“Well, then—you take on this job yourself. I can’t afford to ’ave the whole show ’eld up while the local bobbies go round taking everybody’s fingerprints. The show must go on.”
“Where have I heard that before?” said Mr. Minto.
“Anton’s dead—but ’e doesn’t come out of the bill. No, sir. Anton and ’is ruddy tigers will be in the programme tomorrow, matinée, same as if nothing ’ad ’appened.”
“How do you propose to do that?” asked Mr. Minto. “Resurrection or substitution?”
“I’ll get a new man,” said Mr. Carey, who had no great love for long words. “One bloke in a loin-cloth looks very much like another bloke in a loin-cloth. From tomorrow onwards Miller’s name will be changed to Anton. I don’t say as ’ow ’is salary will be changed to Anton’s salary—but ’e’s going to do the act.”
“Miller? Is that the fellow who made the outburst in the middle of the party?”
“That’s the bloke. ’E used to work with Anton. ’E knows the act backside foremost. Couldn’t do it same as Anton could, of course, but if ’e keeps off the liquor ’e’ll put it across all right. Liquor, Mr. Minto, is the curse of the circus business.”
Mr. Carey drained his glass, and refilled it.
“It’s the curse of any business,” said Mr. Minto, “except the brewers and distillers.”
“I can shove Miller into Anton’s place, if this thing isn’t given publicity. Now, listen.…If you ’adn’t been invited to Dodo’s party, you wouldn’t ’ave known nothing about this business, would you?”
“I’d have read it in the newspapers tomorrow morning.”
“Not on your life, you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t ’ave known nothing about it, and the police wouldn’t ’ave known nothing about it. There’d just ’ave been an accident, Mr. Minto, and the whole circus staff would ’ave been told pretty plain that if they’d opened their mouths about it they’d ’ave been booted out of the show. We can ’ush these things up all right, Mr. Minto. Now, see ’ere. You’re in town till the end of the week, aren’t you?”
“Saturday night. Sunday morning, if the wedding reception is a good one.”
“Right. Take over this job on your own until then. I’ll give you the run of the circus. You can go where you like, do what you like, ask what questions you like. I’ll do everything I can to ’elp you. I’m just as anxious as anyone to get this business settled up.”
“But not anxious enough to call in the local police?”
“You know what these local police are—all feet and no ’eads. If you ’aven’t got anywhere by the end of the week, I’ll go and put the whole thing before the proper police.”
Mr. Minto drained his glass and put it down on the table.
“Are you suggesting that I’m an improper policeman?” he asked.
“You know what I mean. What d’you say?”
“Right,” said Mr. Minto. “I’ll do it. You understand that, as soon as I do find out anything, I’ll have to report to the proper quarters? And that I can hold you here as long as I like—just as much as these proper police can?”
“If you’re going to find out anything, find it before the end of the week. We open in Norwich on Monday. I’ll do everything I can to ’elp you, Minto. Any ’elp you want, just you come to me. I want to get this cleared up. I don’t want any murderers slinking about in my circus. I—”
“Where were you when Anton was murdered?”
“Eh?”
“I’m sorry. Perhaps I ought to have warned you. I’ve started, you see. My nose is twitching, and I’m on the trail. Where were you when Anton was murdered? You left the supper-party about a quarter to twelve. Where did you go? What did you do? And why?”
“Good God!” said Mr. Carey, wondering if it would not have been as well to have invited the local police to investigate. “I was in the town—with some pals of mine.”
“In the town, with some pals. Doing what?”
“Nothing. Just a friendly call.”
“Rather bad manners, don’t you think? Walking out on Dodo’s bangers, just to pay a friendly call on some pals in the town. Couldn’t it have waited until the morning?”
“No. It couldn’t.”
“Right. Name and address of pals in the town, please.”
“What the ’ell for?”
“My dear man, you’ve put me in charge of this confounded business. Against my wishes. At your own special request. Now you’ve got to help me, or I’ll get peevish and refuse to play.”
