now, sitting patiently while the Great Cortado sweated at his villainous work, waiting to take Miles’s last breath from him and release it on the wind. A wave of sadness washed Miles’s fear away. He felt sad that his life would end just as it seemed to be beginning, sad for Little who would be left alone again, sad that he would never get the chance to say good-bye to his friends, or to follow in his father’s footsteps and perform with . . . perform with . . .

  “Varippuli!” said Miles, although his tongue said something more like “Owahooie.” The saw blade ripped through his clothing and scraped painfully against his skin. He sucked his stomach in even further, and scrabbled in his pocket for Tangerine. He grasped the saggy bear gently and closed his eyes.

  “Forgot the tinfoil,” giggled the Great Cortado as he sawed. “Forgot the gravy. Forgot the ketchup. Didn’t even preheat the oven to four hundred degrees.”

  Miles tried to block out the crazed ringmaster’s voice and the stinging pain in his side. He made himself picture Varippuli, waiting in his cage behind the star-strewn curtain at the back of the ring. He listened for the tiger’s heartbeat, and tried to turn the smell of Cortado’s cheap cologne into the musty odor of the tiger. He opened his ears and waited for the roar. “Now,” he said to himself. “Make it now.”

  The tiger’s roar thundered through the big top like tropical rain on a tin roof. The audience shrieked, and those nearest the curtain scrambled for safer seats. The sawing stopped. Miles opened his eyes and saw that even the nebulous figure of the Sleep Angel had twisted on his stool and was looking over his shoulder. The Great Cortado’s eyes widened, but he did not turn around. He mopped his brow again, and grasped the saw handle. “Even ghost tigers can be caged,” he said, “and you seem to have lost the knack of your disappearing act. Goodbye, Selim.” He pulled the saw through the box again, but Miles scarcely felt the bite of the blade. He heard a crash from behind the curtain and the terrified whinny of Delia Zipplethorpe’s piebald mare, heard Fabio shout for the beast men, and heard the screams of the audience as the panicked mare burst like a comet through the silver stars, followed seconds later by the tiger.

  The horse began to gallop around the ring, which was what she knew best, but the tiger crossed the sawdust in a couple of mighty bounds, heading straight for the Great Cortado. He leaped straight through the Sleep Angel, who vanished like smoke, and Cortado dived under the box just as the tiger landed. The mighty cat’s weight slammed against the box, almost knocking it over, and waking Miles from his stupor in an instant.

  There was a ripple of applause from the audience, who were unsure whether the entire act had been rehearsed, but thought it would be safer to clap in any case. The piebald mare’s hooves thundered around the ring. The tiger had recovered himself and was creeping around the box, his belly slung low to the sawdust, while on the other side the Great Cortado struggled to his feet. His mustacheless face was shiny with sweat. He scuttled like a crab around the far end of the box, where Miles momentarily lost sight of him, and appeared by Stranski’s box of tricks. He grasped two of the long knives that Stranski liked to throw right across the width of the ring. The blades were polished to a dazzling shine, and Miles knew just how keen the edges were, because he had sharpened
them himself. Some of the swagger had returned to Cortado’s step. “Knives, Selim!” he said. “I wrote the book on ’em.” He swished the two blades around his head in a flurry of glinting steel, and the audience cheered. “Who do you think taught Stranski, eh?” He began to circle the box again, as the tiger rounded the other end. “Heere, pussy pussy,” he sang quietly. “No more pussycat, no more Barty’s brat.”

  Miles could see Fabio crouched at the curtain, watching intently. Two of the beast men appeared beside him with a net, and Fabio motioned them to wait as the mare galloped by. Miles could not tell if Fabio had realized that Stranski was not Stranski, and whether the net was for the tiger or for the Great Cortado. Miles tried to call out to him, but his tongue was still not cooperating. He could feel warm blood trickling down his side. The Great Cortado was circling more slowly now, waiting for the tiger to get close enough. The audience held its breath, and the drummer in the circus band—who had drumming in his blood and couldn’t help it—began a long roll on the snare drum.

