Death of Anton

by Alan Melville

  “Why did you tell me that costume was being cleaned—when you knew very well it wasn’t?”

  “Oh—that costume. My dear man, I have over twenty costumes. I didn’t know you were talking about that one. That one may quite well be in a pawnshop for all I know. I gave it away after last night.”

  “To whom?”

  “To one of the other clowns. They don’t get very good pay, and I thought he might be able to use it. I had no further use for it.”

  “I can imagine that. It had some pretty damning evidence on it.”

  “It had a piece torn out of it, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s what I mean. I found the piece. Lying beside the tigers’ cage—just after we’d found Anton.”

  “It’s very likely. Are you suspecting me of murdering Anton?”

  “At the moment—yes.”

  “Then you mustn’t waste any more time doing so, Mr. Minto. I’ll tell you exactly what happened. After I left Carey’s caravan, I made my way back to the tent where we had the supper. I had to pass the tigers’ cage on the way. I saw Anton, lying in the cage—apparently dead. I tried to pull him towards the door of the cage. Peter—the big tiger—sprang at me. I just got my arm free in time. As it was, I got a scratch across the face—the scratch you noticed last night. It was as near as I ever wish to be to a tiger. He made another jab at me through the bars—standing over Anton’s body—and tore the costume I was wearing. His claws went right through the silk and opened up another scratch across my hip. If you like, I’ll show it to you. After that I dashed back and told the rest of you what had happened. The costume was no use to me any more…I gave it to this man this morning. It’s quite possible that he pawned it as soon as he got it. In fact, knowing the man, I should have been surprised if he hadn’t pawned it. Does that satisfy you, Mr. Minto?”

  Mr. Minto agreed, grudgingly, that it satisfied him.

  “Which clown was it that you gave the costume to?”

  “Ginger. The one who rides the comic bicycle.”

  Mr. Minto lit a pipe in an attempt to soothe his feelings. It was really very trying. Everybody had such excellent explanations for everything.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Whenever Mr. Minto found himself up a cul-de-sac, he resorted to pen and paper. It was, he found, a great help to put the facts of the case down in black and white in the form of a questionnaire and go away to a quiet corner to brood over it. Things which in real life seemed a mere muddle very often cleared themselves up quite a lot with the aid of a fountain-pen.

  Mr. Minto, therefore, after getting back to the hotel and saying good night to Dodo, went into the lounge and helped himself to a large quantity of the hotel’s note-paper. Then he went up to his room, pausing only to order a “John Collins” at the bar (for the night was even warmer than at the beginning of the week), and settled down to put his observations on paper.

  “Death of Anton,” Mr. Minto wrote, and underlined it neatly three times. He then took a lengthy sip of his “John Collins”, said, “Ah…!” and got down to business. Thus:

  Q. Who killed Anton?

  A. That’s what we’re trying to find out, and up to now we don’t seem to be doing any too well.

  Q. Taking the evidence collected so far, everything would appear to point to the fact that Miller had killed Anton. He had an excellent motive; he had the opportunity for doing the deed after leaving the supper-party; he left the note confessing to the crime; and the tigers themselves wasted no time in recognizing him as a person with whom they wished to settle an account. Against all this evidence there is only the fact that Robert (who is a confounded nuisance) says that he is not the man who confessed to the crime. Which are we to believe—the evidence or Robert?

  A. Robert. It was all against the principles of his religion to pass on a matter which was sacred to him. It isn’t likely that he would have done so unless it had been a question of saving an innocent man’s life. (Mem: Good thing that Robert intervened before Miller himself died; otherwise the priest might have thought it wise to keep silent.)

  Q. If Miller did not kill Anton, why did he leave a confession behind saying that he did?

  A. He didn’t, you fool! That confession was planted in Miller’s jacket by someone who wished to throw the guilt on to Miller.