“But…I’m not under suspicion, am I?”
“Good heavens, yes.” Mr. Minto laughed heartily at the idea of anyone imagining himself free from suspicion. “Of course you’re under suspicion. Clark Gable is under suspicion. So is President Roosevelt. So is the Emir of Transjordania, and the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs.”
Mr. Carey said he didn’t see what these persons had to do with it.
“They weren’t at Dodo’s party. The only people who aren’t under suspicion at the moment are the people who were at Dodo’s party, and who stayed at the party until the tragedy was discovered.”
“Why?”
“Because Anton was killed during the party.”
“How d’you know that?”
Mr. Minto sighed.
“Because his turn was half-way through the bill—about nine-thirty. And after his turn was over, he went back to his hotel. I’ve been to the hotel, and asked the hall-porter. He stayed in his room until shortly before midnight, and then went out. For a walk, he said. A very long walk, as it turned out.”
“Well!” said Mr. Carey. “Looks as if you’d taken on this case before I asked you to, doesn’t it?”
“Not at all. I merely wanted to find out whether Anton had been back to the hotel. Now, then…Anton was murdered while the party was going on—”
“Just a minute. You’re sure this is murder, are you?”
“Of that there is no possible doubt,” said Mr. Minto, “no possible, probable, shadow of doubt—no possible doubt whatever.”
Mr. Carey, who was not in the habit of patronizing the Savoy Operas, was impressed. He said, “Oh, well, if you’re as sure about it as all that, of course.”
“Anton was murdered between twelve and one-thirty—”
“Couldn’t ’ave been suicide, I suppose?”
“I wish you wouldn’t interrupt,” said Mr. Minto. “Why should it have been suicide?”
“Well—’e was getting pretty down with them tigers, you know. ’E’d ’ad a bad day with ’em—at the afternoon show in particular. Maybe ’e got it into ’is ’ead that ’e was losing ’is nerve, and—”
“And shot himself three times, afterwards dragging what was left of himself inside the tiger’s cage, shutting and locking the door, lying down on the floor and passing gracefully out?”
“Not necessarily. ’E might ’ave done it once ’e was in the cage.”
Mr. Minto pondered.
“M’m…an odd place to commit suicide, isn’t it? But quite possible. In which case, what became of the revolver? Did the tigers eat that?”
“Maybe it’s lying about somewhere—on the grass round about the cage.”
“It’s not. I looked. I found something else, but I didn’t find a revolver.”
“What did you find?” asked Mr. Carey. He seemed a little worried about this.
“Never mind. And stop asking me questions. It’s most disconcerting. I’ve lost the place now—where were we? Oh yes. Anton, for the third and last time, was killed during the party—probably between midnight and one-thirty. So that anyone who wasn’t at the party at that time is under suspicion. Clark Gable, for instance. The Emir of Transjordania, for example. Or the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. Or you.…You left the party about half past twelve, didn’t you? You’d any amoun
t of time to do it. Much more time than Mr. Gable or the Emir of Transjordania. In fact, I think we can safely wipe them out. I’m not so sure about the Secretary of State for Foreign Affairs. He might have been addressing a meeting in the district, and nipped over and done it. I can’t see why, but we’ll have to check up on him. But, at present, we’ll check up on you. Where were you from the time you deserted those excellent bangers until Anton was found dead?”
Mr. Carey poured out another drink.
“I was with some people called Winter. 288, Bank Street. Above a pawnshop.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. If they want to live above a pawnshop, it’s none of my business, is it?”
“I didn’t mean that. Why did you go to see them?”
“I told you—a social call. Nothing more.”
“At one in the morning?”
“At one in the morning.”
Mr. Minto fumbled in his pocket-book and produced his tailor’s account rendered. The small piece of cloth which he had picked up from the grass beside the cage fell on to the floor of the caravan. Mr. Carey picked it up.
“Where did you get that?” he asked.
