Gauntlet of Fear

by David Cargill

  ‘Where did you get that information from Mr. Granger?’

  ‘I’m sorry but as you probably know I’m not at liberty to reveal my sources.’

  ‘I thought that would be the answer I’d get,’ said a smiling Giles. ‘But I will try and answer your questions. Yes, the conundrum did direct me to an island and yes, I did go there.’

  Another hand was held high; this time by a female.

  ‘I’ll take one more question,’ he said pointing to the lady. ‘Then I’d like to carry on a little longer before I give you all a chance to quiz me.’

  ‘Eleanor Johnson, The Guardian.’

  ‘Yes, Miss Johnson?’

  ‘When you mentioned about that written conundrum you were unsure as to whether it was sent by someone trying to help by pointing you in the right direction, or if it was a case of being led up the garden path. Can you tell us what your assessment of the situation was at the time you first read it and what it is now?’

  Reaching for the cigar, Giles put it to his mouth and made an effort to bring it to life once more. It took several attempts before a red glow appeared. ‘A moment ago,’ he said holding the cigar upwards. ‘I wasn’t sure whether this cigar was lit and doing me a favour or whether it was dead and making my own existence more difficult. I have to admit that was probably the way I felt when those names and the riddle were brought to my attention. You see, if the aim was to help me who would be doing it and why? It would make no sense for the person causing the gauntlet of fear syndrome to do so as it would be self-destructive. What other option was open to me? Only that of the garden path remained. But if that was the case, the person leading me in that direction would only do so if I was making significant progress in solving the problem. My only conclusion was similar to that Chestertonian paradox I gave earlier. I came to believe that someone was trying to help me by leading me up the garden path in the belief that I would fail.’

  ‘I’m afraid that also makes no sense, Professor,’ the lady journalist of the Guardian proclaimed. ‘Do you honestly expect us to believe that?’

  ‘No, Miss Johnson. I’ve had great difficulty believing it myself. But if you will allow me to carry on I may be able to change your mind.’

  ‘Do what you can, Professor Dawson. If you can make me change my mind and the mind of the other members of the Press here tonight you will need to be a very skilled illusionist indeed. And I doubt that – I doubt that very much. I will say, however, that should you achieve the impossible, my paper will acknowledge that feat in no uncertain terms.’

  ‘Thank you. I will look forward to reading your column in The Guardian after I supply you with the nom-de-plume of the murderer.’ Giles was still holding his cigar and, after a few more puffs, he stubbed out the glowing prop as a nurse or doctor might use a hypodermic needle. ‘The tragic and dramatic death of Allison Somerfield, as she was performing an illusion, introduced another element into the equation. Her death, in my opinion, was unnecessary. I therefore asked myself…why did she die? If previous accidents were to continue, true to form, she could have been incapacitated just sufficiently to ruin her performance. But no! She was killed by the use of Pentathol. If this had been used correctly, and followed by a relaxing agent and given the required air blown by a respirator through a tube into the lungs, she would have survived. I came to the conclusion that she had to die. She had to die in order to become a prelude to a more important death. This started to put the cat among the pigeons. For then I knew at least one more death would take place. What I did not know was the name of the victim or the time and place of death.’

  Reaching for the glass of water Giles took another sip and looked towards the ceiling as if trying to summon another power to aid his thoughts. He cleared his throat as he gazed at his audience once more.

  ‘My short, but eventful, visit to the Isle of Rum was, I believe, a turning point in my investigation. Although nothing conclusive came of it certain skirmishes, as my caretaker friend Major Mackintosh would have stated, led me, not up the path you understand, but led me to focus my attention on items of some significance. Unfortunately I was unable to be conscious of what they really meant until much later, when everything slotted into place.’

  ‘You’re beginning to talk gibberish, Professor!’ yelled out someone.

