by Bruce, Leo
But instead of standing over it, this time Anita lay down beside the peg and spread her arm, so that the peg shone whitely in the crook, not more than an inch from her side—and not more than six from her heart. The audience were completely silent now. They might have been holding their breaths, there was so little noise. I could hear the dull thumps of the horse’s hoofs. Again the horse flashed by, and the lance was waved in the air with all five pegs on the tip. Helen leaped from the horse and held the lance out to the audience, as if in proof that there was no trick, and then held out her other hand to her sister, who had got slowly to her feet. I sat back in my seat, to find that my shirt and coat were sticking to my shoulders. As she bowed, Anita kept her hand close to her left side.
“My God,” said Cora in my ear, “did you see how close that was? The lance actually cut the cloth of her costume.”
But the girls turned before I could verify this statement, and ran from the ring. The clapping was deafening, even the people from Bogli’s Circus were applauding. But the girls did not reappear to take a bow, and in a few seconds the band changed the music and the curtains parted for the next turn, as Eustace the seal flopped through and into the ring, where the attendants were already arranging the apparatus for the turn.
Somehow, after the previous display, the seal act seemed slow and uninteresting. I realized how much the audience had been shaken in the last five minutes by the way they now felt the urge to talk, to turn to each other with some nervous joke or remark, as if to prove that they each knew there had been no danger in that last act. Actually, there had been very real danger, and they knew it, but people are like that. A slightly hysterical giggle often betrays far higher emotion than the burying of a face in a pair of hands.
Even Cora seemed to feel this, for she turned to me now that Corinne had followed the seal into the ring, with the obvious desire to talk.
“Trying to be a femme fatale,” she said, indicating Corinne, who did appear to be performing in a remarkably languid way. “Of course, the seal does rather spoil the act for her, poor dear,” went on Cora. “Oh, but how catty you must think me. I simply can’t help it. You must admit that she’s a very silly little creature, really.”
I tried to evade saying anything to this by merely grunting, and pretending to keep my eyes glued on the act. Torrant, I noticed thankfully, had not heard the remark, for he was leaning forward in his seat gazing at Corinne Jackson.
The act followed the usual lines of the seal-act, balancing balls, climbing steps with a ball on its nose, juggling with a loaf of bread and so on. I could see that the people from Bogli’s Circus were showing quite open boredom, and this in turn seemed to affect Corinne, whose commands to Eustace grew more and more curt, and her actions even careless. At one point, when the seal was balancing on a narrow strip of board and refused to take up a position she wanted, she walked over to it and lifted it bodily an inch or so farther along. A loud voice from the other side of the ring gave a derisive laugh, which was quickly taken up by the rest of Bogli’s artists.
Knowing even the slight amount that we did about Corinne, I could realize the dislike Corinne must have for this act. It could only be her father’s influence that made her bring it on. Even the small pieces of fish she had to handle during the tricks must have nauseated her.
My attention was distracted by the figure of Jackson standing at the back of the ring, close to the curtains which concealed the artists’ entrance. He seemed to be watching the act with some anxiety, every now and again glancing quickly behind at the curtains, and even once or twice going back to them and peering between them. What could he be expecting from that direction? Whatever it was, it did not interrupt the act, which passed off smoothly, if uneventfully. The applause was polite, except from Bogli’s Circus, many of the members of which called into the ring phrases which I could not hear properly. They were probably in circus slang, for I noticed Cora gave a slight chuckle once, as if she had seen a joke. Corinne bowed coldly to the audience and then retired, to be immediately replaced by the three clowns. There seemed to be a slight altercation at the entrance, and one or two of the audience at that side of the ring laughed.
Sid Bolton, who was wearing a long black silky costume, rather like a pantomime dame, flopped down on the ground as he reached the ring, and began to waddle in on his bent elbows and knees in a large imitation of Eustace the seal. In a few seconds he was followed by Eric, who minced coyly to the middle of the ring, and then, taking up a small whip, menaced Sid with it, ordering him in a squeaky voice to mount the stool. Sid shook his head violently, Eric insisted, and then, on a further refusal from the “seal,” he threw down the whip in the sawdust and stamped his feet pettishly. I realized suddenly, with the audience, that Corinne’s act was being guyed, and a gust of laughter rocked the tent. Finally, Eric walked daintily forward and threw his arms round the prostrate Sid, pretending to attempt to lift him into position.
Young Torrant suddenly stood upright in his place, but Cora grasped him quickly and drew him down. “There was no need for him to do that,” he protested.
“Oh, you mustn’t mind that sort of thing,” said Cora pacifically. “Of course, it’s not in the usual act, but I think it’s rather clever all the same.”
“But it’s not right,” said Torrant, still trying to free himself from her. “I mean, showing her up in the ring like that. And he’s her brother too.”
“I should have thought that gave him more of a right than most people,” I observed, for quite honestly, I had found the display immensely amusing, even if not in the best of taste. I could only imagine how furious Corinne would be. It might even be a reason for her never appearing in the ring again. Meanwhile, however, it was very funny.
