Case with 4 Clowns

by Bruce, Leo

  “Couldn’t have meant me,” he said. “I’m not the boss here no more than he is. Must be some mistake.”

  The man looked at Ginger, but was met by a blank stare.

  “Well, I don’t know,” he muttered. “Someone’s a bit cracked around here, and it’s not me.” He looked defiantly around at the four of us, but no comment greeted this, so he commenced to walk away towards the main tent, where he could see one or two hands working. One of them pointed to Daroga’s wagon and the man approached it, knocked on the door, and in a few seconds was admitted.

  “Now there’ll be trouble,” commented Ginger.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Well, Jackson’s the only one who’s supposed to take hands on, and he gets a bit riled when anybody else is consulted first. You watch Jackson’s wagon.”

  For a few minutes nothing happened, and then Daroga’s door opened and he and the stranger walked down the steps together. They were what is happily known as an ill-assorted pair. Daroga, tall, loose-jointed, with his long easy stride and dark-tanned face, which seldom seemed to alter its expression; the stranger a slight, underfed little man, one shoulder higher than the other, so that he seemed to walk sideways, a dingy bowler jammed down to his ears and faint wisps of uncut hair hanging down at the back and resting on the frayed collar of his mackintosh. He must have walked many miles in the last few days, for he placed his feet down at every step with a respect usually accorded to broken glass.

  The couple were obviously making for the elephant tent, but before they had got half-way there the door of Jackson’s wagon opened and the proprietor himself emerged.

  “Daroga,” he shouted.

  The wire-walker turned sharply at the voice, and after a slight hesitation began to retrace his steps. The new hand trailed along two or three paces behind him.

  “I’ve just engaged a new elephant man, Mr. Jackson,” said Daroga loudly.

  Ginger nudged me painfully.

  Jackson walked up to the new man and inspected him with cold interest. “Do you think he’s capable of handling the animals?” he asked.

  Daroga’s eyes were like beads. “If you doubt whether I know what’s good for the elephants …” he began.

  “I have no doubt at all about that, Daroga,” replied the proprietor, “but this … man does not impress me as a desirable addition to the circus.” .

  Both men were talking over the head of the new hand as if he did not exist, and his whining voice, in which he began to repeat his previously-claimed experience with other circuses, was over-ridden by their argument as a bus goes over a dirty newspaper in the streets.

  “… The point raised is whether you or I am the proprietor of this circus,” Jackson was saying.

  “I think I ought to be capable of finding the men I want to do my work,” retorted Daroga with some heat.

  Beef and I stood uncomfortably by as this quarrel proceeded to its conclusion. The others were obviously enjoying the whole affair, either out of their dislike for the proprietor, or because they could appreciate any disturbance of the routine of the morning’s work.

  At last, however, Jackson gave in with a very bad grace. It was the kind of defeat, however, which is often called a strategic withdrawal. Daroga began to lead the new hand towards the elephant tent. I had noticed this particular characteristic about nearly all the circus quarrels which I had heard; they never seemed to be solved. In a few cases, when they actually developed into a bout of fisticuffs, I suppose the matter might generally be considered settled, but the normal argument always seemed to leave quite sufficient material for beginning it again at the slightest opportunity.

  Beef and I followed the two men to the elephant tent.

  “Might as well see what’s going on,” Beef said.

  As far as I could see it was difficult to discover which were the real antagonisms in the circus, and which were the ordinary “routine” quarreling. It was bad enough in any case attempting to find the basis of the real ones. I saw Beef’s case becoming more and more complicated at every turn.

  The elephant tent was the scene of unusual activity. Cora Frances seemed to be in charge, leaning against one of the poles, her pale legs crossed and a long cigarette-holder stuck in one corner of her mouth.

  “Wash them in warm water first,” she said to the negro who was crouching at the feet of one of the elephants with a small paint-brush in his hand.

  “Yes ma’am,” replied the negro brightly, “it sure does make them animals look pretty.”

