Death of Anton

by Alan Melville

  “No. Goon’s vanished.”

  “Just as I thought. Who could have taken it? Was that case locked?”

  “No. There was a key once, but I don’t know where it is now.”

  “So that anyone could have walked in here and helped themselves?”

  “They’d have me to reckon with, lad.”

  “You’re in the ring a good deal, aren’t you?”

  “I am that.”

  “Anyone could have come in here and taken that revolver while you were away doing your stuff in the ring?”

  “Ay. I suppose so.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Mr. Minto. “I’d buy a key for that case. It might save a lot of trouble. Good afternoon.”

  Mr. Minto went out and walked across the field towards the tigers’ cage. The noise of the band and of applause and the laughter of children came over to him from the big tent where the matinée performance was still going on. Mr. Minto reflected how quickly a tragedy is forgotten. He watched the tigers for a moment, and got the impression that they were now content. It was probably all imagination, of course, but it seemed to Mr. Minto that the beasts had now settled down after doing something they had been wanting to do. He walked round to the door of the cage and—not for the first time—cursed himself for not attending to the matter of fingerprints on the bars of the cage as soon as the tragedy was discovered. The bars were now covered with fingerprints—probably everyone in the circus had touched them between the finding of Anton’s body and the present moment. And one out of all those prints would very likely be the print of the murderer’s hand. Mr. Minto began supposing.…

  Suppose that Miller had killed Anton. Suppose that he had met him after leaving Dodo’s party? He’d come out of the tent across there and walk over here. He might have met Anton just here, behind the tigers’ cage, with the cage between them and the other tents and caravans. It was the most likely spot for any dirty work. Suppose he’d shot Anton and dragged the body up the steps of the cage and thrown him inside?

  Mr. Minto examined the steps carefully. There was some mud and grass on them, otherwise nothing. Well, then…what after that? Surely, if he’d had any sense at all, he would have put the revolver back in the ring-master’s tent? Wait a minute, though…would he? With three rounds fired, and no way of explaining away those three rounds? No—much more likely that Miller (supposing it to be Miller) would have disposed of the revolver altogether. How, then? By planting it in someone’s tent, or in one of the caravans? Surely not. In any case, if it were such a strict rule in the circus that all revolvers were to be placed in the custody of the ring-master, surely it would have been found and handed over by now. No. Miller (or whoever it was) wouldn’t have hidden the gun in that way. Mr. Minto then noticed, for the first time, the burn.

  The burn ran through a corner of the field in which the circus had pitched its tents and caravans. It was less than thirty yards from the tigers’ cage, and between it and the far exit from the field. It was a narrow, fast-running stream, perhaps two or three feet deep in places. What made it appeal to Mr. Minto was the fact that it was very dirty. The water was brown and muddy, and a number of miscellaneous objects, such as empty cigarette packets and tin cans, floated down on it. Mr. Minto scratched his head, lit a cigarette, removed his jacket, and got going.

  There were quite a few of the circus people who, by this time, had come to look on Mr. Minto as—to put it politely—somewhat eccentric, and any of these persons who happened to see him during the next hour had their minds definitely made up. Eccentric was hardly the word for it: this man Minto was just plain daft. For Mr. Minto chose a spot about twenty yards above the tigers’ cage, got down on his hands and knees, and started to build a dam.

  After forty minutes of damming and a great deal of damning, Mr. Minto was filled with admiration for the men who make a habit of harnessing the waters of the Zambesi, Ganges, Nile, and other rivers. His own little stream was hardly in the same class as those, and yet the job of building a dam across even its narrowest part was far from simple. Mr. Minto, for one thing, had on his second-best suit: a pleasing thing of pale grey with a chalk stripe. No one should ever attempt to build a dam, however small, in a pale grey suit with a chalk stripe. Mr. Minto used, apart from bad language, mud and bricks and stones and divots. His dam reached more than three quarters of the way across the burn and was beginning to look really businesslike when the water took it into its head to come downstream at a greatly increased force, and Mr. Minto’s handiwork was carried away as though it had been matchwood. Mr. Minto wiped a tear from his eye, introduced one or two new swears, and started the job again.

