The body was still lying on the grass, with the little crowd staring stupidly at it. Mr. Minto thought it high time that someone did something, and suggested sending for either a doctor or a policeman, or both. His suggestions were at once downed on all sides. There was no need to send outside for a doctor, it seemed. Carey’s Circus, complete with all modern conveniences, toured with its own medical adviser, and Dr. Blair was quite capable of dealing with this business. If sober. Mr. Minto agreed meekly, at the same time mentioning that it might be a good thing to get hold of Dr. Blair as quickly as possible, instead of standing around like a collection of stuffed fish. The stuffed fish scattered in all directions in which Dr. Blair might be found, going first to his caravan (for the Doctor slept on the field) and subsequently on a round of all the places in the town where drinks were in the habit of being served after hours.
“Not that there’s any hurry,” said Miss St. Clair. “I mean, he can’t do anything for him, can he? I mean, he’s dead all right, isn’t he?”
“I never saw anyone deader,” said Mr. Minto. “What about telling the police?”
The crowd, or what was left of it, seemed even more reluctant to bring the police in than they had been to introduce a doctor. There was nothing the police could do, they said. It wasn’t as if it had been a crime, they said. It was just an accident, they said. And, in any case, you wouldn’t be likely to find a policeman at this time of night, and no one knew where the police-station was. Mr. Minto murmured something about the possibility of an inquest, and added that the police would have to be told sooner or later. All very well to talk like that, he was told, but they couldn’t do anything without Mr. Carey’s permission. He was the one to do anything, he was.
“Well, then,” said Mr. Minto, exasperated, “where is Mr. Carey?”
No one knew. They’d gone to his caravan to report the tragedy, but it had been in darkness and the door had been locked. Possibly he was out visiting friends in the town. Possibly not. They would just have to wait.
“And are you going to leave this lying here all night?”
Oh no. The body of Anton was lifted carefully and carried away to an empty caravan in a corner of the field. The remnants of the crowd broke up. Mr. Peterson went back to the tent to collect Horace and put him in his tank. Horace had finished the fish by this time and was barking hoarsely. Dodo said that he’d better go and change, as the night air was a little chilly for going about in these clothes. Loretta, who had not spoken a word since the discovery of the tragedy, walked slowly away to the gate at the other side of the field, and Mr. Minto was interested in the remarks which went round as she left. Loretta, it seemed, would miss Anton a lot. Loretta had been very fond of Anton; and what exactly had Lorimer been doing since leaving the supper-party? And where was he now?
Mr. Minto decided that it was time to shepherd his guests to their homes. He put his arm round his sister’s waist, and snapped his brother out of a shocked stupor.
“Come on,” he said. “Where’s that young man of yours, Claire?”
Young Mr. Briggs was not to be found. He had been standing beside Claire when they came out of the tent to see what had happened; after that he had not been seen.
“Perhaps he went to help find the doctor,” said Claire. “I’d better go and see.”
“You’re going home,” said Mr. Minto. “He can look after himself all right.”
He arranged his sister’s wrap over her shoulders, and the three set off across the field.
“A dreadful business,” said Robert. “Poor fellow…what a terrible end.…”
“What on earth would he be doing inside the cage at that time of night?” asked Claire.
Mr. Minto took some time to answer.
“That’s a moot point,” he said. “A very moot point. Not knowing the habits of tigers, I can’t tell you. They may have to be fed at one in the morning, for all I know.”
“And didn’t you think it a little odd that everyone—I mean, Carey and the others—left us high and dry with the bangers about half an hour before it happened?”
“Very odd, Claire.”
“You might almost think that they knew it was going to happen.”
Mr. Minto stopped in his tracks.
“I won’t have you trying to make a case out of this,” he said. “I’m down here to see you married to that young man of yours, and I’m not getting mixed up in any work in my spare time. It’s a most unfortunate accident, and nothing more. As far as I’m concerned, the thing’s over and done with. We might send a wreath to the funeral between us, but apart from that I’m having nothing to do with the business.”