But Eric and Sid had finished their gagging, and had gone on to the routine which I knew: an exchange of slaps, which always seemed to form the bedrock of the circus clown’s art. Sid writhed on the ground in mock agony, howling and moaning in an unusually realistic way. Whether it was from previous knowledge of him or not, I felt that this evening he was more than ever annoyed with the part he was playing. Suddenly, in the middle of the act, there was the crack of lightning close over the tent, followed immediately by a roaring burst of thunder. Clem Gail pulled a long face and looked round at the audience.
“Eeee,” he said, “what a luvly night for a murder.”
Strangely enough, the crowd did not laugh very much at this, and I felt myself being wrenched back to the reality of the situation. The clowning filled in the gap quickly, however, and in a few minutes the crowd were applauding them out of the ring. If I had never seen Clem Gail before, I should have found it impossible to believe that this clown was the same man I knew him to be out of the ring. Not only his manner, and his face, were changed, but his whole bearing were those of another man, of a stranger. It was as if he had become someone else despite himself.
Jackson now came forward to announce, while the apparatus was being erected, Daroga’s wire-walking act. The two shining steel trestles were quickly wedged into place, with the wire hanging slackly between them. Jackson was just tightening this when Daroga entered the ring and saluted the audience. Bogli’s, who had been giving the most generous applause to the other acts, now remained perfectly silent, and Daroga glanced across at them, almost as if he were commanding them to clap. “Let’s see if you’re worth it first,” shouted a voice. Daroga made as if to threaten the speaker, and then suddenly remembered where he was and walked coolly over to the wire and tested it. He looked almost handsome in his bright cossack costume, with high soft leather boots, embroidered blouse, and astrakhan hat. A small, evil-looking knout dangled from his belt and knocked against his knee as he walked in a way which fascinated me. As he approached the wire, Jackson, who was screwing the supports tighter, said something to him in a low voice. The wire-walker took no notice, but pushed the proprietor out of the way roughly and proceeded to loosen the very wire Jackson had been tightening. The proprietor stood his
ground for a moment, and then retreated slowly, almost like a cat, until he was just outside the ring, and then he turned and walked swiftly out of the tent.
I had watched Daroga’s act before, and found it amazing that a man of his age was able to perform such feats on the wire. But I soon realized that he was on his mettle this evening, and was doing a number of tricks which were completely new to me. Even Cora Frances seemed impressed when, without effort, he lifted his body clean on to one arm without using his elbow for support.
“You know,” she whispered to me, “I had no idea that old Daroga could do a thing like that When I went to Bertram Mills’ this season, they told me that Reverbo was the only wire-walker who could do it. Of course,” she rattled on, “the somersault on the wire is more difficult—I’ve seen Colleano do that, and Don Valento, although he’s probably not so well known, has some of the best tricks of the lot. But old Daroga, in his time, was as good as any of them. Divine old man. Look at him now.”
Daroga was lying on his back on the wire with his hands tucked comfortably behind his head and his feet crossed, and swinging from side to side, almost as if he were half-asleep in a hammock. The band was playing a low lilting tune in time with his swinging, which grew faster and faster, until he suddenly threw himself up on to his feet and continued the swaying from this new position. His body swung with the wire, the center appearing perfectly still, and his legs moving so fast that his body looked like a large letter X. By some arrangement I had not previously noticed, the lights concentrated on him almost like a spot-light, leaving the rest of the tent dim. As his body flicked backward and forward in the strong white light, I suddenly realized what a perfect target the man made. I looked round instinctively, as I thought this, almost as if I might see the sharp-shooter somewhere behind me. But, of course, the ideal position was not inside the tent at all, but outside. How simple it would be for anyone to stand by a hole in the tent wall, fire at Daroga, and then get away long before anyone could get out and trace where the shot came from. The first suspicion would naturally fall on those inside the tent, and during the confusion the assassin could easily either get away or even come into the tent unobserved. At this time of the night, and especially during a violent rain-storm, no one was about outside the tent. My imagination had produced the picture so clearly that I almost anticipated the shot, hearing it ringing in my head. I looked quickly at the wire-walker to see if he had fallen, and then realized that there had been no shot at all—that I had been well on the way towards creating a murder.
A light tap on my shoulder made me start violently and I looked up to see Jackson bending over me. Without saying a word he beckoned me and I followed him into the gangway.
“Mr. Beef,” he said quietly, “told me that you have a revolver.”
“Beef told you?” I asked incredulously.
“Yes. Would you mind handing it over to me. You must realize that I’m responsible for anything that happens in this tent, and I don’t like any of the audience carrying firearms.”
“But this is ridiculous,” I said. “Beef left me his revolver in case there should be any trouble while he was away. And now you’re expecting me to hand it over to you. Well, if it gives you any comfort, I haven’t got the thing on me now. And you can believe that or not.”
Jackson looked at me for a moment, and then turned abruptly and left the tent. He seemed to believe me. As I was returning to my seat, however, I had the premonition that he might have gone to the wagon to try and find the revolver. Obviously, if I was not carrying the thing, there was only one place where it could be. I quickly followed him out into the open.
