Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven)

by Stuart M. Kaminsky

  We talked for a while about my father, my brother, the war, the price of gas, her father, her mother, Elder, and snow. I don’t remember how we got to snow. I do remember how I moved over and sat next to her on the bed, and she didn’t complain. My arm went up to her shoulder while she talked about what she liked about the circus. I don’t think anything much would have happened even if Emmett Kelly hadn’t knocked at the wagon door. I don’t know. I’ll never know, but knock he did.

  “Come in,” she called, looking in my eyes.

  “Some grippers spotted Greta,” he said, still in his Willie costume.

  “Greta?”

  “The elephant Rennata took with her, the one on the beach,” he explained.

  Peg got up. “Where is she?”

  “Trucking her back,” he said, trying to catch his breath. “Someone shot her, but she’ll probably be all right, according to Doc Ogle. It takes a big bullet and a good shot to bring down a bull.”

  “That’s one saved,” I sighed.

  “Yeah,” agreed Kelly, “but we’ve got a bigger problem. Now a lion is loose.”

  I followed Kelly into the night with Peg behind us. I could see circus people running madly and as quietly as they could with chairs and sticks in their hands, poking into corners, into tents, behind wagons, dark figures. The band in the big top seemed to be playing a march just for them. Musical chairs. Maybe “The Stars and Stripes Forever” would stop, and so would they. It stopped, but they didn’t.

  Peg was shivering beside me. The night was cold, but that wasn’t why she was shivering. “They don’t know in the top, do they?”

  “No,” said Kelly. “I’ve seen a panic. We’ve got to try to find the cat before the show ends.”

  Kelly, looking even more worried than in the center ring, hurried off to look for the lion with no weapon other than his prop broom. I didn’t even have my petrified lasso, and my gun had been confiscated by the Mirador police.

  “So,” I said to Peg, taking her hand, “we look for a runaway lion. But first we find out what happened.”

  We hurried back to Henry’s tent, but Henry wasn’t there. Gargantua was there, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. He just sat on the floor of his cage eating something that could have been a cabbage, a radio, or a human head. Some people were standing near a cage in the rear. A lion was in the cage.

  “You found him,” I shouted to Elder, running forward. The blond, tan man at his side was dressed in white tights and jacket. From a distance he looked twenty. Up close he looked fifty. I recognized him.

  “No,” said Elder. “Sandoval came in to check on the cats and saw the cage open. Only one cat had gotten out. The other one stayed.”

  “Someone opened up the cage,” Sandoval said with a broad gesture. “Why would someone do such a thing? I need that cat for my act. He can do a rollover …”

  “Is he dangerous?” I asked, gripping Peg’s hand.

  “Of course,” said Sandoval with indignation. “What is the point of working with cats that are not dangerous? I am an artist, not a sideshow trick.”

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Sandoval,” said Elder, putting his hand on the performer’s shoulder and looking into his eyes. “You’ve got to keep your act going tonight till I tell you to stop. Do it twice if you have to. We’ve got to have time to catch the cat.”

  “Without the rollover?” Sandoval complained.

  “I’m afraid so,” said Elder seriously.

  Sandoval shrugged and gave a show-must-go-on smile, turned, and hurried out of the tent.

  “Chances are the cat will stay nearby,” said Elder, looking at me and Peg. “Well, let’s look. His name is Puddles, but he doesn’t answer to any name. If you find him, let out a yell and get something between you and him.”

  “No accident, was it?” I asked.

  “You kidding?” said Elder. “Whoever did it pried the damn lock off. Now, let’s find Puddles.”

  I found puddles a few feet away, but finding Puddles was another story. Actually, it’s this story.

  “Why do they call the lion Puddles?” I asked, moving into a nearby tent. “I thought lions were called things like Rajah or King.”

  Peg followed me into the tent. There was a single light overhead, a not-many-watts yellow bulb. It looked like a dressing tent.

  “Some animal trainers give their lions and tigers names to be respected,” Peg explained. “Maybe just to remember to respect them. Others give them nicknames like Puddles to make them seem less frightening.”

  Something moved in a corner behind an open trunk. I pushed Peg and tripped. “Out,” I yelled.

