“I’ll take a Pepsi, and thanks,” I said with my smashed-face grin, “but I don’t think it will be healthy to drink with me.”
Lope’s remaining eye went narrow. He had put out his hand in friendship, and if I turned it away he was going to lose what was left of his face.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I added quickly. “I’m expecting trouble through that door, and I don’t want anyone too near me when it comes.”
Lope understood that. His eye opened wider. “I’m not afraid of a little trouble,” he said, looking back at his faithful companion Carlos, who grinned broadly.
“Fair enough,” I said. “Keep an eye on me from the end of the bar, and if trouble breaks out, go for the one with the gun, knife, or chair in his hand, providing it isn’t me.”
Lope grinned, I think, and belched something at the bartender, who tore himself away from the radio to get me a warm Pepsi.
Lope and Carlos returned to Jean Alvero. I toasted her with warm Pepsi. “I thought you come back to see Jean Alvero,” she said. I’d noticed that opera and movie stars and whores referred to themselves in the third person. Maybe they had something in common.
“I did,” I said, trying to watch the door without insulting my hosts by turning my back. “It was your beauty that drew me irresistibly to Hijo’s, though my duty lay elsewhere.”
“You full of crapola, gringo,” she grinned.
And warm Pepsi and a jigger of fear. My killer was probably not exactly sane. I wondered if one could be inexactly sane.
The drunk at the table eyed me through two tiny holes of red, and the weeping woman on the radio stopped. For a beat or two of the heart all that could be heard in that dim bar was the sputtering of the Falstaff Beer sign. Then the radio burst forth with rapid-fire Spanish.
The door to the bar swung open, and I tried to keep from looking, but you can’t ignore a crowd, and a crowd it was.
“There you are,” came a voice, which was clearly Emmett Kelly’s and clearly concerned. Behind Kelly came Elder, Agnes Sudds, Peg, Henry Yew, Doc Ogle, and assorted people I didn’t recognize.
The drunk at the table sat up, perplexed, and the bartender turned the radio down, ready to cater the party.
Elder, Kelly, Agnes, and Peg detached themselves from the group and moved over to me. This wasn’t what I wanted, planned, or expected. Hell, few things were what I wanted, planned, or expected.
“What are you doing out of jail?” asked Peg. “We went next door and that sheriff said you weren’t there and slammed the door on us.”
“What’s going on?” asked Elder. Kelly looked puzzled, and Agnes smiled at me with something that I might have thought pert if she weren’t wearing a hat, a little blue thing big enough to hide a snake or two.
“I can’t explain,” I said. “I just need a few minutes to be alone, to think. Have a seat, take a table. Drinks are on me. See what the boys in the back room will have. Whatever. Just give me a few minutes.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” demanded Elder.
Kelly turned his head slightly and our eyes met. I had the feeling he was sensing my thoughts. “Let’s leave Toby alone,” he said, touching Elder’s arm.
“Toby,” said Peg softly, “are you all right?”
I looked at the door and looked at Peg. Her hair was dark and down, and I realized that she reminded me of Ann, my wife, I mean Ann, my ex-wife, who was due to marry an airline exec who looked like a tall Claude Rains.
“Please,” I said, turning my back and picking up the Pepsi.
“You bastard,” hissed Elder behind me. “We came here to help you, and …”
“Come on,” urged Kelly. “Let’s sit down.”
They moved away behind me, but I didn’t turn back. The bar was now bustling with circus people ordering early-morning tequila, beer, and Squirt—a party. The bartender shuffled, the music blared, and I looked into the dirty dark mirror behind the bar to see figures shifting. I thought I could see the door. I looked at my glass of almost finished Pepsi. There was something at the bottom of the glass, probably my nerve. I held up the empty to Lope and shouted to the bartender to buy drinks for my good friends at the end of the bar.
“I want to confess.”
The words came over the bustling sounds in the room. Conversation was cut in half, and then the voice repeated, “I want to confess.”
