Death of A Clown

by Heather Haven

  My contribution to the Grand Finale consists of climbing into the howdah, two times around the Big Top then undress, and go home. Compared to the rest of the show, it’s like taking candy from a baby.

  Chapter Ten

  4:45 p.m., Sunday

  It’s the end of the first show and I return my costumes to wardrobe. I’m heading out of the wardrobe tent when Vince approaches me from the sidelines. I think he’s been waiting for me. There’s a damp chill and I look up at the sky. Clouds have returned, dropping the temperature again. I pull my jacket closed and look expectantly at Vince.

  “Jeri, got a minute?”

  “Sure, Vince. What’s up?”

  “Boss Man is waiting for you in my office. He wants to speak to you. Right now.”

  “He does? Why?”

  Vince shrugs. “Better ask him. Come on.”

  I wonder if word had already gotten back to management about my run-in with Rosie. Vince walks me back to the offices and supply tents area, and I prepare myself for the worst.

  He knocks on the door of his own trailer, which strikes me as strange. Sounds of a radio playing Glenn Miller’s new hit, Tuxedo Junction, can be heard through the thin walls. The door flies open and the head chef hovers in the doorframe, carrying an empty food tray. A rotund Parisian, he’s dressed in his whites and wearing a chef’s hat. He smiles, bowing slightly, and steps aside to let me enter. He continues out and down the steps, muttering something in French, a language I want to learn one of these days.

  Vince doesn’t come inside but shuts the door behind me. My eyes adjust to the dim lighting and I see Tony seated

  behind Vince’s desk. He’s leaning back in the chair, his boot-covered feet crossed at the ankles and resting atop a corner of the small desk. I let out an involuntary gasp at seeing those boots, so like the ones kicking at Eddie’s lifeless body only hours before. Tony throws me a questioning look.

  I try to cover by saying, “Didn’t your mother ever teach you it’s bad manner to put your muddy feet on the furniture?”

  Almost reflexively he lifts up his legs, swings them around to the floor and leans forward in the chair, a guilty little-boy smile playing on his face. Two round, chrome food warmers rest on the desk, one in front of him and one in front of an empty chair. Napkins, silver cutlery and an uncorked bottle of red wine sit nearby. He lowers the radio and gestures to the empty chair.

  “Thanks for coming, Jeri. I took the liberty of ordering in some supper for us. We can eat while we talk.” He removes the domed lids to reveal two plates of filet mignons slathered in mushrooms and gravy, baked potatoes and asparagus, steam still rising. If I'm being fired, I'm going out in style.

  “So this is how the other half lives,” I say. “Cookhouse is serving hamburger tonight.”

  Tony forces a grin. “Rank hath its privileges. Sit down.” He brushes at his David Niven mustache with his fingers, a nervous habit.

  I take off my jacket and ease into the chair. As I pick up the white napkin, I study his face. I can see tension and something else tracking across it. Maybe despair. I try to keep the mood light and friendly, even though seeing the boots has really rattled me.

  “So judging by this,” I say, “you’re either trying to seduce me, which I doubt, because there’s no fooling around with Doris’ man and living to tell about it, or you want something. What is it?”

  “I need your help, Jeri. We need your help.” He emphasizes the ‘we.’

  “Okay. I’m listening.” I say no more and cut into my meat, waiting for him to go on. He fidgets a bit then picks up the bottle of wine.“Wine?”

  I shake my head and watch him pour himself a glass. He sets down the bottle but doesn’t pick up the glass. Instead, his fingers drift over to a stack of opened telegrams. He pushes the plate of food aside.

  “Do you see these, Jeri?”

  I nod, again not speaking. He picks them up, fanning them out.

  “These are telegrams from towns across the nation. Towns thinking of reneging on their contracts with us after the Associated Press radio bulletins about the murder.”

  I set down my knife and fork. “You’re kidding.”