  “Nothing here,” came a voice from behind the trunk, and Agnes Sudds emerged with a red-spangled cap on her orange head.

  I got up, prepared to keep my distance from her and determined not to ask about Abdul.

  “If I find him,” she said, looking back, “Abdul will hold him till help comes. Don’t worry about me.”

  Since I hadn’t been worrying about Agnes, I didn’t say anything. I wondered if Gunther was hovering somewhere nearby, watching her.

  When Agnes was gone, I called, “Gunther” softly.

  “His name is Puddles,” said Peg when Gunther appeared, and I explained quickly about the plan to tail the prime suspects. Peg said nothing. It wasn’t bright enough to see her eyes clearly, but something troubled her. Maybe she wondered if someone, me, was trailing her.

  “Now, wait …” I began but didn’t get far because someone ran into the tent, panting. It was Shelly. He went to a nearby coil of rope and sat down with one hand over the approximate area of his heart.

  “Lost … him,” he wheezed. “Saw …, you … come … in … here … and …”

  The distinct nearby roar of a very large animal stopped Shelly, who looked around the tent in fear. Sweat had drooped his eyebrows. “What?” he asked, trying to stand. The coil was too low. He sat back down again.

  “Quiet,” I said. “It’s Puddles.”

  “Puddles?”

  “The lion,” Peg whispered, looking into the darkness.

  “I don’t see his cage,” Shelly whispered, getting the idea.

  “He escaped,” said Peg. “Someone let him out.”

  Shelly stood up with several “damns.” The next proud roar was louder than the last one and definitely in the tent. Agnes and Abdul had either done a rotten job of lion searching or had let us walk into a pride of lions.

  Shelly’s glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose, and he didn’t see the wooden chair near the door. He tumbled over it and let out a yell of fear.

  “My faithful retainer,” I said. Nobody laughed, not even Puddles, who came bounding out from behind a stack of boxes to see what we were making so much noise about. Puddles was big. His teeth were big, his orange-black mane was big, and he was standing about ten feet in front of me. I reached behind me while I looked at him in the dim light and tried to grasp the chair. It wasn’t there, and Puddles took a step toward us.

  “The chair,” I said very quietly. Someone, certainly not Shelly, who I could hear going, “Uh … uh … uh …” at the entrance, handed me the chair.

  “She’s afraid,” said Peg. “Look at her eyes.”

  Puddles’ eyes were yellow with black hatred in their centers, and they were getting bigger and bigger. I put the chair between me and Puddles.

  “I’ll try not to frighten her,” I said with what I hoped was bitter sarcasm. It probably came out more like hysterical fear.

  Puddles swiped at the chair with a paw and let out a growl. I held onto the chair.

  “That’s part of her act,” Peg whispered.

  “What’s the next part?”

  “You put the chair down and stick your head in her mouth,” Peg explained behind me while Shelly switched to, “Oh no … oh no … oh no.”

  “I think I’ll improvise instead,” I said, bringing the chair in front of me. Puddles cocked her head and looked puzzled. This was not th
e act, and I was not the trainer. She had latched onto something familiar in unfamiliar territory, but I wasn’t playing the game.

  “I am not putting this chair down and sticking my head in her mouth,” I said through my teeth.

  “Toby, do it, for God’s sake,” whimpered Shelly.

  For a wild fraction of a second, I lost all fear. Once a woman in Pomona, or it may have been Palm Springs, told me she had jumped from a roof without planning to do it, just because she found herself looking down and suddenly lost touch of what it would mean. One thing that saved me from the jaws of Puddles was Puddles’ mouth. It was open and full of saliva and teeth.

  “I’m not putting my head in that mouth,” I cried.

  “I put my hands in worse mouths than that every day,” Shelly pleaded.

  “Forget it, Shel, or do it yourself.”

  Puddles took a tentative swipe again, but it didn’t have the showmanship of the first swing. It didn’t even have a roar.

  “She’s making up her mind, I think,” said Peg.

  “I’m going to hit the sonofabitch in the head with the chair. When I do it, run like hell,” I said, trying to smile reassuringly at the lion who looked into my face. I was probably uglier than the lion, but she seemed curious.