  Strange explosive noises from the other side of the tent attracted our attention, and we saw Daroga walking in wide circles around the second elephant, looking at the animal’s feet in sheer bewilderment.

  “Don’t you think it’s an improvement?” asked Cora Frances coyly.

  “Cor,” breathed Beef in my ear, “look what she’s done.”

  His wide forefinger was pointing at the elephant’s feet and I noticed for the first time that the toe-nails of this creature were enameled a bright scarlet.

  “I’m sorry it had to be red,” went on the irrepressible artist. “Of course they should be lacquered with gold, but none of the shops had gold enamel, so I thought red would do. More modern really.”

  “What’s it for?” spluttered Daroga furiously. “Who’s been tampering with my elephants, that’s what I want to know?”

  “Oh, but it’s not tampering,” said Cora, waving her cigarette-holder at him. “In India they decorate the elephants’ toe-nails whenever there’s a great ceremony. They did it in the London Zoo for the Coronation, you know. I think it would make quite an impression, don’t you?”

  “Impression?” Daroga was almost speechless.

  “Yes. I mean, it’s rather a clever amalgamation of the ancient royal custom, and the modern fashion. The audience will be thrilled to bits.”

  Daroga recovered himself with an effort. “Here, you,” he shouted to the new hand. “Here’s your first job. Get a bucket of water and a scrubbing-brush and see that all that colored muck is off before the afternoon performance.”

  “I’m afraid it won’t come off as easily as that,” said Cora. “You see, it’s enamel.”

  “I don’t care if you have to sand-paper it off,” was the elephant-trainer’s parting shot. “But get it off before I see those animals again.”

  “Dear me,” said Cora Frances with concern, as soon as he had left the tent. “I seem to be creating quite a disturbance here, don’t I?”

  For a moment she seemed different from her usual self, and I felt a passing pity for her. She seemed to be lonely and deflated, and I thought that perhaps her whole manner was only a gigantic mask to cover just that. I could visualize her, solitary, after the crowd of “admiring” people had gone, suddenly allowing her expression to fall into more natural and less vivacious folds. I could see her aging. Perhaps it was fanciful; perhaps even to herself she was the over-blown, self-opinionated person she was to others. In any case, the one remark which I made, and which was an attempt to be friendly, was not well received.

  I said: “Perhaps you don’t understand circus people thoroughly, Miss Frances.”

  “Oh, but I do,” she said immediately, recovering her normal manner in a flash. “They simply adore me here. Why, I really don’t think the circus would be able to go on if I stopped coming.”

  I felt that the tragedy, if there was one, lay in the fact that she really did believe this fantastic statement. The three of us walked slowly back across the field to the wagons, Cora Frances chatting brightly to Beef all the way and receiving grunts and monosyllables in exchange. Anita, who was standing in front of the big top, waved to us and walked to meet us.

  “I really feel we are not wanted,” said Cora to Beef. “Shall we leave the two young people alone?”

  But before he could answer this outrageous statement, I said quickly: “Let’s all go down the road for a drink,” and gathering Anita on the way out I shepherded the little group, almost by brute force,
out of the gate.

  CHAPTER XXII

  April 30th (continued).

  THAT afternoon Beef and I managed to get Suzanne alone and talk to her about Chris and Len Waterman. Looking back I think that it was probably the most uncomfortable interview I witnessed during the whole of the case, for it became clear after a time that Suzanne was not only nervous about telling us anything, but when Beef broached the subject of the old affair with the electrician, she seemed to be really frightened of something.

  “I’d rather not talk about it,” she said. “Everything’s so terribly mixed and muddled.”

  But Beef managed to persuade her that we were only trying to help, and at last she gave us something of a story. It was very incoherent and breathless, and Beef had to ask many questions on each point before she would give us a complete answer.