  “I wish I were. I heard another news flash on the radio not five minutes ago. I saw it coming this morning, with that sheriff. I thought we were through after the thousand-dollar bribe for saving the lion --”

  “A thousand dollars!” I interrupt. “That’s more than some performers make in a season. That’s outright extortion.”

  “If it was only the extortion, I would be happy. But the sheriff returned about an hour later with an ultimatum. Apparently, when word reached the city council about what happened, they held an emergency meeting. After rereading the contract, they found that they can cancel our appearance based on a general clause covering citizen safety and the greater good of the people. Should a town be able to prove that the circus jeopardizes public welfare, they can cancel us without fear of breach of contract.” He tosses the telegrams back down on the desk. “They were only the first of many to read that clause.”

  “But how can they hold the circus responsible for Eddie’s death? It could have been anybody, even one of the townspeople. Nothing’s been proven yet.”

  “The council and the sheriff are convinced that the murderer is someone on lot.” Tony’s words are slow and unemotional. “I think so, too.”

  I look him in the eye. “Agreed. If there’d been a stranger hanging around, someone would have noticed, even at that hour. It is possible it was an outsider but it’s a long shot.”

  It’s Tony’s turn to nod. “The sheriff is a man with small town prejudices but he isn’t stupid. The council has given the sheriff’s department seventy-two hours to solve the murder. After that, they shut us down.”

  I throw my napkin down on the desk. “Three days? I can’t believe it.”

  “What I see happening is the sheriff going through the motions for three days and Springfield canceling our contract. Other towns will follow suit. We’re looking at a spotty season, at best.”

  “What you’re saying is we all might be out of a job by next week.”

  “No,” he shakes his head. “You know the North Brothers. They’ll keep everyone on salary, whether there’s a show or not, for as long as they can. But do you have any idea what it costs to keep the Big Top going? Nineteen hundred people, over two thousand animals at last count. The losses will be astronomical. We might never recover.”

  “So we’re back to 'what do you want from me'?”

  He picks up his glass of wine and takes a sip. “I remembered Doris telling me that you worked for Brinks Detective Agency once upon a time and you considered them tops.”

  “I do.”

  “I wired them, hoping that they could come here and take over the job the sheriff should be doing.”

  “Good. Are they coming?”

  He sets down his glass, staring at the dancing liquid. “It’s this damned war, Jeri. Most of the men joined the service. Brinks has a skeleton crew and no one’s free for at least two months. By that time, we could be out of business.”

  “They didn’t have anyone?”

  “Well, yes they do. Or did. They had you.”

  “Me?” My eyebrows shoot up and I stare at him.

  “You can read the wire for yourself.”

  He picks it up and thrusts it into my hand. I read in silence.

  “Sorry we can’t help. Stop. Overloaded for next two months. Stop. Understand Jeri Deane is with you. Stop. Consider using Deane. Stop. First rate and can handle herself. Stop. Ask about tugboat. Stop. Signed, Brinks Detective Agency.”

  “What about the tugboat, Jeri?” Tony asks when I look up.

  I reflect on something that hasn’t come to mind for two and a half years.

  “One of the tugboats in New York Harbor was thought to be commanded by a U-boat captain in disguise, getting a count of the ships that come in and out and other important information. I got onboard and found his jo
urnal. He went to jail. Capsulated version.”

  “Simple as that?” he asks with a smile.

  “Pretty much.”

  “So you say. How did you get onboard?”

  “Oh, the usual.” I smile back. “Girl stranded on a sailboat needing help. It was easy.”

  “It sounds like it was dangerous.”

  “I’m surprised Brinks mentioned it. I was told it was national security. I never even told Doris and Margie.”

  Tony leans toward me. “They say you can handle yourself.”

  “I could at the time.”

  “Help us, Jeri.”

  I shake my head with a determined air. “You’re asking me to do something I don’t do anymore.”

  “I’m asking you to save the circus. You can name your price. Within reason, of course.”

  “It’s not the money.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re providing a service. You should be paid for it.”

  I don’t know if he’s deliberately misunderstanding me or not. I try again.