It was still raining hard, and the thunder had passed across some miles to the north, where it could still be heard like a dull undertone of guns. I walked towards our wagon, but before I got half-way I saw a figure coming from it. I intercepted him before he had reached the big top. It was Jackson.
“Didn’t I see you just come out of our wagon?” I asked.
“That’s quite right, Mr. Townsend,” answered Jackson coolly. “I went to see if I could find that gun.”
“But what right had you …” I began indignantly, but the proprietor interrupted.
“Look here, Mr. Townsend,” he said reasonably, “there’s no reason for you to make all this fuss. I told you before that I didn’t like people in the circus carrying firearms, so I’ve taken charge of this particular gun. You must try to understand my position in this case. Suppose anything happens there in the ring, won’t I be responsible? Of course I will. So I’m taking care to avoid all possible accidents, that’s all.”
“I still don’t see,” I said coldly, “that that gives you the right to break into my wagon.”
“A slight exaggeration,” said Jackson with a smile. “Actually, the door was unlocked. But, of course, you are right. I had no legal right to take this gun. But I think I have the justification, under the circumstances. Now I must get back to the ring.”
“With my gun in your pocket,” I commented.
“Quite. And to put it quite bluntly, there it’s going to stay.” And with this Jackson gave a brief nod and passed me into the big tent. There was nothing I could do but to return to my seat.
Daroga’s wire-walking act had finished, and as I sat down again the comedy ride began. The comedy ride, I discovered from Cora Frances, was one of the traditional acts of the sawdust ring. There is very little variation in it and Eric’s performance followed the usual lines.
The horse ran into the ring, followed by Eric, made up with wig and bulbous nose, so as to be almost unrecognizable. Puffing a fat cigar, he watched the horse running round the ring for a while, and then, handing the cigar to an attendant, he strolled forward and raised his hand confidently to the audience in a gesture which implied that he would now show everybody how a horse should be ridden. The rest of the act was the sheerest slap-stick. Eric leaped over the horse’s back, under its hoofs, was thrown off backwards, sideways, and even over its head. He remained completely unruffled, and continued his attempt to mount the running horse, as if one or two failures were the least one could expect in such a task. The crowd rocked with laughter.
By now Jackson was at his place in the center of the ring, cracking his long ring-master’s whip. But I noticed from time to time that he kept his left hand buried in his coat-pocket all through the act. His face was cold and unmoving as he flicked the lash of the whip a few feet behind the horse every time it passed; his mind was clearly a long way away, and his actions almost automatic.
At last Eric mounted the horse, and struggled to his feet on its crupper. There was much arm waving and shouting to the crowd, and then he began to undress. At least he began to divest himself of coat after coat, and then waistcoat after waistcoat, tossing them into the center of the ring, until the whole place seemed littered with shed clothing. At the fourteenth waistcoat he revealed a pair of stays fastened tightly round his waist, and the crowd’s laughter grew into a roar. These he unbuttoned with difficulty. Immediately, his trousers began to slip gently to his knees, and with a scream of mock embarrassment, he somersaulted out of them, and ran from the ring with his long white shirt trailing behind him.
It seemed quite possible now, with the show nearly half-finished, that Beef had been right when he said nothing would happen that evening. As I looked around the audience, I realized that the early gloom had altogether disappeared, and had been replaced by a real excitement and interest in the performance. It was, without doubt, the best I had ever seen, and I turned to Cora Frances to express the belief that the artists were excelling themselves.
“Aren’t they,” she replied. “At times, you know, one has the feeling that they are performing from sheer desperation. I’ve never seen them quite so careless. Even Daroga, usually so steady and quiet, was positively taking his life in his hands this evening. I think it’s most awfully thrilling.”
Perhaps that was the explanation which I had missed. Were they really throwing themselves a
t risks in desperation? There was no doubt about the show being an outstanding one, and Cora’s reason might be the correct one. She, however, was happily unconscious of the implications of what she had said. Or was she?
The last turn before the interval was the elephants, and as they walked slowly into the ring, Cora nudged me, drawing my attention, no doubt, to her handiwork on their toenails. Daroga followed them on, looking dour and reserved in his Indian costume. But I could tell from the abrupt way he ran through the act, that he was boiling with rage. Once or twice he looked over in our direction, and Cora giggled like a school girl.
“My dear,” she whispered. “He’s livid with fury. He must know who did them. But it would be just like him to blame it on to the new hand. Just look at the poor lamb. Positively cringing.”
The new hand, who remained in the ring during the elephant act, did appear to be behaving very strangely. He kept as far away from Daroga as possible, and also from the elephants, only leading one or another of them when it was absolutely essential. The act started off with the usual climbing on to tubs, dancing, and lifting the wire-walker into the air. Then the Concinis entered for their part of the act, in which they were lifted to the animals’ backs in a sort of pyramid.
Very slowly and resentfully the animals took their places and the two girls climbed into position. Then came the turn of the new hand, who should have been lifted to the head of the bigger elephant. The animal curled his trunk around the man’s waist, but made no effort to raise him from the ground. Suddenly, the man screamed, a high-pitched fearful scream, and began to pull at the trunk with his hands.