  Suddenly Cortado lunged forward and aimed a swipe at the tiger with his blade. The tiger pounced at the same moment, and the blade glanced off his foreleg as the tiger bowled Cortado over. A cymbal crashed, and the little man somersaulted backward, dropping both knives and fetching up against Stranski’s box of tricks. He scrambled to his feet as the tiger turned and launched himself again. Miles watched in dismay as the the Great Cortado reached deep into the box for another knife. If he got it out in time there would be no way the tiger could avoid being skewered on the blade.

  Cortado was already withdrawing his hand as the tiger soared through the air toward him, but it seemed that fate was not on his side this time. His hand gripped only a pair of long white ears, and he dropped the struggling rabbit in fright as the tiger’s mighty paws met his chest and sent him crashing again to the floor. The tiger reared to strike and Miles closed his eyes tightly. “Don’t kill him,” he said silently. There was a roar from the tiger and a cry of pain from the Great Cortado. Miles opened his eyes despite himself. The audience was panicking now, and those nearest the exit were beating a hasty retreat while others scrambled backward and crowded onto the higher benches.

  The tiger had backed off and the Great Cortado was crawling toward the banked seats, a trail of blood staining the sawdust behind him. Fabio and the beast men were advancing across the ring, holding the net wide, but it was still not clear who their intended target was. Suddenly Cortado stumbled to his feet. Fabio and his boys broke into a run, but the Great Cortado was too quick for them. He reached up and grasped the piebald mare’s saddle as she thundered past, and swung himself up onto her back like . . . well, like a lifelong circus performer. Miles saw a streak of red and gold as Hector the monkey leaped from somewhere in the crowd and clung to the Great Cortado’s shoulder, beating at his head with tiny fists. Cortado tore him free, and the monkey scrabbled at his jacket for a moment before losing his grip and somersaulting backward into the sawdust. The Great Cortado grabbed the reins with one hand, holding the other to his bleeding face, and before anyone could stop him he had galloped out through the fleeing spectators, who dived to either side to avoid the terrified horse and her wounded rider.

  Fabio and the beast men ran after the mare, and the audience broke into a cheer, no longer concerned whether the act was elaborately staged or totally out of hand. It seemed as though only the villain had suffered any real damage, and it was certainly the most riveting show that any of them could remember seeing. Miles realized he was still holding his breath, and he let the air from his lungs in a long sigh, the blood pounding in his head.

  “Miles,” said Little’s voice, “are you all right?” He could hear her snapping open the clips that held down the lid, but he couldn’t twist his head to see her. She sounded out of breath. “Wiggle your toes, Miles,” she said. Miles wiggled, and for a moment he had the strange sensation that the other half of the box was on the far side of the ring with his feet poking from the end of it. He wanted to say “I’m fine,” but his tongue had now gone entirely to sleep, and he gave up trying. Little hauled the box lid open, and took Miles’s arm as he climbed unsteadily out.

  “You’re hurt,” said Little. “Sit down and I’ll get Gila.” She set Stranski’s stool upright, but Miles shook his head. His legs felt they would buckle at any moment, but he was not ready to sit down yet. He walked shakily to where the tiger stood in the bloodied sawdust, a steady rumbling growl coming from his heaving ribs, and placed his hand on the magnificent beast’s shoulder.

  The tiger turned and gazed into Miles’s pale face. “Your father would be proud,” he said. The audience cheered wildly, and despite the dizziness in his head and the stinging pain in his side Miles felt a wave of pride and happiness sweep through him. He was where he belonged, in the center of a circus ring with a tiger by his side. He took a deep bow, and the audience stood in their seats as the applause grew into a deafening roar.