  ‘Yes, I probably am,’ agreed Giles, taking another puff of the cigar he still held in his hand. ‘Gobbledygook was all it seemed to be at the time. I was getting nowhere fast. It was the city of York that changed everything and the strange death of Sebastian Capuzzo, the Ringmaster. The whole thing smacked of the supernatural; that is until another alternative could be considered.’

  ‘Did you consider such an alternative?’ questioned an impatient journalist wanting answers.

  ‘I thought I asked you all to allow me to finish before I accepted questions. But yes, I did have a different view on that murder…a view that coincided with my thinking about the name of the guilty person. The only problem was I had no way of proving it. Until now, that is!’ Giles paused to take a sip from his glass. ‘I will take another question.’ He pointed to one of the newspaper men with hands raised.

  ‘Bob Lawson, The Observer.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Lawson?’

  ‘You say you know the name of the murderer and that you can now prove it, yet you seem reluctant to give that name an airing. I also note that there are no members of the police in this hall tonight and I wonder why not?’

  ‘For the simple reason, Mr. Lawson, that there isn’t going to be an arrest made tonight and I’ll explain why in a few minutes.’ Giles watched and waited until the uproar that followed his statement had sufficiently subsided. ‘The murder of Sebastian Capuzzo was a complex one. It appeared to have been committed by someone from outside who could deliver an induction agent intravenously from an impossible distance, or by someone inside using a hypodermic needle who would have had to leave a room which was locked in order to escape detection and still ensure a locked room. The only other alternative which could be considered was that the assassin was invisible: before, during, and after the killing. So many things had to be considered. The victim could have been made drowsy if he’d smoked a cigarette or cigar that had been treated with heroin, cocaine or some other barbiturate. But, when the room was eventually unlocked, no cigarette or cigar was found.’

  ‘Does that mean you have no idea how that murder was committed?’

  ‘On the contrary, Mr. Lawson. Although I can’t give you a demonstration, or claim that I know exactly how it was carried out, what I do know is that the evidence was there which confirmed my suspicion about the identity of the killer.’

  Giles looked at his audience for more signs of immediate questioning but, as none was forthcoming, he continued his talk. ‘Subsequent accidents,’ he said, in a subdued tone. ‘Were more than disappointing; they were life-threatening. There was the senseless upset on Bianca, the Andalusian mare; and the near fatality of Gayle, on the swaying pole. The pole affair might just have been the result of carelessness by the circus band but the interference with the mount of young Lizzie was an act of cruelty. Accidents are likely to go on unless I put a stop to them, once and for all.’

  A hand shot up from the row of journalists which Giles pointed to.

  ‘Bob Langley, The Sunday Express.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Langley?’

  ‘Can you really put a stop to these accidents, Professor and if so how do you intend doing it?’

  ‘If I had been asked that question a few weeks ago I would’ve been unable to give an answer except to shake my head. Now I’m about to tell you what I’m going to do. As I said earlier, the person responsible for the accidents and the murderer of two members of the circus elite, one and the same person, is in this room. Tomorrow, at some time during the evening performance, I want this person to meet me.’ Giles stopped and beckoned Senor Gomez, the animal trainer, to approach him. They had a short discussion before Rodrigo returned to his seat. Giles nodded. ‘A
s I was saying I want this person to meet me in the wagon that houses the cage of Khan, the Royal Bengal Tiger.’

  He had another sip from the glass of water and took a few puffs of the cigar before he laid it down in the ashtray, leaving his hands free.

  ‘This person has not only caused a series of accidents, been responsible for two murders, and brought dread and fear in their wake, but has goaded me throughout. I’ve been challenged at every turn. All the time I was conscious of the fact that this same person seemed to think that even though I was supplied with clues, however cryptic, I would be unable to come up with a solution. I would like the chance to hear what the real motive was because I don’t believe it was to take over the circus.’

  Bending down Giles brought, from under the table, a grey leather gauntlet which he banged on to the table almost spilling the glass of water. ‘It is now my turn to throw down the gauntlet and challenge this person to meet me where Khan will be the only creature who can hear our conversation.