  “I’m out of that line of work. I don’t do private investigating anymore, Tony, not since…” I pause, reluctant to say what happened that caused me to leave Brinks so suddenly. It’s not any of his business.

  “I don’t do private investigating anymore,” I repeat. “I’m a performer now,” I add, pacing out each word.

  He leans in. Now he paces his words. “Jeri, I don’t know the reasons you left Brinks and I don’t particularly care. You’re all I’ve got. Without you, the circus could close and all these people could be out of a job. Is that what you want?”

  He stares at me and I stare at him. My Italian-Catholic guilt comes to the forefront.

  “All right, I’ll do it. How about a thousand dollars? If it’s good enough for Old Kirby, it’s good enough for me. That is, if I can pull it off. I’m not saying I can. It’s been a while.”

  “But you’ll try?”

  I let out trapped air, resigned. “I’ll try.”

  “Thanks, Jeri.” His relief is palpable. “I don’t know what I would have done if you’d said no.”

  “Boss Man, in order to do this, I’ll need full run of the Big Top. You’ll have to open up files to me, tell me things you don’t want to, things only you are privy to, even rumors, because we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “I understand.” He takes a hard swallow of wine. “One thing I’ll say for Vince, he keeps meticulous personnel files on

  everybody. Some of them are six-inches thick. There isn’t much worth knowing about anyone that isn’t in them. I think you’ll find them interesting.”

  “I’ll also need access to the entire circus, including personal sleeping areas. I may need to poke my head into some unexpected places. Lastly, I'll need somebody else to help me and it can’t be you. People pay attention to where you go and what you do.”

  “No, it can’t be me. I’m going to be busy trying to keep this from pulling the Big Top under. How about some of the security boys from the front of the house? Two of them are actually retired policemen.”

  I mull the idea over. The silence stretches between us but Tony gives me the time to think. “I don’t think so; the fewer people that know about this the better. Furthermore, those security guys strike me as pretty hard-nosed. They might not take orders from a woman.” I lean back in my chair. “I’m thinking of Tin Foot.”

  “You trust him that much?” He brushes at his mustache again.

  I nod. “If he’ll do it, I’ll split the fee with him.”

  “Whatever you say.” He reaches behind him into the jacket stretched over the back of the chair, pulls out a small handgun and sets it on the desk in front of me. “You got one of these? For protection?”

  I stare at him. “No, that’s Chicago you’re thinking of. I’m from New York. We use baseball bats.”

  I laugh at my joke. Tony doesn’t. He grimaces, looking down at the gun as though seeing it for the first time. I know what must be going through his mind. Second thoughts.

  “This is crazy, Jeri,” he finally says. “What am I doing? I must be crazy. I’m not thinking straight. I can’t ask a girl to do this. It’s too dangerous. It needs a man.”

  “Hey!” I explode. “Don’t think I can’t do as good a job as most men, because I can, maybe even better.” Anger flares hot within me for the second time today.

  “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded. It’s just that you might be risking your life. There has to be another way.”

  “Well, when you think of it, let me know. Meanwhile, I’ll take the job but not the gun.” I pick up the gun and inspect it, feeling the weight. “Nice, though. Good balance.”

  “I thought you said you don’t know how to use one of those things.”

  “I said I don’t have one. I didn’t say I don’t know how to use it. Besides, if things go the way I plan, whoever it is won’t know I’m looking for them until it’s over.” I check the safety and hand it back. “Be careful with that thing.”

  Tony returns it to his jacket. “If anything happens to you, Doris will kill me.”

  “If anything happens to me, I’ll help her.”

  Tony laughs but it ends in a dry cough. “Here are the two master keys that open all the compartments on the train and my chart of who sleeps where. Don’t lose it; it’s the only one I got.”

  I take the silver keys and folded chart and put them in a small purse on the belt I always wear around my waist.