  There really had been, she told us, a love affair between herself and the electrician Len Waterman. It had started a few years after she had joined the circus. Len had known her before then, and had been the cause of her getting the job. Actually, he had been the friend of her late husband, and when an accident on the trapeze had made her a widow, Len had tried to persuade her to marry him.

  But Suzanne had wanted to give up circus life, and had refused and run away. It was only by an accident that Len had found her again. She was unhappy, and eventually he got her to take up her old job, this time with Jacobi’s Circus.

  Perhaps she had been very lonely, she said, perhaps it was Len’s continued, quiet kindness to her. She didn’t know how it happened, but slowly, almost unnoticed, she discovered that she was falling in love with him. Although she felt that there was something wrong with this, that it was false, she was too tired to talk the position over with Len. And so it had gone on, almost like a dream for her, until the Dariennes arrived.

  It had been, Suzanne told us, like coming out of a thick misty valley into the sunshine on a hill. The two French boys had been so kind to her, and the younger one was so full of life and an almost irresponsible gayety, that the whole atmosphere of the circus seemed to change. And she had fallen in love with Christophe.

  Len must have guessed that this was happening, because he chose this particular time to ask Suzanne if she would marry him. But he had left it too late. Suzanne refused him. There had been a terrible quarrel, which somehow Suzanne had kept from the two brothers. She was frightened that Chris would find out about Len.

  “What did Len Waterman say?” asked Beef. “Did he threaten you at all?”

  “He didn’t exactly threaten me,” said Suzanne. “I can remember some of the things he said, though. You see, I didn’t dare tell him that I was in love with Chris—I was frightened he might quarrel with him if he knew—so that Len only suspected. He said: ‘You’re in love with somebody else, that’s what it is.’ And though I told him that was not true, he went on, ‘Whoever it is, I’ll get even some day. I can wait,’ he said, ‘I’m a very patient sort of a chap. But one day I’ll get even with you both.’ “

  “You’re in a bit of a fix,” commented Beef thoughtfully. “And do you think he ever found out about Chris?”

  “I don’t know,” said Suzanne shaking her head. “Just lately I’ve thought that perhaps he does know something. He’s been acting very strangely—very friendly to Chris and Paul. And then, in that fight the other day with Bogli’s Circus, I heard that Chris and Len started to fight each other.”

  “And what do you think he might do if he did find out?” I asked.

  “He might do anything. Len’s such a queer fellow. He keeps very quiet for weeks and weeks and nobody knows what he’s thinking, and then suddenly he’ll do something that nobody suspects.”

  “But that’s not all the trouble, is it?” said Beef. “You have to keep it from Paul as well. That’s a bit queer.”

  “It’s all a terrible muddle,” said Suzanne. “I think sometimes it would be easier for everybody if I just ran away and never let anybody know where I’d gone to. You see, Paul is so dependent on his brother, and he hates me, I think. We can’t let him know about our being in love—he’s so violent when he’s cross.”

  “Violent, is he?” said Beef. “How do you mean, violent?”

  “Over all sorts of silly little things. There was one time when we were in the ring and the band played the wrong music by mistake. Paul was terrible. He climbed down from the trapeze and walked across to the band and began to tear the instruments out of their hands. Of course, the audience thought it was part of the clowning and clapped and laughed. But he was serious about it. He wouldn’t appear in the ring again for two or three days. And yet generally he’s so quiet and good-natured. It’s just every now and again that he seems to become another man; someone fierce and violent, who likes hurting for the sake of hurting. I can’t describe it any better than that I’m afraid.”

  Beef closed his notebook slowly, and got up to go.

  “But you won’t tell anybody what I’ve been saying, will you?” said Suzanne suddenly. “I’m so frightened that something terrible might happen if Len or Paul got to know about this. You mustn’t let anybody know, Sergeant.”

  Beef smiled, and I thought for a moment that he was going to pat Suzanne on the head. “That’s all right,” he said reassuringly. “I’m not going to tell nobody until you give me your permission.”

  “But do you think it will ever be cleared up?” asked Suzanne.