Having got that off his chest, Mr. Minto arrived at his hotel, and said good night to his brother and sister. He then spun through the revolving doors into the entrance hall of the hotel, waited for perhaps two or three minutes, spun out through the doors again, and went as fast as his legs could carry him back to Martin’s Field. The light was not good enough to be certain that his nose was twitching, but he was enjoying that pleasant sensation which always came to him when confronted with something that demanded looking into.
There was still a great deal of excitement going on when he got back to the circus ground. Mr. Carey had returned and seemed mostly concerned with what was going to happen to the circus minus its star act. Loretta and Dodo were walking up and down in front of the tigers’ cage, talking earnestly. The tigers were not asleep; they sat still, crowded in one corner of their cage, staring out at each person who passed by.
What concerned Mr. Minto more than anything else was the fact that Dr. Blair had been routed out from a back-parlour behind one of the town’s public-houses, and had made a preliminary examination of Anton’s body. Mr. Minto, without waiting to be asked, went straight to the caravan where the body had been placed. He found Dr. Blair with a sponge in one hand and a double whisky in the other.
“Hullo,” said the Doctor, greeting him as an old friend. “Come in. Sit down. We cater for sensation-mongers. The more the merrier. Want a close-up? Not exactly pleasant, but you can have a look.”
Mr. Minto had a look. A long and careful examination, in fact. What seemed so very strange to Dr. Blair was the fact that Mr. Minto looked longest and most carefully at those parts of Anton’s body which had been untouched by the tigers. He seemed most interested in the chest and right shoulder, where there was not a single scratch. Dr. Blair came to the conclusion that the man, whoever he was, had been drinking.
“How did he die?” asked Mr. Minto.
The Doctor did not appear to have heard correctly.
“What’s that?”
“How did he die?”
“He was mauled, you silly ass. By those cats. Always said they’d get him. Nasty brutes. Worse than women. Much worse. He was mauled to death. Poor fellow.”
Mr. Minto had another look.
“Are you a qualified doctor?”
“Edinburgh—1897. F.R.C.S. into the bargain. And what the hell has that got to do with you?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all.”
“Let me tell you, whoever you are—”
Mr. Minto produced his card.
“Never heard of you,” said the Doctor, reading the card upside-down. “Let me tell you, sir, that in my day I had a practice so big that the panel patients used to queue up the night before they wanted to see me. The night before. Like they do at Covent Garden.”
“And what are you doing in a circus, if it isn’t a rude question?”
“It is a rude question. It’s a very rude question. I refuse to answer it,” said the Doctor, going on to answer it at some length. “I was forced to give up my practice owing to a breakdown in health.”
“Whose health?” asked Mr. Minto. “Yours, or your patients’?”
“Mine. I joined the circus because I’ve always wanted to join a circus. And I may tell
you, sir, that I’ve operated on a baby elephant with great success. And that’s more than any other doctor can say. And I don’t know who the hell you are, or what you’re doing barging in here and asking questions. Questions, I may say, which I refuse to answer.”
“I’m a policeman,” said Mr. Minto.
“I don’t believe you,” said the Doctor. “If you’re a policeman, why don’t you arrest me for being tight?”
“I’m not interested in you being tight.”
“Who says I’m tight?”
At this stage of the proceedings the door of the caravan opened and Mr. Carey came in, followed by Dodo, now changed into his drab, ordinary clothes. Mr. Carey was in a bombastic mood.
“Now, then, Minto, time you were getting off ’ome,” he said. “Nothing you can do ’ere. We want to get the place locked up and everyone off to bed.”
“I’ll see Mr. Minto back to the hotel,” said the clown. “He’s staying where I am—at the Station Hotel.”
“You know,” said Mr. Minto, “I do think you ought to call in the police. Right away, I mean.”
“What the blazes can the police do about it?” demanded Mr. Carey.
“I thought you said you were a policeman,” said the Doctor.