  As he straightened up, beaming through the pain, Miles felt a tug at the end of his jacket. He looked down to see Hector’s little white face looking up at him, chattering excitedly. The monkey reached into the pocket of his waistcoat and pulled out what looked like a slim wallet. Miles laughed. He reached down to take it, and realized that it was not a wallet at all. It was a leather-bound notebook, the third of Celeste’s diaries, still smelling faintly of the Great Cortado’s cheap cologne.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  INTO THE LIGHT

  Miles Wednesday, rubber-tongued and almost-halved, arrived back at Partridge Manor shortly after midnight, with Little by his bandaged side. He had never felt so tired, and wanted nothing more than to fall into his bed, but as they passed through the main hall of the manor the drawing room door opened and Lady Partridge appeared. “There you are, Miles dear,” she boomed. “Are you all right? I was worried sick! Are you badly hurt?”

  “I’m just a bit sore,” said Miles. His tongue still felt like it was someone else’s, but he could speak well enough.

  “Well, I’m just delighted to see you alive. We’ve been hearing the other side of the story from . . . well, you’d better come in and hear it for yourself.” She opened the door wide, and a murmur of voices flooded out with the warm lamplight. Miles and Little entered the room to find Sergeant Bramley and Constable Flap, who were becoming as familiar as the furniture, seated on the sofa by the fire, and in between them the dejected figure of Doctor Tau-Tau, his face scraped and bruised and his eyes staring fixedly at the carpet.

  “Well, Master Miles,” said Sergeant Bramley, “I hear you’ve been taking this sawing-in-half game a little too seriously. I trust you’re still in one piece.”

  “I am,” said Miles, “but it was a close thing.”

  Constable Flap pulled up another sofa, and Miles and Little flopped down on it while Lady Partridge settled herself in her armchair. As soon as she was seated she began to attract cats like a lollipop attracts fluff.

  “Where did you find Doctor Tau-Tau?” asked Miles.

  “Walked into the police station, bold as brass,” said the sergeant. “Rambling like a drunk and handcuffed to a metal bar. I couldn’t get any sense out of him, so I put him in the lockup to cool off.”

  “I was making perfect sense,” muttered Doctor Tau-Tau. “Just a slight numbness of the tongue, that was all.”

  “Yes, well,” said the sergeant, “I sent Constable Flap in to question him in detail, and it turned out that he had come in to alert us to the danger from that Cortado villain. It was the metal bar and the slurry speech that made me think he had a screw loose.”

  “I’d been handcuffed to a motorcycle sidecar since the previous morning,” said Tau-Tau, looking up through bloodshot eyes. “It’s only because I always carry a penknife that I managed to unscrew the bar I was attached to and make my escape.”

  “Who handcuffed you to a sidecar?” asked Little with interest.

  “The Great Cortado,” said Doctor Tau-Tau, “when he kidnapped me
in the woods outside Iota. Of course, if I hadn’t been arrested for trying—”

  “Yes, yes. We’ve been through all that,” said Sergeant Bramley testily. He stood up and looked at his watch. “We’ll be subjecting the prisoner to a full interrogation first thing in the morning, and then we’ll find out where the Great Cortado is holed up, you mark my words.”

  Lady Partridge removed a small cat that clung to her shoulder with needle claws. “Surely you’re not thinking of going off duty at a time like this, Sergeant Bramley? A would-be murderer has just slipped through your net and is getting farther away by the second. As long as he’s on the loose Miles’s life is in danger, not to mention anyone else who gets in his way.”

  “That’s all very well,” said Sergeant Bramley, meaning the complete opposite, “but it’s after midnight, Lady P.”

  “You can leave him here with us,” said Miles, “can’t he, Lady Partridge? Deputy Little can question him. There are a couple of things I’d like her to ask him about a family heirloom of mine.”

  Sergeant Bramley looked doubtful. “It would be . . .”

  “Highly irregular,” finished Constable Flap. He had worked with the sergeant long enough to be able to finish his sentences with great accuracy, though he seldom dared to do so. He was beginning to regret ever having suggested swearing Little in as a deputy. She seemed to be inheriting a growing share of his duties, and she was still, he noticed, wearing his favorite badge.

  The sergeant disliked having his sentences finished by anyone. It had just occurred to him that without the prisoner on his hands he might get a few hours of sleep before beginning his pursuit of the Great Cortado, and after all a clear head was needed to hunt down a master criminal. Especially one on a horse.

 

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