  “That’s a stinking plan,” shrieked Shelly.

  “I have none better,” I said, raising the chair slowly. “Get ready, Peg.”

  “Toby,” she said, clutching my arm. “You could hurt her.”

  “I hope so,” I said. “I really hope so.”

  Puddles seemed to understand something of what was going on. She opened her mouth, bared her teeth, roared and eliminated the last of the space between us. The chair should have come down in her face, but I knew it was still up in the air, maybe floating up there with my hands and arms attached. A marvel of the universe.

  “Stop that,” came a voice from behind me as Puddles was about to eat my cheek. When the voice hit, Puddles took one step backward, hesitated, and looked as if she were going to spring.

  “I said stop,” shouted the blond lion tamer Sandoval, stepping to my side. The lion backed up two steps and growled.

  “Chair,” he said in a confident voice. “Hand me the chair quickly.”

  I pleaded with my arms to respond, and they did. I thanked them and watched the trainer step forward, driving Puddles back.

  “Now,” he said commandingly, “we go back to your cage. Right now. I will like you very much if you go back to your cage, but I will not like you very much if you do not.”

  I don’t know if the lion understood the words spoken with a European accent I couldn’t pinpoint, but she knew she was in the presence of the boss.

  “Now lie down,” the man commanded softly. “Down.” And the lion went down.

  “Thanks,” I said, without looking back at Peg, who clutched my arm, or Shelly, who was breathing loudly enough to rouse the Japanese at sea.

  “Very slowly,” he said. “Very slowly go back to the tent where the cage is, and bring Henry and some help. Bring the roll cage in the corner. Quick, but slow.”

  I moved with what I thought was a quick but slow pace back through the tent flap, pulling Peg with me. Shelly sat petrified in the dirt, his eyes fixed on Puddles.

  “Let’s go, Shel,” I said, reaching down for him, but he didn’t move and I didn’t have time to wait. Outside the tent, Peg let go of my arm and I ran for the tent a few dozen yards away. Gargantua was dozing. So was Henry.

  “Hurry,” I shouted. “The pull cage. Lion’s in the tent over there.” I pointed meaninglessly.

  Henry moved faster than I thought a Henry could move behind the lion cage and pulled a smaller cage on wheels that didn’t look big enough to hold Puddles.

  “Gimme a hand,” grunted Henry. “I ain’t endowed enough.”

  With my endowment and his we got the small cage rolling and out into the night. I glanced in the direction of the big top and could see a few people leaving. The music was going furiously, but whatever the stall, it wasn’t working for some of the people.

  “I seen the guy who done it,” Henry said. “Skunking around. Little fat guy, sweaty guy with no hair and glasses.”

  “Not him,” I panted. Shelly had managed to get spotted by Henry within five minutes of following him. We went through the flap of the storage tent. Nothing had changed. Neither man nor animal had moved.

  The sudden arrival of Henry and me startled Puddles, who stood up.

  “Shhh,” said Sandoval, putting his finger to his lips. “You back there, be quiet. Be quiet.”

  “That’s him,” shouted Henry, pointing at Shelly.

  “Forget him,” I said to Henry. “Open the cage.”

  Unsure of whether to watch Shelly or Puddles, Henry opened the door of the cage and said, “Open.”

  The tamer coaxed the lion toward him with his hand. “Come, yes, come with me,” he said, showing teeth which gleamed even in this dim light. The music of “The Washington and Lee March” filtered in from the big top and seemed to give Puddles the feeling that this was something a bit more familiar.

  “Yes,” said the tamer, crouching and backing up next to the cage. “You didn’t want to run away, did you? No. You just ran to the closest dark place. Now, into the cage. Go, Go.”

  And into the cage went Puddles with only one brief pause to swipe a paw at the tamer and try to rip his right arm to the bone from elbow to wrist.

  “Ahhh,” gargled Shelly, as the tamer pushed the door closed on the big cat.

  “Wheel her back,” he said to Henry, hardly noticing that he might be bleeding to death.

  “Can’t do it by myself,” bleated Henry, showing no great interest in the maimed man before him.