“I am. A sort of policeman. I’m from Scotland Yard.”
The Doctor dropped his glass on the floor of the caravan. Mr. Carey seemed shaken. Only the clown remained calm.
“Didn’t I tell you, Carey?” he said. “Minto’s a detective. He’s up here on a holiday—not on business.”
“I had hoped it was going to be a holiday,” said Mr. Minto. “It looks as though business were beginning to shove its nose into things, though.”
“What do you mean?”
“Anton’s death, of course.”
“That isn’t a job for Scotland Yard—when a man gets mauled by a tiger.”
Mr. Minto took another look at the body of Anton before replying.
“It all depends,” he said. “If the man is mauled after his death, it may quite easily be a job for Scotland Yard.”
“Eh?” said Mr. Carey.
The Doctor poured himself out another whisky with a hand that shook.
“I’m afraid you’re talking in riddles, Minto,” said Dodo.
“I’m talking about riddles. This unfortunate young man’s body is riddled…as well as mauled. In fact, I wouldn’t go so far as to say that he had been mauled at all. Certainly he wasn’t a pretty sight when we found him lying in the cage. The tigers had scratched him a bit, and there was a good deal of blood about his body. But mauled—no. Look at him, will you?”
The three men looked down at the body of Anton.
“Our friend the Doctor has sponged most of the blood away. I wouldn’t say that he’s made a very good job of it, but perhaps he isn’t seeing things very well tonight. However…look at these. He’s been given three quite nasty scratches, and that’s all. I wouldn’t call that being mauled, gentlemen. It’s not my idea of mauling at all. That’s the peculiar part about Anton’s death…why didn’t the tigers maul him? Now, I don’t know a great deal about tigers, but even I could see that those beasts were frightened. They were scared stiff. They had a chance to maul Anton, and they didn’t take it. Why? Because I honestly believe that those tigers had a sneaking fondness for their trainer, however little they showed it in the ring. And because I believe that, at that moment, they very much wanted to maul someone else.”
“Who?” said Mr. Carey.
“The man who threw Anton’s body inside their cage,” said Mr. Minto.
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked the clown.
Mr. Minto pulled back the torn shirt which Anton wore.
“Come a little closer, gentlemen,” he said. “You see? There…there…and there. Three punctures.”
“Punctures?”
“If there aren’t three bullets inside that young man’s body at this moment, I’ll willingly eat my best Sunday Homburg. We’ll soon find that out definitely…if you’ll do as I suggest and send for the police—and a doctor who is capable of doing his job.”
“See here, you,” said the presumably incapable Doctor.
“Shut up, Blair!” said Mr. Carey. “What are you getting at, Minto?”
“Anton was shot. Murdered. I believe he was placed inside the cage after he had been killed, so that the tigers would complete the job and destroy all trace of the crime. Whoever did it knew the frame of mind the tigers had been in lately, and knew that Anton and the tigers weren’t seeing eye to eye in their act. They thought they could rely on the beasts putting Amen to this young fellow who made them leap through hoops and all that sort of thing. They thought the tigers would maul him beyond recognition, and that everyone would say ‘What a terrible accident!’…and leave it at that. Unfortunately—or maybe fortunately—these tigers appear to have a conscience. Or perhaps they were frightened of smashing their teeth on those three bullets. I don’t know. All I do know is that Anton was shot. And now, if you’re not going to call in the police, I’ll do it myself. Because I very much want to get to bed.”
Mr. Carey stepped slowly out of the caravan and down on to the grass.
“By the way, Dodo,” said Mr. Minto, “you haven’t taken off all the grease-paint from round your mouth.”
The clown put up his hand to his lips and wiped them.
“Oh,” said Mr. Minto. “My mistake. It isn’t grease-paint. It’s a scratch. Quite a nasty one, too. Well, well…”
Chapter Eight
“Come across to my caravan, Mr. Minto,” said Joe Carey. “I’d like a word with you.”