  In just an hour the thing was done. Mr. Minto stood up, straightened his back—which was behaving exactly as backs behave in the advertisements of patent liniments before application—and held his breath. The dam also held. Mr. Minto, who was not often guilty of Americanisms, took off his hat and said, “Whoopee!”

  The burn, rather taken aback at this new turn of events, dithered for a while before striking off on a new course. Mr. Minto noted with some alarm that it was now making straight for the big circus tent, and thought how very awkward it would be if a small river suddenly started to run bang through the middle of the ring and went on to undermine the one-and-threepenny seats. Fortunately the stream took a sudden twist just before reaching the tent, and made a new route for itself down towards the stables. It would probably come in quite useful there.

  Mr. Minto was not really interested in the new course of the burn, however; it was the old in which he hoped to find something. He waited patiently while the level of the water fell inch by inch, until at last it was only a muddy bed with no more than a couple of inches of dirty water trickling along it. He lit another cigarette and walked slowly along the bank, falling in at intervals and putting any hope of getting the pale-grey suit dry-cleaned out of the question. And then, as he had hoped, he caught sight of something lying in the mud—not so very far from the tigers’ cage. He put one foot on each bank, did a feat of contortion that would have gone down well in Carey’s or any other circus, and took that something out of the mud. It was a revolver. He wiped most of the grime off it, and went back to the ring-master’s tent.

  “You haven’t found that revolver, have you?” he asked.

  “I have not, lad.”

  “Good. I have. At least, I think so. Is this it?”

  The ring-master inspected the gun carefully.

  “Ay, that’s it all right. Where d’ye get it, lad?”

  Mr. Minto had no time to answer that. He asked where Miller changed into his circus costume.

  “In tent over yonder—next to blue caravan. Usually, that is. He’d use Anton’s dressing-tent today, seeing he was doing his act, poor lad.”

  “And which one is that?”

  The ring-master pointed out Anton’s tent. Mr. Minto hopped happily over to it, still clutching the revolver. Miss St. Clair, seeing him running across the grass with a revolver in his hand, at once set a rumour flying around that the mad detective had run amok and was murdering practically everybody.

  There was no one in the tent. Miller’s everyday clothes lay scattered on a table and on the wooden floor-boards. A suit-case also lay on the table. Mr. Minto opened it and rummaged inside. A pair of flannel trousers, a sweater, and an old jacket were inside the case. The trousers and jacket were covered with mud, caked dry. They were the clothes which Miller had worn at the party last night. Mr. Minto compared the mud with the specimens on his own clothes…both were clay, and both appeared to be the same. That could be easily decided definitely by sending up samples of the mud on Miller’s clothes and the mud on the banks of the stream for analysis. As it happened, such a step was not necessary. Mr. Minto felt through the pockets of Miller’s jacket, and found a note-case, empty except for two pound notes and a single sheet of paper. Mr. Minto read what was written on the paper and sig
hed happily. It was a statement, to be revealed in the event of anything happening to him at the performance that afternoon. Miller must have guessed what was coming to him. It stated, in a minimum of words, how Miller had murdered Anton, and why.

  Mr. Minto, humming softly, went back to his hotel to meet Claire and her young man. It was very nice to get the thing settled up so easily as this.

  “I may be wrong,” said Claire, “but I had the impression that you invited us here for five o’clock. It’s now a quarter past six. Ronnie and I have discussed the kitchen linoleum, the disadvantages of twin beds, the kind of roses we’re going to grow in the garden, and the Oxford Group Movement. Where the blazes have you been?”

  “I’ve been to the circus,” said Mr. Minto.

  “What, again? Robert’s gone there too. He got a summons to go along right away. Someone’s dying or something. He said he’d look in here on his way back.”

  “Robert won’t be of much use now,” said Mr. Minto.

  “What’s been happening, sir?” asked Claire’s fiancé. He seemed a little worried.