  Q. Who, then?

  A. Now you’re asking!

  Q. What about Lorimer? Is it likely that a sensible young man like Lorimer would invite suspicion by behaving as he did on the night of the crime—i.e. by spending the whole night walking the streets?

  A. No. But you never know.

  Q. What have we against Lorimer?

  A. He had an equally strong motive for killing Anton—the affair, rumoured or true, that his wife was enjoying with the animal trainer. There is no one to check his movements after he left the supper-party. He says he came back to the field and saw the rest of us standing round the tigers’ cage—yet no one appears to have seen him. He admits that he owns a revolver, that he keeps it in his own tent (against the rules of the circus), and that he had it out on the night of the tragedy. In addition to which, through spending the night walking the streets, he was not able to put his shoes outside his bedroom door and get them cleaned—and his shoes are fairly thickly coated with what looks like the same species of mud as is found along the banks of the stream.

  Q. And what in favour of Lorimer?

  A. The fact that no one but a nit-wit would pass on such a lot of damning evidence and information to a detective. And Lorimer, whatever one may think of the things he does on his trapeze, is no nit-wit.

  Q. Pass on to Dodo, then. If Dodo killed Anton—which is possible considering that he left the supper-party some time before the thing was discovered—is it likely that he would dispose of such a vital piece of evidence as the torn costume in so open a manner as he did?

  A. No. Which seems to point to the fact that the costume isn’t a vital piece of evidence at all, and that Dodo’s story about trying to get Anton’s body out of the cage is true.

  Q. Does that clear Dodo, then?

  A. Not on your life!

  Q. Is there any evidence at all to suggest that Carey committed the murder?

  A. None whatever. On the contrary, it seems most unlikely that he would put out of circulation the biggest money-maker in his circus.

  Q. Does that mean that he did it?

  A. Judging from the standards of the average mystery novel, yes. Going by ordinary standards of detection, no.

  Q. If Carey was on the point of selling his interest in the circus to Anton (as seems likely from the document found in Anton’s room), would this be a possible motive for someone making sure that the deal did not go through by murdering Anton before it was completed?

  A. Yes. But for heaven’s sake don’t ask who would be likely to want the deal stopped.

  Q. What is the connection, if any, between the circus and the pawnshop, or the house above the pawnshop?

  A. Ask us another.

  Q. Why do people come to Carey’s caravan at all hours of the night and morning and whistle in a peculiar manner?

  A. See answer to previous question.

  Q. Why should I bother with this confounded case, when it is really none of my business?

  A. Because you’re a damned fool!

  Mr. Minto, having drunk his drink and studied this catechism, realized that the idea of putting down the facts on paper had not worked quite so well this time. There were still an annoyingly large number of things which were as muddled as ever. The confession was one of them; the costume in the pawnshop another. The confession had been found in the jacket of the suit which Miller wore at the supper-party—not in the clothes he had worn before entering the ring to meet the tigers for the last time. That seemed to indicate that the confession had been planted by someone else, and that w
hoever had done the planting had made a mistake. If Miller had written that note himself, confessing to the crime before he went into the ring, and in case anything happened to him in the ring, it was much more likely that he would have placed it in the suit he had been wearing at the time.

  The clown’s costume…it was possible to get that cleared up right away. Mr. Minto looked at his watch and found that it was ten past twelve. According to the rules, things ought to be just beginning to happen down at Martin’s Field. Probably at this minute a choir of whistlers were advancing, like the Dawn Chorus, on Joe Carey’s caravan. He put on his hat and went down to the field.

  One or two of the circus people were still wandering about. He asked an attendant if the clown known as “Ginger” slept on the field or in lodgings in the town.

  “On the ground, sir. That caravan over there.” Mr. Minto went to interview Ginger, and found him aggressively drunk.

  “Did Dodo give you one of his clown costumes yesterday?”

  “What do I care?” said Ginger. “Come in and sit down and have a drink.”

  “Did he?”

  “Did he what?”

  “Did he give you one of his costumes—a red-and-yellow checked costume?”

