“Loretta—my wife—and I haven’t been hitting it off very well lately. Maybe it’s been my fault—I don’t know. I’m pretty well wrapped up in the circus and in our act. I don’t think of much else. I suppose I’ve rather neglected her.”
“No—it’s my fault,” said Loretta, “you’re not taking the blame for any of it, Lorrie. It’s all my fault, and I know it.”
“Darling—”
“It doesn’t really matter to me whose fault it is,” said Mr. Minto. “Suppose you draw lots as to who is to tell the story, and let us get on?”
“Carry on, Lorrie,” said Loretta.
“Well, I began to see that Loretta was—seeing too much of other men. Carey in particular. I thought Carey was getting fresh with her, and I went and played hell with him about it. He—”
“You didn’t play hell the first time,” said Loretta. “That was the second time. The first time you—”
“All right. I’m coming to that later.”
“But I thought you said you were starting at the beginning?” said Mr. Minto.
“I am. This happened before the beginning.”
“What he means is—”
Mr. Minto took out a small slab of chocolate which he had bought from one of the circus attendants. He was hungry, and this looked like being an all-night session. He never enjoyed these cross-talk acts. They wasted your time and told you nothing.
“I went to see Carey about it and he told me not to be such a damned fool. We had a bit of an argument, and finally he said I was wasting my time worrying about him and Loretta—and that if I looked in another direction I might find plenty to worry about. Well, I looked in the other direction, and I found it. Plenty. Loretta was…well, she was living with Anton.”
Mr. Minto munched his chocolate. The girl continued to swing her legs over the edge of the table.
“It’s all right now,” she said. “I mean, it’s all over and done with now.”
“Naturally,” said Mr. Minto, as drily as possible with his mouth full of chocolate. “Anton’s dead. Naturally it’s all over and done with.”
“Yes—but it wasn’t that that put an end to it,” said Lorimer. “It was the fact that I was ready to kill him for it. When Loretta knew that, it ended it.”
“Not the fact that you did kill him?”
“I’ve already told you,” said Lorimer. “I didn’t kill him.”
“All right. Carry on.”
“I met Anton about midnight—behind the tigers’ cage, as I’d arranged. I told him what I’d found out, and he didn’t deny it. I lost my temper and we had a hell of a row. I ran away and went off to my dressing-tent. To get a gun. I keep a gun there—”
“Because once when we were with another circus a lion escaped and if it hadn’t been for Lorrie’s gun—”
“And ever since then I’ve carried one about with me. I got out the gun and walked back to where I’d left Anton. He wasn’t there. I walked back round the tent where the rest of you were having supper—I looked in—”
“No one saw him—”
“—but Anton wasn’t there, either. I went across to Carey’s caravan to see if he were there. I didn’t go in—I just listened outside the door. He didn’t seem to be there. I don’t know where I went next—out of the field, I think, and into the town a bit. I meant murder…I didn’t know what I was doing. After a while I came back to the field and I saw the crowd of you gathered round the tigers’ cage. I kept out of sight—no one saw me, I’m sure. Then I saw them go into the cage and carry Anton’s body out…dead. I got the wind up—I don’t know why. I was still carrying the gun about with me…I couldn’t get it out of my head that I had meant to kill him…and that now he was dead. I began to think that I must have killed him. I thought I was going cuckoo. I slipped back to my tent again and put the gun back. Then I went out and walked about the town a bit. Later on—about two in the morning—I came back and found out what actually had happened…that Anton had been shot—not mauled. That settled it. I got panicky. I knew I’d be suspected. Plenty of people in the circus knew what was going on between Loretta and Anton…and a good few of them knew that I’d just found out. I went out and walked the streets until morning. Then I realized what a damned fool I was being and came back to the hotel. That’s all.”
“So you see—” said Loretta.
“Just a minute. You didn’t know Anton had been shot until you came back to the circus ground about two in the morning?”
“That’s right.”
“You thought he’d been mauled when you saw him being lifted out of the cage?”
“Yes.”
“And yet you got the wind up right away…got it into your head that you might have killed him?”
“So I might. I was going to. I tell you that—quite frankly. I would have killed him, if I’d been able to find the man.”
“M’m. Why did you make that appointment with Anton? To get this business about your wife and him straight—or was it for some other reason?”
“It was something else.”
“What? Tell me.”
“Well—the night before—the night we arrived here—Loretta and I had a bit of a row—”
“Nothing serious, you know. Only Lorrie kept on trying to make out that I—”
“All right. One at a time, if you don’t mind.”
“Loretta and I had a row, and I went out for a walk.”
“You seem to have been doing a lot of walking recently, don’t you?”
“Yes. It’s very good for the muscles.”
“It might be very bad for the neck,” said Mr. Minto. “Go on.”
“I came down to the field here pretty late at night. I was going to see Carey about the way he was playing around with Loretta. I got to the field and was going up to Carey’s caravan when two men came across from the other side of the field. I couldn’t make out who they were—strangers to me, I think—they weren’t circus people. They went straight to the caravan and gave a whistle.”