  Another hand shot but this time the hand belonged to one of the suspects.

  ‘Yes? Giles said, pointing to the gentleman.

  ‘Michael Wagner, Professional Magician.’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Wagner? I know who you are – yes, but the press don’t ’

  ‘Do you honestly expect one of us to come and face you and answer leading questions?’

  ‘Yes, Mr. Wagner. Yes, I certainly do and I’ll tell you why…I’ve had no problem with any of you doing so in the past. The person I’m interested in has an ego problem and will do anything to have it fed to excess. If Khan was able to digest all that is said tomorrow night, what a star he’d be in Circus Tropicana!’

  The magician sat down and Giles took a piece of paper and an envelope from his inside pocket. He scribbled something on the paper, folded it and placed it in the envelope which he sealed.

  ‘As a magician, Mr. Wagner, you will understand what I am about to do.’ Giles plucked his cigar from the ashtray and took a couple of draws before examining the glowing end. ‘In this sealed envelope,’ he said. ‘I have written the name of the murderer of Allison and Sebastian.’ There was a hushed murmur as he set fire to the envelope, using the burning end of the cigar, and watched it burn safely into the ashtray. ‘That name, now an ash, has been transported by magical powers to the safe-keeping of someone sitting here as a potential suspect.’

  Giles’ smile was more of a beam as he picked up the leather glove and added. ‘I throw down the gauntlet, this gauntlet of fear, and challenge this person whose name I have just burned, to meet me tomorrow night in the presence of Khan.’ Giles paused briefly. ‘And to all of you,’ he said, gesticulating to the members of the Press. ‘I extend an invitation to attend the evening performance of the circus when you may have enough copy, of the scoop category, for your next column.’

  Chapter 25

  THE WRATH OF KHAN

  Giles did not attend the afternoon performance of the circus on the day after the Alexandra Palace conference. He spent most of the afternoon in the Palace building, accompanied by Laura, wandering around trying to appreciate everything on show. This was the place where the BBC News had its headquarters and where Pink Floyd, along with others, had just performed in a successful “Love-in” concert. There was a good bar and the toilets were spotless, but as far as Giles was concerned his mind was elsewhere. Freddie had gone to meet some of the staff in the racecourse offices of Ally Pally, where he could check on the latest racing news, but he promised he would be in the circus tent that evening, ready to lend support if needed.

  The weather was fine, quite warm and dry when Giles had gone into the Palace. But, by the time he and Laura had finished having a bite to eat in the canteen, it had clouded over and light rain was falling.

  It was beginning to get ominously dark as they left the building and rain was still falling when they met up with Freddie.

  ‘This is the kind of weather the racecourse often gets,’ said Freddie as they searched for shelter. ‘Light rain on a hard surface can make the ground slippery, especially on bends with the wrong camber and that often brings about disasters.’

  ‘Is that a dreadful omen, I wonder?’ Laura asked, grasping Giles’ hand more firmly. ‘I don’t mind admitting I’m scared!’

  ‘That makes two of us, my love. I don’t mind confessing that I’m afraid as well, but I won’t be alone if the guilty person comes to accept my challenge. I’ll have Khan in there with me, and we may get a chance to see if he is the pussycat Hank thinks he is.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Giles, but I hardly think this is the time and place for jokes, however well-meant.’

  ‘You are, of course, absolutely correct, darling, but I have to do this.’

  ‘There is something I really must ask you, Giles.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘When you did that magic piece of spiriting the envelope away in a burning flame last night surely that was a bit of magic mischief designed to lure the unsuspecting onlookers into believing you were sending that name somewhere safe? Does someone have that name? And, if so, is it safe?’

  ‘Yes, my dear. It was deliberately used to misdirect at least one person and someone does have that name and it is safe…probably safer than I may be in the wagon with Khan and...? But I’m prepared to take that risk as this may be the only chance I’ll have to lay the ghost that has plagued this circus. And prove, once and for all, that I’m not the easy touch that someone thinks I am.’