  “There’s a lot of things in this circus that want clearing up,” said Beef pompously. “I don’t say as I’ve got the hang of them all yet, but I soon will have. And then you’ll see. What you want to do, Miss Suzanne,” he said, laying a wide and kindly paw on the woman’s shoulder, “is to keep a stiff upper lip. Everything will come all right in the end. Mr. Townsend will see to that.”

  “Poor kid,” he said, as soon as we were out in the open again. “She seems really scared of something. I wonder if there’s anything in it?”

  I did not answer because I was thinking. I had never been involved in a case with so many tangled threads of emotion as this one. Somehow or other I had come to think of murder mysteries as being fairly straightforward affairs, in which one looked for typical and rather common motives, such as revenge, greed, jealousy, madness; something quite simple once you had put all the clues in the right order. But with this case there were no clues to speak of, and the emotions were mixed and muddled to such an extent that it would be hard to say whether any of them constituted a motive for murder. It was altogether too lifelike. Murder stories were better when they remained simple, and did not get mixed up with real people and real feelings. Murder was no doubt a profound crime, but a story about murder, I felt, should be anything but that. Quite beyond my own wishes I was being drawn into a case in which there was scarcely a clue. It would hardly make, I thought, a detective story at all.

  “You know,” said Beef, breaking in on my reflections, “this may be a very unusual case, but I can’t help saying that I’m enjoying it. Change from the old routine.”

  “I wish,” I said, all my bitterness welling up, “that you’d get on with a little more of the routine investigation. That would be a change all right. What am I going to make of this case if you don’t get on with something active? Here we are, after days of wasted time in the circus, and simply nothing to show for it. You know, the trouble with you, Beef, is that you’re too lazy. If you’d been almost any other detective you’d have been clubbed insensible four or five times, pushed over a precipice, shot, kidnaped, run over, caught in a burning building, blown up by a bomb, and a hundred other unpleasant but exciting things. If you had a little more respect for tradition you’d see what I mean. Every other detective of any standing at all is threatened half a dozen times a day. Have you ever been threatened?”

  “Yes,” said Beef triumphantly after a moment’s thought. “How about that time I got an anomalous letter?”

  “I never heard about that,” I said skeptically.

  “That’s right,” said
Beef. “Someone wrote to me and threatened to tell the inspector about how I used to go round the back of the ‘Blue Dragon’ and get a drink after hours, when I was on duty.”

  “And did they?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” said Beef. “But the funny thing was that a day or two after that the inspector dropped round and had a drink with me. So I suppose they must have done.”

  “I can’t help feeling,” I persisted, “that you ought to be attacked or something. It’s hardly respectable to have an investigator who lives in the lap of safety the way you do.”

  “Here, you lay off that stuff,” said Beef becoming a little alarmed. “Didn’t I risk being knocked over the head when we had that scrap with the other circus people? What more do you want for your money? Anyway, I’m not supposed to be a hero. I solve my cases by brain-work, that’s what I do. There’s no call to drag in a lot of violence.”

  “Brain-work!” I said. I felt that Beef was rather overreaching himself, but I could think of nothing to say in reply.

  “And what’s more,” went on Beef, thoroughly aroused now, “you seem to forget that tiger escaping. Why I might have been eaten alive, or something. That’s never happened before in my other cases, and I don’t want it to happen again. No, those were the sort of cases I like. Nice quiet ones, with no danger or discomfort. And if you did your work proper and found jobs for me I shouldn’t have had to come all the way up to Yorkshire.”

  This was, without doubt, the last word. And we walked the rest of the way to our wagon in silence.

  CHAPTER XXIII

  April 30th (continued).

  CALLING for Anita some time during the afternoon to take her for a stroll had now become something of an established custom of mine, and although her wound had completely healed she still took my arm as we walked. To be perfectly honest, I think she would have got more exercise had she gone by herself, but I somewhat weakly refrained from suggesting this to her.