“It’s a pattern for a new suit of plus-fours I’m having made,” said Mr. Minto. “Rather nice, don’t you think? Guaranteed to add at least six strokes to your opponent’s handicap.”
“Don’t kid me. It’s a bit of Dodo’s clown costume, that is.”
“Correct,” said Mr. Minto. “Have you a pencil?”
Mr. Carey produced a pencil. After studying the details of the tailor’s bill and deciding that, if they continued to write “Please” at the foot, he would really have to pay it one of these months, Mr. Minto wrote on the back of the account:
Carey, social call on Winter, 288, Bank Street,
above pawnshop.
“Now, let’s think,” he said. “Who else left the party? This man Miller, after his little outburst. And Lorimer—he went out shortly after you, didn’t he? And Dodo…he was out for twenty minutes or so.”
“It was Dodo who found out what had happened, wasn’t it?”
“It was. Is there any reason why Dodo should kill Anton?”
“Eh? Oh—no; not that I know of.”
“Any reason why you should kill Anton?”
Mr. Carey laughed heartily. A small china ornament fell off one of the caravan walls as a result.
“Do you think I’d smash up the best drawing turn in the circus?”
“Any reason why Miller should kill Anton?”
“Well…yes, I suppose there is.”
“Tell me.”
“You ’eard what ’e said at the supper-party. ’E ’ated Anton like poison. Anton chucked ’im out of the act, and ’e’s never forgotten it. And…well, I suppose ’e knew that if anything ’appened to Anton ’e stood a good chance of getting back in the show in ’is place.”
“That’s interesting. Any reason why Lorimer should kill Anton?”
“Yes…”
“Again? Tell me.”
“Loretta—Lorimer’s wife…and Anton. They were…you know.”
“Oh, dear. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s when Love gets mixed up in a case. People do the daftest things, and the poor detective keeps on trying to find reasons for them. When, of course, there aren’t any reasons. It’s Love, Mr. Carey, that makes a detective’s head go round. However…”
Mr. Minto made some more notes on the back of his bill.
“If what you say is true—and it may be—”
“Thanks very much,” said Mr. Carey.
“If what you say is true, two out of these four people had reasons for seeing Anton dead. Miller and Lorimer. Of course, it may not be any of these four, may it? It might, as I said before, be the Emir of Transjordania. Though at the moment I can’t see the connection. But out of these four, two had reasons. Which probably means that, if Anton’s murderer is among these four, it was either Dodo or yourself who killed him.”
Mr. Carey looked peeved.
“Why?” he demanded.
“Because you haven’t any reasons for wanting him dead,” said Mr. Minto. “Don’t you ever read detective novels?”
“Never. Have another drink?” said Mr. Carey, thinking that his visitor had already had more than enough.
“No, thanks. I must be going. I’m probably locked out of the hotel as it is. I’ll have to wake the night porter, and that’ll take some doing. Was that a whistle?”
“I didn’t hear anything,” said Mr. Carey.
“I thought I—yes—there it is again. I didn’t know you had the nightingale in these parts.”
“It isn’t the nightingale. It’s someone at the door.”
Mr. Carey went to the door of his caravan and opened it a few inches. Mr. Minto could not see the whistler, who was shielded by Carey’s back. He heard only one side of the conversation.
“What d’you want?” asked Carey.
A mumble.
“I’ve no time to see you just now.”
A mutter.
“Get out. You can’t pester me at this time o’ night. Go on—clear out!”
Another mumble.
“Get out!”
Mr. Carey banged the door.
“Someone touting for money,” he said. “I’m always getting ’em. They know I’ve got a soft ’eart, and they just take advantage of me.”