  “We don’t have keys to personal trunks or lockers,” Tony says. “Nobody does but the individual. Personnel documents are in there.” He gestures to a row of beat up, metal filing cabinets behind him. “Vince keeps those keys somewhere in this drawer.” He rummages around in the top drawer of the desk, retrieves a metal ring holding eight to ten small keys, and sets it in front of me.

  “You’re free to come and go as you please in here or elsewhere, for that matter. Vince knows about this part; he has to, and he’s been instructed to keep his mouth shut and to do anything you say.”

  Tony hesitates then looks at me from beneath hooded eyelids. “About Vince, there’s something I should tell you. I found out this morning that Eddie owes – owed - Vince two hundred dollars. Eddie had a gambling problem. A lot of the guys do. Too much time in between shows.” He pauses and strokes his mustache again.

  I can feel the shock registering on my face. “Two hundred dollars! That’s a lot of money for someone who can’t have made more than twenty a week. How’d you find out?”

  “Vince and I were there when the police found a one-way bus ticket to Salt Lake City in Eddie’s pocket. Right after that, one of the clowns brought me a packed suitcase he’d discovered hidden behind Eddie’s locker. Vince blew up. He called Eddie a mooching SOB. One word led to another and I dragged it out of him.”

  “Do the police know?”

  “They’d left by that time. Frankly, I don’t know what to think about Vince’s involvement in this but that’s the reason I didn’t want him in on the details of our conversation.”

  “Good call. I want you to get rid of Vince for awhile. Keep him busy doing something else and don’t let him back in this office alone. Right now, whether you like it or not, we should consider him a suspect.” I pick up the ring of keys and jangle them in my hand. “What happened to the key that hangs on Old Kirby’s nail?” I gesture to the wall behind Tony’s head that has a row of nails pounded into it more or less at shoulder height. Strips of tape over the nails bear names written in a precise and clear hand. Each nail wears a key except for the one marked ‘Old Kirby.’

  Tony twists his head around and looks up. “I don’t know. Vince must have taken it with him this morning when he went to see about the trouble and still has it. I’ll ask him.”

  “No, don’t,” I say. “I’ll find out when the time is right. Anything else I should know?”

  Tony turns to face me again. “I’ve scheduled a meeting before tonight’s show to give everyone a pep talk.
I’ll make an announcement about what you’re doing and that they are to cooperate with you in every way.”

  “Don’t do that, Tony. I think it’s better if we keep a lid on my involvement. That’s what I meant earlier. Just let me look around on my own without any fanfare. See what I come up with. I need you to do something for me right away, though.”

  “Name it.”

  “Ask the sheriff if Eddie had anything clutched inside his left fist. If he did, it might be important.”

  “I can tell you now. I watched them pry a crumpled snapshot of the Baboescu Family out of his hand. I’ve got it right here.”

  “You mean the sheriff didn’t keep it as evidence? Did they at least check it for fingerprints?”

  He shakes his head. “He handed it to me. I’ve got it in my wallet. Want it?”

  I say yes, trying not to be shocked at the sheriff’s lackadaisical ways.

  While Tony digs around for the picture in his wallet, he asks, “Realistically, Jeri, how long do you think it will take before the whole circus learns about what we’re doing? Two, three days?”

  “From what you tell me Tony, that’s all we’ve got, anyway.”

  He hands me the wrinkled sepia photo and tugs at his mustache again.

  “You’re going to pull that thing off,” I say with a smile.

  I take the five-by-seven photo, turning and twisting it in the poor light to see the crumpled images. It’s a publicity photo of the Baboescu family posed in full costume. Constantin stands rigid with his arms around Catalena, while

  Ioana sits childlike on the ground before the knife throwing spinning wheel. Catalena’s features are even and pretty, set off by large, dark eyes. Ioana’s face carries the same hook nose as her father, smaller to be sure, but overwhelming her otherwise delicate features.

  It occurs to me by the way Ioana is placed in the photo, separated from the other two, that she’s probably the least favorite child. Or maybe it’s my own face I’m imagining in the photo instead of hers. I put it in my purse for later.