  “Who said it was red and yellow, eh? It was red and black. With blue spots. And knobs on.”

  Mr. Minto took a breath and began again, pausing between each word to let it sink in.

  “Did—he—give—you—a—costume?”

  “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “Never mind what it’s got to do with me. Did he?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did he what?”

  Mr. Minto sighed deeply and started all over again.

  “The trouble with you,” said Ginger, “is that you’ve had a drop too much. That’s the trouble with you, my lad.”

  Mr. Minto, for the sake of peace, admitted that he’d been drinking steadily since the pubs opened that afternoon.

  “Who are you, anyway? Coming in here and asking stupid questions about Dodo’s costumes at this time of night. You take more water with it next time, that’s my advice. What have I got to do with Dodo’s costumes, eh? None of my business. No concern of mine. Why don’t you go and see Dodo himself, eh? He’ll tell you. Nothing to do with me. Don’t know what you’re talking about. Have a drink.”

  “Listen—did Dodo give you—”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, why couldn’t you say that at first?”

  “Why didn’t you ask me at first?”

  Mr. Minto groaned.

  “What did you do with it?”

  “What did I do with it?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “What did you say?”

  Mr. Minto ran his fingers feverishly through his hair.

  “What did you do with the costume?”

  “What costume?”

  “Dodo’s costume.”

  “What would I be doing with Dodo’s costume, eh? I’ve got costumes of my own. Dodo’s got costumes of his own. I don’t wear Dodo’s costumes. He doesn’t wear mine. Who are you, anyway? Never mind—I don’t care who you are. Have a drink.…”

  Mr. Minto slackened the knot of his tie and felt round the inside of his collar. He appeared to be in danger of having some sort of seizure.

  “Listen…” he said. “You’ve just told me that Dodo gave you one of his costumes yesterday. What did you do with it? And if you say ‘With what?’ I’ll crown you.…”

  “I pawned it,” said Ginger.

  “Where?”

  “In a pawnshop. Where d’you think—in a fish-and-chip restaurant? You’re tight, you know, old man. Tight as a garter.”

  Mr. Minto had not heard the expression before.

  “Was it the pawnshop in Bank Street—at No. 288?”

  “If you know, why are you asking?”

  “Was it?”

  “Was it what?”

  Mr. Minto gave a hollow little groan.

  “Was it the pawnshop at 288, Bank Street?”

  “Yes. ’Course it was. I told you that hours ago.”

  “Thanks very much,” said Mr. Minto. “Good night.”

  “What d’you mean—good night?”

  Mr. Minto left the caravan hurriedly. A cross-talk act like that might make quite a lot of money on the music-hall stage, but it seemed to him quite out of place in a circus. He had, at any rate, put one of the loose ends in its place. Dodo had been telling the truth when he said that he had given away his torn costume. The pawnshop, perhaps, was a perfectly innocent pawnshop. Perhaps…

  Mr. Minto walked over to the other side of the field, where Joe Carey’s green-and-white caravan stood in what Lord Beaverbrook would call splendid isolation. The lights were on inside the caravan; there were no signs of whistling visitors. Mr. Minto knocked on the door and stepped in. Joe Carey shut a drawer quickly and turned round to beam on his visitor.

  “’Ullo, Minto,” he said. “Come right in. Glad to see you. ’Ow’s things, eh? Found the murderer yet?”

  “No, not yet.”

  “Why are you so damn’ sure it wasn’t Miller, eh? Didn’t ’e leave a note be’ind saying that ’e did it?”

  “How did you know that?”

  “Dodo told me.”

  Mr. Minto stroked his chin.

  “That’s quite right,” he said. “He left a note behind, saying that he had killed Anton.”

  “Well—what more d’you want than that?”

  “Plenty, Mr. Carey. For one thing, a person only leaves a note like that lying around when he’s going to commit suicide. And Miller didn’t intend to do that—unless he knew that it was suicide to go in beside those tigers. That’s not the point, though. I know Miller didn’t do it. The murderer of Anton is a Catholic.”