All conversation stopped. The radio kept going, this time playing a guitar solo. I looked toward the voice in the middle of the bar.
Henry Yew, the animal keeper, was looking somberly at his amber glass of liquid. “A confession,” he said, holding up the glass as if he were toasting the happy crowd. “I am guilty. I am not Henry Yew. I am,” he said dramatically with a drunk’s satisfied smile, “Henry Ackerman.”
“So?” said Jean Alvero.
“So,” repeated Henry, turning to the bar and his drink, squeezing between a pair of burly roustabouts, “I confessed.”
“And …” asked Jean.
“And nothing,” said Henry. “Nothing. That’s it, my real enumeration.”
“That’s not interesting,” said Lope.
“I knew a one-eyed dog trainer once,” said Henry, looking at Lope.
Lope cocked his head like a bird so that he could see Henry with his good eye, and Henry mocked him by doing the same.
“I think maybe I’ll take your skinny eye out,” said Lope.
“He’s just drunk,” said one of the roustabouts, turning to face Lope.
“Hell,” said Lope reasonably, “people in bars are drunk all the time. That don’t mean they have to be stupid.”
“Who are you calling stupid?” said the roustabout.
“Stupid people like …”
“Drinks on me,” I shouted, hoisting my empty glass and hoping the bartender wouldn’t give me a refill. The crowd at the bar shouted their orders. In the dark mirror I could see Kelly and group watching my back and wondering what the hell was wrong with me.
It was possible my killer wouldn’t come over to me, wouldn’t make contact, that I’d stand at that bar for the next year or two, waiting for the war to end or armed Japanese soldiers to walk through the door, order a bottle of Black and White, and mow us down. But it didn’t happen that way. The door to Hijo’s opened, and a familiar figure walked in. My back was turned, but I saw the figure pause in the mirror, look around, spot me, and move in my direction.
I played with my glass, tried to realign whatever small dark things were at the bottom. Maybe I’d be able to read my fortune.
“Good morning,” the killer said.
“Good morning,” I answered without looking up. “What’s your pleasure?”
“If the glasses are reasonably clean, a gin and tonic.”
“The glasses are not reasonably clean,” I said, showing my glass.
“Then,” sighed the killer, “I’ll do without it. It is a bit early in the morning.”
“Right,” I said. Emmett Kelly had stood up. I could see him in the mirror, could see that he was going to come to me. I shook my head no. Kelly paused and then sat down.
“I see,” said the killer, leaning against the bar and squinting into the mirror. We were shoulder to shoulder, could have been taken for buddies. “I take it that our clown friend is the one you were to meet here. It was not a question,” said the killer, “but an observation. I was aware that the charade at my brother’s house was for my benefit. I have been around performers most of my life. I can spot a poor performance with no difficulty. Yours was not exactly terrible. It had some energy, but far from professional.”
Jean Alvero’s laugh broke through the other sounds. I turned to look at her. She was talking down the bar to one of the roustabouts. One-eyed Lope didn’t look too happy about the social possibilities.
“Then why did you come?” I said.
My killer shrugged. The bartender moved to us behind the bar, removed his cigarette and opened his mouth to let us know he was taking orders.
<
br /> “A beer,” said the killer. “No glass, just bring the bottle.”
The bartender moved away.
“Good idea,” I said. “No contamination. Not that you should worry about contamination.”
“Are you going to insult me?” asked the killer with an amused smile.
“I don’t know,” I said. “There was a full moon last night, and someone tried to kill me.”
“That was me. You are remarkably heavy for your size. You are also remarkably durable. But perhaps we can remedy that.”
The bartender returned with the bottle of Gobel beer. It was open, and my friendly neighborhood lunatic took a deep drink.
“Warm.”
“House rules,” I said.
“I don’t really mind,” came the answer. “I grew accustomed to warm beer when I was in England. The taste comes through. Now, if you will just tell me who you are to meet.”
I turned around and put my arms on the bar the way Walter Huston had done in The Virginian. “Why should I tell you?” I said, looking at Kelly. The others had their heads together talking.