“Yes…” said Mr. Minto, and collected his hat. “Well, good night, Mr. Carey. Thank you for all the information you’ve given me—intentionally and otherwise. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Mr. Minto walked unsteadily down the caravan steps and landed safely on the grass. The door of the caravan shut with a bang. He was perfectly conscious of the fact that the green curtain in the caravan window had been drawn aside, and that Joseph Carey was watching him as he walked across the field. It was only when he reached the gate leading out into the town that Mr. Minto looked back and saw that the curtain had been pulled along again. Then he turned and ran quietly across the field to the other exit, by which Carey’s whistling visitor had left. He caught sight of the man some two hundred yards outside the field, and followed him, keeping always a convenient corner between the stranger and himself. There was something about the man’s back which seemed vaguely familiar, and once when he passed under a street-lamp Mr. Minto could have sworn (and did, in fact, swear) that he had seen him before. If anyone had asked him why he was following the unknown gentleman at this time of the morning, Mr. Minto would have been completely stumped for an answer. He was simply nosing around.
The man walked on through the shopping centre and into the poorer districts of the town. He turned a corner into a long, dirty street made up largely of fish-and-chip restaurants and second-hand clothes shops. An electric light standard was still lit at the corner, and Mr. Minto was able to read the name of the street on the enamel plate fixed on the wall. He was now in Bank Street. He lit a cigarette, watching the whistler out of the corner of his eye. Again he was sure that he had seen the man before. He had some difficulty in shielding his match in the breeze, and by the time he had got his cigarette going the man had disappeared down a side-entrance some distance along the street. Mr. Minto followed him briskly and noted the number above the entrance. It was, as he had imagined, 288.
Mr. Minto then did a very rash thing. He hopped inside a telephone kiosk and rang up the local Superintendent of Police. To ring up a police superintendent at five in the morning is simply asking for trouble. Like the Guardsman who dropped his rifle and the man who lit his cigar before the loyal toast, it is a fit subject for one of Mr. H. M. Bateman’s cartoons.
The Superintendent was sleeping the sleep of the just, and the constable on night duty, when roused, was not at all inclined to wake him up. He knew his Superintendent, and nothing short of murder
would persuade him to cut short his senior officer’s beauty sleep. Mr. Minto said that this happened to be murder, and would he mind getting a move on. The constable then asked who was speaking and, when told, refused to believe it. Certainly he’d heard of Detective-Inspector Minto of Scotland Yard, but how was he to know that the gentleman who was speaking was Detective-Inspector Minto of Scotland Yard? Mr. Minto said, somewhat snappily, that until television came along he had no way of identifying himself over the telephone, but that if he didn’t wake up the Superintendent right away there would be an outsize tornado at the police-station in the early hours of the morning.
The constable vanished, in fear and trembling; the Superintendent arrived after an interval, swearing lucidly. Mr. Minto re-introduced himself and explained the position.
“If I hadn’t hit on this business by a fluke, you wouldn’t have heard anything about it. Now that I’m in on it, they want me to carry on with the case. I think it’s as well to let them think that I’m doing that—if you’ve no objections.”
The Superintendent was too sleepy to have objections.
“I’ll report to Scotland Yard and get their authority. It’s your case, really, and you’ve got to do the work without letting the circus people know that the local police know anything about it.”
“All right—good night, sir.”
“Just a minute. I’m not finished yet. I want you to find out all you can about some people called Winter, living at 288 Bank Street. I want you to put a man on to shadow Mr. Joseph Carey, proprietor of Carey’s Circus, whenever he leaves the circus ground. And I want you to put a man—or a couple of men—to watch the ground, and report on any visitors Carey has late at night, after the circus show is over.”
“What—now?” asked the Superintendent.
“Oh no,” said Mr. Minto. “First thing in the morning will do very nicely, thank you.”
“What do you think this is? It’s a quarter past five now.”
“I appreciate the point,” said Mr. Minto, and rang off.
Getting back to the hotel, Mr. Minto roused the night porter and asked if the gentleman who did the tricks with the tigers—Anton, he thought the name was—had come in during the night. He had: arriving about ten-fifteen and leaving again shortly before midnight. Mr. Minto was glad to hear it, for he had been exaggerating slightly when he told Joe Carey that he had already checked up on Anton’s movements.
Death of Anton Page 9