  The rain had stopped when Giles saw Laura and Freddie go safely into the circus tent for the evening performance. He then walked the short distance to the large wagon which housed Khan’s cage. There was nobody about as he approached the silent truck.

  Before attempting to go in he looked up at the sky that was loaded with dark cloud. He opened the door, which was unlocked, and went into the dimly lit area. The Bengal Tiger was lying in his cage and the strong animal smell was vaguely comforting as Giles moved to the far end of the wagon where he found a place to sit. Khan rose and came over towards the Prof who watched the beast with more than a passing interest. In the subdued light the tiger seemed to fill the cage and looked anything but a pussycat.

  The silence in the confined space was interrupted by the padding sound of Khan’s huge paws, the increased breathing of the historian of magic and the approaching footsteps at the door of the wagon. The door opened and two men came in. One was Rodrigo Gomez, the trainer of Khan; the other Giles did not recognise. The cage door was opened, a tunnel affair was attached and Khan was led out.

  No word was spoken and when he was left alone Giles realised what had just taken place. The tiger was being used by the magician in the illusion where his daughter, Annette, was to be substituted. Rodrigo and the keeper’s assistant would be ensuring that Khan would be securely placed in the small cage and, when the illusion was over, the tiger would be returned to his own wagon for the remainder of the night.

  Giles got to his feet and walked about for a spell. When he sat down he began to feel sleepy and it was the slight noise of Khan’s return which brought back instant alertness. Once again no word was spoken and Giles was soon left on his own to watch the giant tiger lie down.

  The minutes went by and the sounds from outside signified that the rain had started to fall again. There was a distant rumble of thunder and Giles could not help feeling that an evening in his London flat, enjoying a Whisky Mac with Laura and Freddie, would be preferable to this lonely vigil beside one of the world’s wild animals, while waiting for another wild animal to arrive.

  He tried to look at his watch and began to wonder if his throwing down of the gauntlet challenge was going to be accepted, or whether the attempt to confront the guilty person was about to backfire.

  He made an effort to visualise what might be happening at the circus as faraway echoes of hilarity mixed with gasps of surprise were mingled with the crashing din of applause. At times the noise from the circus became faint as if it had become impossible
to compete with the sound of the storm brewing outside.

  The evening wore on and Giles was on the verge of sleep once more when there was the unmistakeable, though slight, creak from the wagon door as it was evidently being opened cautiously. The bad weather had ceased and Giles tried hard to keep his eyes focussed on the door which was slowly opening. It seemed ages before a cloaked figure could be observed and in the gloom it was almost another example of black against black as the figure entered. It was difficult to determine the gender of the intruder, but that was of no consequence to Giles, for he knew who it would be and the name in the sealed envelope would reveal the truth if anything happened to him. What was now required was to obtain a public confession that would finally put an end to the circus debacle. But how that might happen was in the lap of the gods? …He switched on the little tape recorder he’d brought just in case the gods required some help.

  A shiver travelled down Giles’ spine as a disembodied whisper came from the figure in black to open the creepy conversation. ‘I’m here, from beyond the grave…’ The voice, muffled by the masked face, was impossible to discern as male or female. But Giles was in no doubt as the murmur changed to a deeper tone. ‘You, Professor, will be joining me, and your short career as a detective will soon be over.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it! Why did you have to go to such lengths?’ Giles asked, hoping to extract an answer. ‘What were your bloody motives for submitting the circus to acts of such hellish depravity?’

  ‘That should have been obvious to you, Professor. I had to kill Sebastian. He had to die as there was an old score to settle. Your coming to the circus was a golden opportunity for me to have an alibi; for when Ramon hired you, I believed I could get away with murder, while he thought someone was trying to take over his circus. The accidents were a smokescreen. I was also consumed by a desperate urge to prove that as a detective you were a non-event! What better than to kill two birds with one stone? I could demonstrate my vast superiority to everyone here and to show that you in particular would be unable to prevent my actions or solve the mystery.’