“Because I can simply pull the trigger on the gun I am holding under the eave of this bar and make a very large hole in your side.”
“And then you’d be caught,” I said reasonably.
“Yes, but if you don’t tell me, I’ll be caught anyway. This way I might be able to make an escape. I think I am being clear and logical.”
“La Paloma” burst out of the radio. It sounded like the same group that had sung it the first time I entered Hijo’s. Jean Alvero joined in, in a rather nice cracking soprano.
“You had me fooled,” I said with a shake of my head. “You really did, but how long did you think you could carry it off?”
I turned to look my killer full in the face now, and he looked back at me, putting down his empty bottle of beer. Something approaching a smile touched his face.
“Who would peg Alfred Hitchock as a murderer?” he said, showing me the gun beside his medicine ball of a stomach.
“You are one bedbug,” I said. “I saw a picture of the real Hitchcock in a movie magazine in a railroad station yesterday. Anyone could have spotted you at any time.”
The man I had known as Alfred Hitchcock hunched his shoulders up. “It was a risk worth taking,” he said. “If worse came to worse, and it has, it really has, I planned to confess that I was a circus buff and that I merely used Hitchcock’s name because of my resemblance to him to gain access to the grounds.”
An argument had started at the end of the bar. Lope and Carlos were part of it. Some of it was in Spanish. I had the feeling it was a debate over who was going to listen to the radio and who was going to listen to Jean Alvero.
“There isn’t any witness,” I said, turning away from the killer. “That was just to bring you out in the open.”
“I thought it might be,” he sighed, “but I couldn’t take a chance. Besides, all is not lost. You are responsible for my brother’s death. I’m the last of the family.”
“And he went like the others,” I said, picking at my teeth with a fingernail. “Mind telling me your name? I can’t keep calling you Mr. Hitchcock.”
“Marish,” he said, bowing slightly. “Miles Marish. My family were the Flying Marishes.”
He paused as if I was supposed to know who the Flying Marishes were.
“The Flying Marishes,” I repeated.
Down the bar, the bartender had intervened in the discussion by turning off the radio.
“The circus killed my family,” he said. “My father and sister fell from the wire in 1937. My brother was disfigured, and I was trampled by an elephant. Under these trousers is a disfigured leg.
“I wanted only to destroy the elephants, all the elephants,” he said. “The people were Thomas’ idea. There were no killings until the circus came to Mirador, where he had been living. It was I who had followed circuses, destroying and describing it to him. The circus is …”
“I know,” I interrupted, “he told me before he took his leap.”
“You are not a sympathetic man,” said Marish, all trace of English accent now gone.
“Some innocent people have been killed,” I answered. “They have my sympathy, along with their families.”
“The aerialist saw me electrocute the elephant. We had to do something. Then the woman …”
“Rennata Tanucci,” I supplied.
“She followed me to Thomas’ and threatened to have that elephant go wild. I hate elephants. She forced us …”
Shoving and the tense ramble of voices came from the end of the bar. The battle was about to begin. The circus had invaded Lope’s retreat, and his honor demanded satisfaction. Elder moved from his table to try to restore order.
“Do we have anything further to discuss?” said Marish evenly.
“One or two more things,” I said. “Can we retire to my office?” I pointed to the back of the saloon, where a painted green light indicated a toilet.
Marish nodded, put his gun in his pocket, and followed me toward the back. We had gone about five feet when Emmett Kelly stepped in front of me.
“Toby, you look …”
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just someone I ate.”
I pushed past him, and he eyed Marish, who gave him his Hitchcock grin. We moved past Elder, who was holding back his roustabout with one hand and talking furiously with Lope. Elder was speaking Spanish rapidly and comfortably. It seemed to calm Lope of the single eye. But I wasn’t calm as I pushed open the door under the green light and stepped in with Marish behind me. He locked the door and faced me.