“A whistle?”
“A funny sort of whistle,” said Loretta. “Like this…wasn’t that how it went, Lorrie?”
“No; more like this.…”
Mr. Minto listened for a minute or two to a whistling duet that would have put any pair of mating nightingales to shame.
“All right,” he said. “They whistled. Like that. Or like that. And then what happened?”
“The door of the caravan opened an inch or two and the men stood very close up to it. They didn’t speak—at any rate, I didn’t hear a word. Then the door was closed and the men went away.”
“Empty-handed?”
“I don’t know. I couldn’t see. They couldn’t have been given anything bulky, or I would have noticed it.”
“And after that?”
“I waited until the men had cleared out, and then went right up to the caravan. Carey wasn’t alone inside. There was a bit of an argument going on. After a few minutes the door opened again and someone came down the steps. Pretty quickly down the steps, too. Carey said something about ‘minding his own business’, and slammed the door. I tried to keep out of sight, but the man saw me. It was Anton. He said, ‘Good God—are you another of them?’ and walked away.”
“Now what d’you think he meant by that?” asked Loretta.
“I haven’t the slightest idea. Don’t you know, Lorimer?” said Mr. Minto.
“I don’t know yet what the man was talking about. I thought of following him to find out, but I changed my mind. I was just going to have another shot at getting in to see Carey when the same thing happened. A man came up to the door of the caravan, whistled, and went away. I could see who it was this time, though. Dodo—the clown.”
“And then you went away?”
“I did not. I went up to the caravan myself and whistled.”
“Not exactly. Like this.…The door opened—Carey stepped out, took a look at me, and planted a Grade ‘A’ sock on my jaw. I don’t think I came round for an hour. It was past four when I got back to the hotel.”
“And a pretty noise you made getting into bed.”
“Didn’t you bring the matter up with Carey, then?” asked Mr. Minto.
“Yes. He says I was never near his blessed caravan. Tries to make out I was tight. There’s something very funny going on in that caravan, Mr. Minto.”
“It’s nothing funny. It’s very tragic.”
“D’you know what it is?”
“I’ve a pretty good idea. Is that the end of your story?”
“Yes. Apart from the fact that I tackled Anton about what he’d said to me. I asked him what he’d been getting at when he said, ‘Are you another of them?’ He said I knew damned well what he meant. After a while he realized that I didn’t, and we fixed up this appointment last night. He was going to tell me all about it. Unfortunately I started off on another line—Loretta, I mean—and I never got the truth about Joe Carey’s whistling visitors.”
Mr. Minto rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“Anton was going to tell you what happened in Carey’s caravan,” he said. “And before he could do so, he was killed. It must have been pretty damning, mustn’t it?”
“You don’t think that Anton’s death was mixed up with the Carey business?”
“I’m sure of it.”
“But—isn’t it as clear as daylight? Didn’t Miller do it?”
“No. That’s the annoying thing. He didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” said Mr. Minto. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. At the start of this business—which has nothing to do with me, and is just an infernal nuisance—I made out a list of four suspects. The four people who left the supper-party at various times before Anton was discovered in the tigers’ cage…and who didn’t come back until after the discovery. Miller, Dodo, Carey, and yourself. Miller is dead, and I know he didn’t do it. That leaves three. If you’re speaking the truth, it leaves two—Dodo and Carey.”
“He’s speaking the truth all right,” said Loretta.
“My dear girl, you’re his wife. You’re the last person to judge whether he’s speaking the truth or not. You must admit, Lorimer, that it looks pretty black against you. You had the best possible motive for killing Anton. You admit that you met him. You even admit that you had a row with him and went to get a revolver to kill him. And after that you’ve no one to check up your movements. You’ve no one even to check up your movements on the previous night, since Carey says you were never near his caravan. There’s just one thing in your favour.”
“And what’s that?” asked Lorimer.
“No one but a congenital idiot would have told me as much as you’ve done about your doings last night,” said Mr. Minto. “And congenital idiots rarely commit murder.”
“That’s a relief, certainly,” said Lorimer.
The ring-master popped his head suddenly through the flap of the tent and said that that was Lorimer and Loretta’s entrance. The two trapeze artists wrapped dressing-gowns around them and got ready for their act.
“By the way,” said Mr. Minto, “when you were looking for Anton last night—after you’d got your revolver—you said you went across to Carey’s caravan.”
“That’s right.”
“Was there anyone inside it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Were the lights on?”
“No.”
“Right. Thanks very much.…”
Mr. Minto went back to the big tent and watched Lorimer and Loretta go through their act. He felt himself at a dead end, and wished that he had never agreed to have anything to do with this case. There were far too many loose ends lying about for his liking—far too many unexplained and unconnected happenings. Why was Anton killed, in the first place? Revenge or jealousy? Perhaps…though with Miller out of the running there seemed no one else who would have gone the length of murder with that sort of motive. The eternal triangle?…Yet Mr. Minto believed at least a great deal of what Lorimer had told him. His experience was that the people who have difficulty in proving an alibi, or in checking their movements, are usually innocent; those who have a ready answer for every question, and can prove conclusively that they were miles away and in the company of four other people all ready to swear to the fact…those are more often than not the ones who end up by watching a square of black silk being placed on a judge’s head.