  “Well—Miller was a Catholic, wasn’t he?”

  “He was. But he wasn’t the man who went to the Catholic Church in this town yesterday morning and confessed to the priest there that he’d murdered Anton.”

  Joe Carey sat down heavily.

  “How d’you know that?”

  “Never mind. I know—that’s the main thing.”

  “You know…who did confess?”

  “No. I only know that someone confessed, and that that someone was naturally a Catholic. You’re a Catholic yourself, aren’t you, Carey?”

  Mr. Carey moistened his lips and appeared to have some difficulty in answering.

  “Yes—I’m a Catholic. So’s half the circus. What are you trying to get at, Minto?”

  “I’m trying to get at the man who killed Anton. I’m getting a little tired of this case, and unless I get it finished tomorrow, I’m chucking the whole thing up. I’ve got a wedding to attend at the end of this week, and I never allow business to interfere with pleasure. If you can call a wedding pleasure, that is. I’ve never chucked up a case yet, though…in other words, I’m going to have this one settled up tomorrow. Tonight, maybe.”

  “I…I hope you do,” said Carey. “’Ave a drink?”

  “This is a most hospitable circus. That’s the second drink I’ve been offered in the last ten minutes. No, thank you—none for me.”

  Mr. Carey poured himself out his usual outsize whisky.

  “Carey…why did Anton come to see you the night before he died?”

  “Did ’e?”

  “He did. He was here—in the caravan—round about midnight. You were quarrelling. Your last remark when you showed him out—or threw him out—was ‘keep your nose out of my affairs’. Or something like that. Just what are your affairs, Carey?”

  “Running a circus. Would you like to try it?”

  “Not this one. You’re not thinking of giving up the circus, are you?”

  “Why the ’ell should
I? I make a pretty good thing out of it.”

  “I had an idea you might be selling out—to Anton.”

  Joe Carey produced a gold tooth-pick and did a little excavation before replying.

  “You’ve been busy, ’aven’t you?” he said.

  “Fairly busy—yes.”

  “’Ow did you know I was thinking of selling to Anton, eh?”

  “I found the agreement you’d drawn up—signed by you, and not by Anton.”

  “You did, did you? Yes…I was going to sell out. I’m not so young as I used to be—this moving about from one place to another doesn’t suit me. Anton’s always been crazy to ’ave a circus of ’is own. ’E’s saved for years to buy one. We’d ’ad a talk or two about it, and drawn up the preliminary agreement. It was all fixed up—just needed ’is signature. And now it’s all off.”

  “Very unfortunate.”

  “Very. There aren’t many that would give the price Anton was giving for it.”

  “You haven’t any other interests—outside the circus, I mean?”

  “Yes. I own some pawnshops. Quite a few, in fact. It’s a grand paying line. I’ve one in this town—288, Bank Street. You seem to ’ave got a bit suspicious of it, Minto. Been paying it visits, ’aven’t you? You’re just wasting your time, I’m afraid. It’s as respectable a business as a pawnshop can be.”

  “I see. What had Anton been doing that he was told to keep his nose out of your affairs?”

  “Talking. A dangerous ’abit, Mr. Minto.”

  “What had he been talking about?”

  “If I wasn’t a perfect gent—and if you weren’t a detective—I’d give you the same advice as I gave to Anton. To mind your own business. You being a detective and me being a perfect gent, I’ll tell you. ’E’d been talking about me and Loretta. There was a lot of silly gossip going round, and Anton ’ad ’eard things. ’E was sweet on the girl ’imself, and ’e got it into ’is ’ead that I felt the same way about ’er.”

  “That was what you were quarrelling about?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Lorimer seemed to think it was something more important,” said Mr. Minto.

  “Lorimer? What the ’ell ’as Lorimer got to do with it?”