The light swam away, flowing swiftly over the heads of the people in front of me and coming to rest on the quivering base of a rope ladder leading up into the darkness.
“Ladies and gentlemen! Statler Brothers Circus takes great pride in presenting the incomparable … COUNT ANAGORI!”
I leaned forward as the band struck up a lively march. Nothing happened. The musicians went through the short piece, then started again. Still nothing happened; the ladder hung limp in an otherwise empty pool of light. Halfway through the third coda the music died, along with the light. For a few seconds there was utter darkness, etched only by a few electronic screeches as someone fumbled with the microphone.
“Ladies and gentlemen! We give you the peerless … PAULA!”
Music and light, and a very young and attractive Paula came bounding out and immediately went into an exciting mix of adagio and acrobatics. She was good, but my mind turned from events in the center ring as I pondered the question of just what had happened to the count. No performer, and especially a headliner, ever pulls a no-show unless there’s a very good reason. I couldn’t help but wonder whether the count’s reason might have had something to do with Bruno and Bethel Jessum.
I rose and started down the concrete ramp toward the access tunnel leading to the dressing areas, but slowed down as I neared the entrance. After all, where did I think I was going, and why? Bruno wasn’t even a client; and even if he were, his last message to me had been friendly but unmistakably clear: Butt out. The fact that the count hadn’t shown up for his evening stroll didn’t give me the right to poke my nose into that business. Pushy, I’m not.
There was a popcorn butcher with a full tray of wares dogging it near the tunnel entrance. He’d been staring at me, and I dislike people staring at me almost as much as I dislike moral dilemmas; the two taken together can make me quite insufferable. I walked up to him, gave him a quick and nasty critique of his parentage and manners and stalked back to my seat.
Paula was followed by a dancing elephant. I decided there was no comparison and went back to brooding over the mystery that seemed to exist nowhere but in my own mind, searching for some connection between Bruno’s mercurial shift in moods, a performer who didn’t perform, and adultery that supposedly stopped at the mere mention of my name.
I might have thought some more if it hadn’t been for the two pistol shots. I was up and racing out of the stands while most of the crowd was still trying to blame the ugly sounds on the whip hanging in the elephant trainer’s hand.
There was already a crowd clustered around the door to the Jessums’ dressing room; they stood and stared as though there were a performance going on inside. I pushed my way through to the front and gagged. Bethel was sprawled across a small, scarred dressing table, her blood-soaked chest thrust forward. Somebody had shot her in the heart. Somehow Bruno looked even more the clown, sitting upright in a ratty armchair with his painted smile and most of the left half of his skull splattered on the ceiling. There was the smell of burnt powder in the air, emanating from the barrel of the gun trapped in Bruno’s lifeless fingers. I had seen quite enough.
“You still don’t buy suicide, do you?”
The cold professionalism in Garth’s voice grated on my nerves. I glanced up at the figure of my brother sitting next to me on the concrete apron of the center ring in the deserted arena. My eyes still hurt from the exploding flashbulbs of the police photographers, and the night smelled of blood.
“I told you what happened earlier.”
Garth shrugged his shoulders, and I suddenly realized that the only reason Garth had stayed behind was to soothe what he assumed was my hurt at losing a friend. The realization generated a dual reaction of gratitude and resentment.
“She was stringing him along,” Garth said, “Playing games with his head. Some women are like that. I’ll bet she was snuggling up with the count five minutes after she gave her husband this bit about ‘forgiving her.’ This time she got more than she bargained for. She pushed and he flipped. Simple as that. You saw the gun in his hand.”
“Somebody could have put it there.”
“Who? The count? You already checked him out.”
It was true; the first thing I’d done after recovering from the initial shock was to go after Anagori. It hadn’t taken long to find him, or at least find out where he was—in the hospital. It turned out he’d twisted his ankle just before he was scheduled to go on and had insisted on going for X rays. It was understandable; the count’s ankles were his bread and butter. However, that eliminated the prime suspect. The accident had occurred a half hour before the double killing.
“Because Anagori didn’t kill them doesn’t mean that someone else didn’t.”
“Or that they did.”
“Okay,” I said tightly, rising to my feet.
“Hey! It’s your turn to buy coffee!”
“I’m going to do some checking. Statler still stay at the same place?”
Garth came over to where I was standing. His eyes gleamed with the cold light of a policeman’s curiosity. “Yeah,” he said. “He’s in the Plaza, uptown. At least that’s the address he gave me. What do you want with Statler?”
“I want the show’s stop list. I want to know where the circus has been and where it’s going.”
“What the hell for?”
I wished he hadn’t asked. I had no answer.
“You’re fishing, Mongo,” Garth continued, “looking for something that isn’t there.” He paused, and when he continued his voice was softer. “You’re blaming yourself for what happened. There’s no way, brother. No way that works out. First Jessum tells you he wants you to talk to his wife, then he tells you to stay away. You were the one who said he seemed unstable. It’s not your fault if he suddenly decided to kill the old lady and blow his own head off.”
“Yeah,” I said, turning away and heading for the exit. “You’ve got a rain check on that coffee.”