  “I’ve had the unpleasant experience of seeing a man mauled by those tigers—and really mauled this time, mind you.”

  “Good heavens—who?”

  Young Mr. Briggs had gone quite white at the mention of the word “mauled”. Mr. Minto thought it was as well that he had not seen the actual mauling.

  “Miller. He’s dead now. And I’ve also found out who killed Anton.”

  “For the second time, good heavens! And who?”

  “Miller.”

  “Tell us everything, Inspector,” said Claire.

  “Just a minute—here’s tea. Wait until Lightning goes away, and then tell us all.”

  Mr. Minto waited patiently until the aged waiter had shuffled off. Then he took a cup of tea from Claire and stirred it thoughtfully.

  “I didn’t solve the crime,” he said. “The tigers did it, by the way they behaved as soon as they saw who was to put them through their paces in the ring this afternoon. I’m glad you two weren’t there…it wasn’t exactly pleasant. They knew perfectly well who had killed Anton, those tigers; they were waiting for a chance to put the matter straight. Blood for blood, and all that. And they did it—most efficiently. They killed Miller.”

  “But you can’t be sure that he murdered Anton, just because the tigers went for him.”

  “I’m not. I’ve been nosing around and I’ve found out quite a lot of things this afternoon. First of all I found the gun that was used to kill Anton. Miller’s gun is kept by the ring-master; it had disappeared. I tried to think of a likely place where it might be—and I did a bit of damming.”

  “What?” said young Mr. Briggs.

  “Quite all right—two ‘m’s’. There’s a little burn running through the circus field, quite close to the tigers’ cage. Very muddy water and two feet or more deep in places—just the ideal spot for parking an unwanted revolver. I dammed it—the burn, I mean.”

  “I was wondering what you’d been doing,” said Claire. “You look as though you’d been digging a field of potatoes.”

  “Yes,” said Mr. Minto. “A pity—I always liked this suit. However, I dammed the burn. I diverted its course and at this moment it’s quite likely that it’s running blithely down the High Street, or into Robert’s church. At any rate, when the old course ran dry I found the revolver. Miller’s revolver, with three rounds fired. Then I went to the tent where he changed into his circus costume and had a look through his personal belongings. The suit he wore at last night’s party was there—with a great deal of mud on it. The same rich, clinging stuff that you see here. D’you think it’ll come off, Claire?”

  “Never,” said Claire. “Go on—carry on with the story.”

  “That’s about all. Miller was mad at Anton for pitching him out of the act. He killed him out of sheer jealousy, and planted his body in the cage, thinking that those tigers would destroy all trace of the crime. Unfortunately for him, Dodo found the body before the tigers had time to do any real destroying. The evidence was pretty strong against Miller from the start. I knew that Anton’s murderer must have been someone who knew those animals fairly intimately. The ordinary man in the street would think twice about going inside a cage with seven tigers, especially when he was carrying another man over his shoulder. He may have had a little too much to drink at the party, and before it.…

  “He went out after he’d said his little piece, you remember, and he must have seen Anton wandering about outside. He went to the ring-master’s tent—the ring-master was at the party, of course—and he got his gun out. He met Anton behind the tigers’ cage and he shot him. The noise of the shots wouldn’t be heard in the tent where we were having supper: it’s a fair distance away and we were all making a good deal of noise ourselves. In addition to which the tigers may have been saying their say and helped to drown the noise of the shots. He killed him, dragged the body inside the cage, and left it there. He threw the revolver into the burn, thinking it would be safe there—at any rate, until the circus moved on. He went to the tent where he usually changed for the performance, took off his clothes and put on another suit. Perhaps you didn’t notice him in the crowd when we rushed out and saw what had happened to Anton. I did. He wasn’t wearing the same suit as he wore at the party. For the very good reason that there was too much mud—and perhaps an odd spot or two of blood—on the clothes he wore when he killed Anton.”

  “Here’s Robert,” said Claire. “Come and sit down, darling. Were you in time?”

  “No,” said the priest. “The man was dead before I got there. This circus seems to be fated, doesn’t it?”