There wasn’t much room, just a toilet, some toilet paper hung by wire from the wall, a small basin with a dripping faucet and a dirty brown sink. The small mirror over the sink looked as if someone had soaped it for Halloween and no one had bothered to clean it. A newspaper was on the floor. I caught part of the headline and realized that the British were either winning or losing in Burma.
“It was most cooperative of you to come back here,” said Marish pleasantly. Then his voice turned harsh. “I am most distressed about what you did to my brother.”
“Your brother?” I asked, sitting on the sink. He backed away from me with the small gun out and sat on the closed toilet. My brother and I had once had a similar talk when he was about seventeen and I was fourteen. My older brother had given me some advice then, and I had made a wise comment. The result was a five-inch cut on my head. I had more to lose this time.
“Charles Marish, whom you sent to his death last night,” said Marish angrily.
“But he was a killer,” I answered, folding my arms.
“We have been over that,” he said. “I told you why he and I killed those people. You clearly have no sympathy or understanding. You clearly don’t understand the shallow corruption the circus represents, the squalid lives, the cheapness. The world would be better off without circuses.”
“And you’re personally going to destroy them all?”
“I would that it were possible,” he said. “But I will have to be content to carry on for my brother and do what little I can. Now …” He held up the pistol.
“Did you try to kill Emmett Kelly, or was that your brother?” I asked.
“One of our few failures,” he sighed, reminding me of the man he had impersonated.
“Why Hitchcock?” I asked quickly.
“I became an actor after the elephant accident,” he explained. “I worked in England as an extra on Jamaica Inn. A few people actually mistook me for Hitchcock on occasion. In fact, I doubled for Charles Laughton on the film. I’m afraid I shall now have to kill you.”
“Afraid?” I pushed away from the sink. The rear of my pants was wet.
“I will enjoy it,” he said.
“I think I’ll just have to deprive you of that pleasure,” I said.
He shook his head. I looked into the corner over that shaking head and fixed on the transom. Curiosity took him, but he didn’t
turn.
“I’m looking at a shotgun,” I said. “Through the transom. Sheriff’s been listening to all this. His office is right next door. This toilet and the sheriff’s share a transom. Flush the toilet in there, Sheriff.”
A toilet flushed almost instantly, and Marish looked up at the transom. I went for his gun as he glanced up, and hell broke loose. I slammed his hand away and the bullet hit the wall, followed by an explosion and the shattering of the mirror as I banged into the wall below the transom. Shards of glass flew, and I covered my head.
“You crazy bastard,” I shouted at Nelson, sinking to the floor and moving my arm away from my eyes. I could see that my pants were torn by the flying glass, but I was doing fine compared to Marish, who had a deep gash on his cheek from the shotgun blast. He was looking around for something with madness in his eyes. He panted the frightened pant of a fat man. I helped him look. We were probably looking for his gun, and I wanted to find it first.
“Don’t move in there,” came Nelson’s voice. “Or I’ll fire the second barrel.”
“Nelson, no!” I yelled, spotting the gun and going for it. Marish let out a gasp and went through the door. I got to my feet, picking up a cut on my palm. I staggered out of the destroyed toilet and looked down the bar. Everyone was looking at Marish and me. Some had their mouths open. All had heard the explosion, and no one could miss the two shredded humans who had come through the door.
“Stop him,” I shouted after Marish, who was almost at the front door. He was leaving a trail of blood. No trail was needed, but my own knees weren’t doing well enough to carry me forward.
Marish put one hand on the door. Behind me from the toilet I could hear Nelson’s voice yelling, “What the hell is going on in there?”
The radio was now giving a calm male message in slow Spanish that made it clear radios were unaware of human activity. I didn’t know if Marish would get away or where he would go. I didn’t have to find out.
Emmett Kelly moved to the door and put a hand on Marish’s shoulder.
“Hold it,” he said. Marish turned, his wild bloody face showing all his hatred for the circus. The look took Kelly by surprise. He was used to a lot, but not that look of hatred.
Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven) Page 17