Garth was right, of course. I was blaming myself for what happened, primarily because I kept remembering how close I had come to going all the way down the access tunnel. I might have prevented it.
Garth was also right when he said it looked like a clear-cut case of murder and suicide. Still, I had an itch down deep in my soul. Asking Statler for the show’s stop list and combing those cities for a man with a motive for killing the Jessums might be like chasing a rainbow, but at the moment I felt I needed the exercise.
I went out the stage door, turned right on the empty street.
Somebody else was looking for exercise; the man behind me was coming up fast, almost at a trot. I don’t like people coming up fast behind me. I stepped to one side to let the man pass and almost blacked out with pain as the knife skewered me, it’s point slicing white hot into the flesh of my side, scraping along my ribs like fingernails on a blackboard and emerging four inches from the point of entry. I twisted with the force of the blow, taking the knife with me. At the same time I reacted instinctively, smashing the side of my stiffened left hand into my attacker’s kidney. The man grunted and went to one knee. He seemed surprised, but that was about all. He slowly rose and stared at me, his pale green eyes absolutely expressionless.
I happen to have a black belt, second Dan, in karate, and usually when I hit a man in the kidney he stays down. This man was no mugger. He knew how to absorb pain; a professional, with skills at least the equal of mine. There was no doubt but that the man intended to kill me, and the knife in my side having effectively neutralized my usual bag of tricks, it didn’t seem beyond the realm of possibility that he was going to succeed.
Blood was squeezing past the sharp metal plug in my side, my shirt and jacket were soaked, and I could feel the sticky warmth spreading. Dwarfs not having that much blood to begin with, I as beginning to feel dizzy—and cold, very cold.
However, the man had no intention of allowing me the simple dignity of bleeding to death. I watched, fascinated, as he slowly reached into his jacket and pulled
out a pistol. Carefully, deliberately, he began to screw on a silencer. His pale eyes never left mine. He moved as if he had all the time in the world, which was understandable since the street was empty and it was obvious that I wasn’t going anyplace. Despite the blank screen of his face, I knew the man was enjoying himself; all of the best are endowed with generous streaks of sadism, and this one had to be at the top of his profession. It was my time that was running out, not his, and he liked that. Vaguely, I wondered which of my enemies could afford this guy.
I couldn’t stand to see the man so happy. I decided to give the sand in the hourglass a little kick.
I reached across from the opposite side, grabbed the handle of the knife and yanked the blade from my flesh. For just a moment pain pierced through the pervading numbness of my body. Pain was life and, for the moment, I found that reassuring. I didn’t have time to gauge the balance of the knife—I could see the small hole of the gun’s bore pointing between my eyes—so I could only hope that one of my lesser-known skills hadn’t deteriorated over the years. The man’s finger was tightening on the trigger as I reared back and flung the knife out into the darkness that was rolling over me from all sides.
I awoke in a place that smelled more like a hospital than heaven. Nor did Garth bear the slightest resemblance to an angel.
“I assume I’m to live.”
“Which is more than can be said for the other guy.” Garth was shaking his head. “You got him right in the heart. Not exactly dead center, you understand; about two inches into the left auricle. Of course, you’re out of practice.”
I twisted uncomfortably. My side was stiff and sore and there were two needles hanging out of either arm. I didn’t need my brother’s sarcasm.
He let out a long, low whistle. “Mongo, you’re not to be believed! A criminology professor, gymnast, former circus great, black belt karate expert, and private detective who just happens to be a dwarf knife-throwing expert. Be thankful you’re not the product of some guy’s imagination; you’d be rejected by every editor in town.”
I wasn’t amused. “Who was he?”
The smile left Garth’s face. “The Compleat Professional. No ID, no mug shots, acid burns on his fingertips. He’d even ripped the labels out of his clothing. We figure he was a big chicken coming home to roost. You’ve got to admit you’ve made a few enemies in your short career. Big ones.”
“Uh-huh. Where’s the circus?”
Garth thought for a moment. “Albany. Don’t tell me you think—”
“Feel like going for a ride?”
“Where?”
“Albany.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“How serious is this cut?” I knew the answer before I asked the question. I could feel the tape over the stitches in my side; flesh wound, bloody but not disastrous.
“You lost a lot of blood and they think there’s still danger of infection. They said about a week.”
“With the shortage of hospital beds they’re going to keep me here a week?”
“Ah, but there’s also a shortage of dwarf black belt—”
“Knock it off, Garth,” I said tensely. “I have to see that circus. That’s where the key is. I know it. I feel it. I want to see it, and I want to see it tonight. If you don’t want to take me, I’ll walk.”
I started to walk, or at least I gave it some thought. I swung one leg over the bed and willed that the rest of my body should follow. For a moment it seemed as if my head would reach the floor before my feet, but then there were Garth’s arms reaching for me, all twelve of them.
I got out three days later, thanks largely to my natural dislike for hospitals and the nurses’ inability to track me through a labyrinth of hospital wards, laboratories and corridors. Garth threatened to take me to Albany in my hospital gown, but my natural dwarf charm finally won him over. I promised to sit quietly and do nothing but watch, on the condition that he buy the candy apples.