For what other reason might Anton have been murdered? To keep his mouth shut: a most excellent reason. Lorimer had said that Anton had paid a visit to Carey’s caravan on the night before his death; that the two men had been quarrelling and that Carey’s last remark, on showing Anton to the door, had been something on the lines of mouths being kept shut. Anton had intended to pass on whatever he knew to Lorimer, and before he could do so he had been silenced…permanently so. Mr. Minto decided to concentrate on Joseph Carey for the next day or so. He might even make it an excuse for skipping the wedding. The speech was beginning to prey on his mind; he had tried out the joke on his brother, and it had not gone down at all well. And, as yet, he had not heard any to take its place.
There were several other things to be cleared up, however. The whistlers, for example. The charming girl in the pawnshop, and the grumpy folk who lived above it. Were they connected in any way with the circus, apart from taking in lodgers? If they weren’t, why did Joe Carey visit them in the early hours of the morning—and why did he use the stairs which, according to Mrs. Winter, had not been used for years? What was Dodo’s costume doing lying on the counter of the pawnshop? Was Lorimer telling the truth, after all? Why did the tigers waste so little time in going for Miller, if Miller had nothing to do with the death of Anton? Was Father Robert Minto telling the truth?
“Gosh!” said Mr. Minto, and stood up for the National Anthem.
He let the audience file out, and made his way back to the artists’ quarters, where he sought out Dodo.
“Congratulations,” said Mr. Minto.
“On what?” asked the clown.
“You’ve got through a whole performance without a single fatality.”
“Oh yes. Quite a record, isn’t it? People will be demanding their money back if we go on like this.”
“Going back to the hotel now?”
The clown hesitated.
“I’ll walk home with you, if you don’t mind,” said Mr. Minto.
“Delighted. Just wait until I get my make-up off and change. There’s Seven Pillars to read—I won’t be ten minutes.”
“If you’re only going to be ten minutes, I don’t think I’ll start the book. I’d hate to get to the last chapter and then have to leave it.…”
The clown sat down in front of his mirror and smeared cream over his face. The black of his eyebrows, the red of his nose and lips, and the white of his face became mixed and made him even more grotesque and unreal to look at.
“Why didn’t you wear your nice harlequin costume tonight?” Mr. Minto asked the question casually, playing with Dodo’s sticks of grease-paint.
“It’s being cleaned. All our stuff gets laundered twice a week. We’ve got our own laundry here—all the modern conveniences in Carey’s, you know.’
Mr. Minto smiled and waited in silence until the clown was back once more in his sober suit of dark grey. Then he got up and led the way out of the tent.
“Let’s go this way,” said Dodo. “It’s shorter.”
Mr. Minto, after a brief argument with some tent-pegs and ropes, headed south in the direction of the tigers’ cage.
“A terrible business that this afternoon,” he said. “Poo
r Miller…not a pleasant way to die.”
“I shouldn’t choose it,” said Dodo.
“Hanging is preferable,” said Mr. Minto.
“Infinitely so,” said the clown.
They came up to the cage. The tigers, which had been sullen and silent ever since their affray with Miller, jerked up their heads and started to roar. They roared as they had done during the supper-party, when Anton’s body lay beside them. Mr. Minto was intrigued. He stopped and watched the animals.
“What happened to Peter?” he yelled through the din.
“They had him put down after the show. He was badly wounded, anyway.”
The roaring increased. Mr. Minto took a step forward to the bars of the cage.
“Don’t go any nearer,” said Dodo, and walked on past the cage.
Mr. Minto followed him, satisfied. He had wanted to find out whether he or Dodo was the cause of the tigers’ anger. It would have been most annoying to have discovered that he was the one who was unpopular, or that the tigers roared like this when anyone passed their cage. But the few steps which Dodo had taken away from the cage settled this point quite conclusively. The tigers, ignoring Mr. Minto, followed the clown as far as they could to the corner of the cage, still roaring their loudest. Two great paws reached out through the bars in a vain effort to touch the little man. The tigers did not like Dodo.
Mr. Minto overtook the clown and the two men walked on for a while in silence. At last Mr. Minto took the plunge.
“Why did you pawn your harlequin costume?” he asked.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Why did you pawn the costume you were wearing last night?”
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I’ve never been inside a pawnshop in my life.”
“That’s rum, because your costume is lying on the counter of a pawnshop at 288, Bank Street at this moment. Unless someone’s taken a fancy to it, that is. It’s got a piece torn out of it…and some dried blood on it.”
“Just what are you getting at, Mr. Minto?”
“The murderer of Anton. And I think you can help me.…”
“I wish I could. I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Death of Anton Page 14