  “Have some tea and keep quiet, then,” said Claire. “Detective-Inspector Minto has found out who killed Anton.”

  The priest looked at his brother.

  “Who, then?” he asked.

  “The man you were sent to see—Miller. He was mauled by those tigers this afternoon.…He’s paid the penalty for his sins all right.”

  Father Robert Minto selected a sandwich and munched it without replying.

  “Well, go on, Inspector,” said Claire. “Finish the recital.”

  “There’s nothing more to say.”

  “But does that make it certain? I mean, can you definitely say that this man Miller did it, from what you’ve told us?”

  “Not from what I’ve told you,” said Mr. Minto, “because I haven’t told you all I found this afternoon.”

  “Detectives are the most annoying people,” said Claire. “Go on, then. Stop trying to be mysterious and tell us all.”

  “I found a confession.”

  The priest put down his tea-cup with a bang.

  “Confession?” he said.

  “Yes, Robert. As well as confessing to you—and to his God—this man Miller wrote down a confession for the benefit of the police. I wish every murderer were as considerate. It saves such a lot of trouble when you get the thing from the murderer himself. There are always any amount of people who don’t believe the police, or the jury, or the judge, or the evidence—but when a murderer confesses himself, that puts an end to all discussion. I found a written confession in the pocket of the jacket which Miller had worn last night, written and signed by himself and admitting that he had killed Anton.”

  “Well!” said Claire. “That’s that. I think the London police are simply marvellous. Or has somebody said that before?”

  “I’m glad it’s over,” said Mr. Minto. “Now we can concentrate on the real business of the week. This blooming wedding on Saturday.”

  The priest dropped his head in his hands and said, “Oh, dear.…”

  “What’s the matter, Robert?” asked Claire. “You needn’t look so tragic whenever anyone starts to talk about the wedding.”

  “I…I don’t know what to do,” said the priest.

&nbs
p; “What’s worrying you, Robert?” asked Mr. Minto.

  “Perhaps I ought not to tell you this…I don’t know.…”

  “Well?”

  “The man who came into the church this morning and confessed to having murdered Anton was…not Miller. I am afraid that you have not yet solved this terrible business. Miller did not murder Anton.…”

  “Oh, hell!” said Mr. Minto.

  Chapter Eleven

  When Mr. Minto said “Oh, hell!” he meant it. To have rounded off what he thought was a neat, quick job of work, only to be stymied by this pink little priest who knew the name of Anton’s murderer, was, to say the least of it, a little trying. Not for the first time did Mr. Minto wish that his brother had stuck to his original idea of becoming an engine-driver, instead of entering the Church. Mr. Minto, poor soul, had imagined that his interest in the circus and in Anton’s death was now finished and that he could devote his time to preparations for the wedding of his sister Claire to Mr. Ronald Briggs on the following Saturday.

  He had packed in a hurry when leaving London, and there were one or two things he would have to buy before he could appear in all his glory at the wedding ceremony. A quiet grey tie appeared to be indicated, for one thing; for Mr. Minto had discovered, through reading all the society papers in the hotel lounge, that cravats were no longer the Thing To Wear. His top-hat, which at present resembled a barbed-wire entanglement, had somehow to be transformed into a crowning glory before Saturday. Most important of all, Mr. Minto had his speech to prepare for the reception, and that would be a whole-day job in itself. Mr. Minto rarely spoke in public, except to give evidence in cases, but when he did so he liked to do the thing well. Neatly turned phrases, apt similes, and at least two brand-new jokes were essentials of the Minto speeches.

  Up to now he had got no further than the somewhat hackneyed opening, “Ladies and gentlemen”, though he had thought out the rough draft of a first sentence, saying what great pleasure it gave him to be present today on this happy and auspicious occasion. Sound stuff, as far as it went; but a great deal had still to be thought out. He had one very good joke, but was a little doubtful about how Robert would react to it. And now, just when he was thinking that he could lie back and concentrate on the speech and such matters, he was flung back into the middle of the Anton business by a single sentence from the priest.