We parked on State Street and headed for the Washington Armory. Once there, Garth automatically started toward the rear. I grabbed his arm and directed him back to the lines forming at the main entrance.
“You’re not going back to say hello to your cronies? You want to stand in line with the masses?”
“Right. Maybe I’ll go back later. Right now I just want to get lost in the crowd.”
“You’re getting paranoid.”
“Uh-huh. You just run interference.”
Garth was humoring me, but I didn’t have to remind him that New York’s Finest still hadn’t come up with the identity of my attacker, or his motive for wanting to kill me. That left the strange series of incidents connected with the circus, including the deaths of Bruno and Bethel Jessum. I was convinced I had somehow been dealt a hand in a game I hadn’t even known existed; it was a deadly game, and I was going to lie very low until I learned the rules.
The cashiers and ticket takers were strangers, local people hired for the occasion. Once inside the armory, I pushed Garth’s six-feet-plus into a large knot of people and dived in after, flowing along with the crush. It was tight quarters, but it made for anonymity, something I valued very highly at the moment. Ten minutes later I found seats that satisfied me, high up in the darkness. I immediately took out my field glasses and began to scan the arena. After five minutes I put them away and sank down in my seat to wait for the parade.
“See anything?”
“Yeah,” I said tightly. “A bunch of people waiting for the circus to begin.”
“And what is your conclusion, Sherlock?”
“Hippies are out and the Great Silent Majority is in. What the hell do you expect? I don’t even know what I’m looking for. I just know it’s here.”
I made no attempt to disguise the impatience in my voice. I could feel hot flashes of fever running up and down my body, sapping my strength; I felt like a pinball machine about to register TILT.
“Easy, Mongo. Easy. If I didn’t take your hunches seriously, I wouldn’t be here.” Garth paused and grunted. “How’s your side?”
“It’s fine.” It hurt like hell. The few days I’d stolen from the hospital were going to cost me, but this had to be done; circuses move on, and personnel change.
The first clean notes of a circus piece cut through the smoky haze of the arena as a team of clowns bounded out into the center ring and immediately went into an overripe slapstick routine. I put the glasses back to my eyes and scanned the opposite side of the hall. This time I found a familiar face. Garth’s voice was strained and low.
“You look like hell, Mongo. That white on your face isn’t greasepaint, and if I don’t get you home into bed it’s liable to become permanent.”
“Uh-huh.” I handed Garth the glasses and pointed to a white-garbed figure moving in the aisles on the opposite side. “Check him out.”
Garth put the glasses to his eyes and adjusted the focus. “The popcorn salesman?”
“Right.”
“Nice clean-cut fellow out to make a buck. What about him?”
I took the glasses away from Garth’s eyes, waiting until I had his full attention. “That same man was pushing popcorn in the Garden.”
“Maybe there’s good money in it. So?”
“So, concessionaires don’t travel with the circus; they’re all locals, the same ones that work ball games, carnivals, and so on. There’s just no reason why that man should come one hundred fifty miles to sell popcorn. He’d make more on welfare.” I hesitated a moment, groping for the connections. “In fact, I ran into him at the entrance to the access tunnel. I’ll lay you ten to one he was there to watch out for me, to keep me from going in. Look at him; he’s not trying to sell anything—he’s using that tray as a prop.”
Garth squinted through the glasses. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “That badge is probably a phony, too.”
At last Garth was listening, truly listening. The trouble was that I didn’t have too much else to say. I decided to let my tongue go for a
walk and see where it would take me.
“Now, pick up on this,” I said quickly. “Bruno didn’t kill his wife, and he didn’t shoot himself. They were killed because … because of their connection with me. I couldn’t tell whether it was the fever or reasonable logic, but a picture was forming in my mind, a very ugly picture.
“Bruno’s reasons for coming to me were real. His wife was running around and he didn’t want to lose her. His mind was going and he thought maybe I could stop it merely by talking to her. He told this to Bethel and she laughed at him. That is, she laughed until she talked to Anagori. Are you following me?”
Garth said nothing. He was following me.
“When Anagori found out Bethel knew me and that I was coming to see her he blew. Why? Because I might also see him, and he couldn’t risk that. He put a big scare into Bethel and she went into her act with Bruno, the idea being to head me off. Probably he figured I’d go home again.”
“Then Statler gave you the celebrity treatment.”
“Right. And Anagori panicked. He faked an injury to stay off the wire. The Jessums had become a liability to him because of their connection with me, so he sent someone to kill them while he was in the hospital.”
“Someone like a phony concessionaire?”
“Someone like a phony concessionaire. Then, to tie up any loose ends, he sent a torpedo after me precisely because he was afraid I might not go for the coroner’s verdict.”
“Why? Who is Anagori, what’s his operation, and why run it from a circus anyway?” Garth asked.
The questions hung in the air unanswered. “I’ll let you know when I see Anagori.”
Garth nodded tensely and leaned forward on the edge of his seat. “I’m going to round up some local help.”
In the House of Secret Enemies Page 5