  “Shelly, get off your behind and help,” I shouted, walking over to Sandoval, who showed nothing, didn’t even touch his arm.

  Shelly managed to get up and over to Henry, who eyed him with great suspicion.

  “Get the doctor,” I said.

  “No,” said the tamer in the same commanding tone he had used with Puddles. “First get that cat out of here.”

  Shelly and Henry obeyed as quickly as they could and made a not very fast exit, pulling the rattling caged lion outside.

  “The cat could not see me reacting,” explained the tamer when the animal was gone. “If she saw me showing fear, I’d never be able to use her again.”

  “You may never use that arm again,” I said, looking for something to slow down the bleeding. I took off my jacket and wrapped it around his arm. He sagged back, and I put out both arms to catch him. He felt cold.

  The blood soaked my jacket red almost instantly. I let one hand reach for the chair, set it right, and guided the tamer into it. He nodded thanks as people rushed into the tent around us.

  “Doc’s on the way,” said someone.

  Sandoval didn’t even nod. Elder was there, propping him up, and so were two or three others I hadn’t met. Then Doc Ogle came in with his plaid bag. He squinted, trying to find his patient.

  “Here, Doc,” said Elder.

  The doctor came over to us and looked down at me with obvious disdain.

  “Not me,” I said. “Him. His arm.”

  Then the doctor spotted what everyone in the tent had seen the second they came in.

  “If you hide the man,” he said irritably, “how the hell am I supposed to treat him? What happened to him?”

  “Lion,” I said.

  The small crowd backed away, and Peg came through to stand at my side.

  “Who put this filthy jacket on this wound?” said the doctor, moving his head inches from the arm as he flung my jacket in the corner. “Man gets bit by a damn lion and you push the germs in.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  “Stop the bleeding and kill the patient,” said the doctor to himself, pressing the wound with his hands. The tamer grimaced but didn’t let out a sound. The bleeding slowed. “Pressure,” said the old doctor.

  “I
t wasn’t a bite,” I said. “The lion tore his arm with his nails.”

  “Claws,” corrected the doctor. “Well, pick him up and we’ll get him to my wagon. He’ll be all right. I’ll be sewing on that arm for two hours, but he’ll be all right. Now, if we can just declare a cease-fire for an hour or two …”

  He had no ending for his observation. Two men started to help Sandoval out. His yellow mane was sagging.

  “Thanks,” I whispered to him. He had probably saved me from his own fate or worse, but he didn’t hear me.

  Shelly came running in just as the crowd left. “This is not good for me,” he said seriously. “It really isn’t. I’m not used to this stuff with animals. Did you see the tricuspid on that baby?”

  I had been chased by an elephant and almost killed by a lion in one day. The closest I had been to an animal outside of the Griffith Park Zoo was a police horse, and I didn’t much like it.

  “Let’s go back to my wagon,” said Peg to me quietly. I liked the invitation.

  “Good idea,” agreed Shelly, picking up the words. “I could use a cup of coffee.”

  We walked back to Peg’s wagon through the crowd streaming out of the big top. Some faces were tired, some flushed with recent memory, none aware that they had almost had a lion in their laps.

  The three of us had coffee, and Shelly kept talking. It was clear that he wasn’t going to leave until someone told him where he was sleeping. There was no point in sending him to watch Henry. He had already been spotted. So he talked of past patients, bicuspid articles he would never write, and the state of restoration of his favorite customer’s mouth. Mr. Stange had but one crusty tooth, a small scenic reproduction of one representative of Monument Valley. On this decaying piece of enamel, Shelly planned to reconstruct a mouth full of false teeth plus some experimental creations which were to be the envy of the county dental association. I felt some pity for Mr. Stange, in spite of the fact that he had once tried to hold Shelly up and had wrecked our office in the process. As I was about to leap on Shelly and kill him, a knock came at the door. Peg looked at me in apology and shrugged.

  “Come in.”

  And in came Gunther and Jeremy.

  Gunther sat on the bed next to Shelly, whose mind was back in our office in Mr. Stange’s mouth. Gunther looked decidedly dejected.