Mr. Minto followed the circus proprietor over to his green-and-white super-caravan, reflecting that he had never expected to be up and doing at four o’clock in the morning. Mr. Minto came to the conclusion that he was a bad advertisement for any respectable town or village. However well-behaved a place might have been before his arrival, Mr. Minto, it seemed, had only to put his foot in it for a crime of some sort to be committed. It was another case of Mary and her little lamb: wherever Mr. Minto went, crime was sure to go.
On his way to the caravan he passed the tigers’ cage. The beasts had quietened down now, though they were not yet asleep. The four cubs lay huddled together in one corner, staring through the bars of the cage with eyes that never flickered. Peter still paced silently backwards and forwards along the full length of the cage. Mr. Minto, looking at them and trying to analyse their thoughts, made a mental note to visit the town’s Public Library first thing in the morning. He wanted to look up the habits and characteristics of tigers in a Natural History Encyclopaedia. If there were such a thing as a Natural History Encyclopaedia in the town’s Public Library, that is. If, again, there were such a thing as a Public Library in the town. (Mr. Minto found out in the morning that there was not. He was directed to the local branch of a circulating library, where the nearest he could get to the subject in which he was interested was a novel by a Roberta M. Pottersleigh entitled Claws of Desire.)
Mr. Carey had gone ahead, making for his caravan. Mr. Minto, to use a favourite expression of his, did a little nosing around in the neighbourhood of the tigers’ cage. There was no need to strike matches or produce a torch: the moon still shone obligingly. Perhaps that was the reason why the tigers were not sleeping, but Mr. Minto did not think so. He was quite certain that each of the seven beasts knew what had happened that night, and were still brooding over it. A nice heart-to-heart chat with these seven tigers was what he wanted. Mr. Minto thought it a great pity that Anton had not trained a troupe of performing dogs, instead of Bengal tigers. Dogs were so much more approachable. Greatly daring, Mr. Minto put his hand through the bars of the cage and scratched the posterior of one of the cubs. Peter stopped his pacing at once and gave him a look. It was not a friendly look. Mr. Minto withdrew his hand. Peter
went on pacing.
On the grass under the cage, a piece of brightly coloured cloth caught Mr. Minto’s eye. He picked it up, inspected it carefully, and stowed it away between two five-pound notes and his tailor’s account rendered in his pocket-book. Mr. Carey’s voice boomed out from across the field, asking if he were going to stand there all night.
“No,” said Mr. Minto. “I’m just coming.”
Inside the caravan, the proprietor motioned him to a seat, shut and locked the door, pressed a convenient button and asked him if he could go a little something. Mr. Minto said that while he was not in the habit of going little somethings at four in the morning, he would not, under the very special circumstances, object to a small whisky-and-soda. Mr. Carey poured out the largest whisky in Mr. Minto’s history, and added a teaspoonful of soda-water.
“I’ve got a proposition to make to you,” said Mr. Carey.
“As long as you don’t want me to take Anton’s place in the circus…”
“No. If I call in the local police and outside doctors and all that, it’ll bust up the show. They’ll keep us ’ere until they’ve solved this business, and God knows ’ow long that’ll be. I’ve got to get this circus to Norwich on Monday, York a week come Monday, Middlesbrough, Durham, Newcastle, after that, right on to the end of the season. I can’t let a thing like this upset the whole tour.”
“What’s all that got to do with me?”
“Why don’t you look into this business on your own?”
Mr. Minto took a sip of his drink, recovered his breath, and asked for a little more soda.
“I’m sorry,” he said; “I’m here on pleasure. If you can call a wedding pleasure, that is. In any case, you’re apt to get yourself into a whole packet of trouble if you don’t call in the police on this. You’ll have to do it sooner or later. You’d much better do it sooner.”
“But you’re the police, aren’t you?”
“I admit it,” said Mr. Minto gravely. “It’s a dreadful thing to say of anybody, but I admit it.”
Death of Anton Page 8
