THE DEAD RINGER
Born in 1906, Fredric Brown was an American science fiction and mystery writer. In early life he attended the University of Cincinnati and Hanover College, Indiana, before working as a newspaperman and magazine writer in the Midwest. His first foray into the mystery genre was The Fabulous Clipjoint (1947), which won the Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America for outstanding first mystery novel. As an author he wrote more than thirty novels and over three hundred short stories, and is noted for a bold use of narrative experimentation, as exemplified in The Lenient Beast (1956). Many of his books employ the threat of the supernatural or occult before concluding with a logical explanation, and he is renowned for both original plots and ingenious endings. In the 1950s he moved to Tucson, Arizona, and wrote for television and film, continuing to submit many short stories that regularly appeared in mystery anthologies. A cultured man and omnivorous reader, Brown had a lifelong interest in the flute, chess, poker, and the works of Lewis Carroll. He died in 1972.
THE DEAD RINGER
FREDRIC BROWN
THE LANGTAIL PRESS
LONDON
This edition published 2010 by
The Langtail Press
www.langtailpress.com
The Dead Ringer © 1948 Fredric Brown
ISBN 978-1-78002-013-6
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I
CHAPTER II
CHAPTER III
CHAPTER IV
CHAPTER V
CHAPTER VI
CHAPTER VII
CHAPTER VIII
CHAPTER IX
CHAPTER X
CHAPTER XI
CHAPTER XII
CHAPTER XIII
CHAPTER XIV
CHAPTER XV
CHAPTER I
IT DIDN’T SEEM in the least like a prelude to murder. It had been a dull gray afternoon, but warm, and there’d been a good crowd at the lot and we’d done all right. It was the fifteenth of August, a Thursday, our fourth day in Evansville, Indiana.
Then, at about half-past six, just as we were beginning to get set up for the evening’s business, it started to rain. That’s usually tragedy to a carnival, but this time nobody minded much. The weather had been giving us a break for weeks, all through southern Ohio and Kentucky. We’d been working every day, and everybody was in the bucks. An evening off, for a change, looked good.
My Uncle Am had just run up the canvas front of the ball game concession that he and I operated, when the first big drops came down out of the dusk.
He tilted his hat back and looked up at the sky; a couple of drops hit his face and glistened there. Then he let the canvas down again and grinned at me. He said, “Well, Ed, we got an evening off.”
“Could be just a shower,” I said.
“Nope, it’s good for all night. Could be some wind coming, too. Let’s grapevine some rope.”
We put away the baseballs and the wooden milk bottles and two racks of prizes, and got our raincoats, and I got a hat. Uncle Am always wears one except when he sleeps, so he already had his on. It’s a soft black slouch hat like the one The Shadow wears, but otherwise my uncle doesn’t look much like The Shadow; he’s short and fat and has a cheerful round face and a not-too-neat brown moustache.
We got rope and grapevined the side walls of our booth. It was beginning to rain hard by now. All around the midway carneys were letting down banners and running rope. We grapevined our sleeping tent back of the booth, too.
By then the rain had slowed down to a drizzle, but Uncle Am said it was just fooling. “We won’t open tonight. I think I’ll go over to the G-top. Why don’t you go into town and see a movie?”
I said, “I’ll stick around. I want to practice trombone, and I got a detective magazine.”
He nodded and wandered off and I went back to our tent and turned on the light. I got out the swell trombone my uncle had given me when I’d joined up with the carnival the year before, after my dad died.
I was still nuts about that trombone. I just sat and held it awhile, getting the feel of it. It had a featherweight slide that moved so easily you couldn’t feel the friction or the weight. It was gold-plated and I kept it polished like jewelry. It felt good just to hold it and look at it.
After awhile I started to practice scales, and then played a few tunes from memory, and that went all right. But when I started working on the high notes, one split on me, and I guess it must have sounded pretty god-awful.
I heard a laugh and looked around. Hoagy had stuck his head in through the tent flap. He grinned and came on in, dripping rain from a bright yellow slicker. He was so big he seemed to fill one end of the tent, and he had to stand with his neck a little bent to keep his hat from scraping the canvas.
He said, “I thought somebody was getting killed in here, Ed. Looked in to be sure.”
I grinned back at him. “Just get back, Hoagy?”
“Few minutes ago. Everything’s okay for next week in South Bend. Good lot there, too.” Hoagy was spending a few days a week as advance man since our regular one had quit. His regular job as sex lecturer in the side show had been sloughed in so many towns they’d decided to skip it the rest of the season.
I asked him, “How’s the chimp, Hoagy?” His face got serious. “Still pretty sick. I dropped in the trailer first thing to check on her. Where’s Am, gambling?”
I said yeah, and he went out. It was raining harder again, a steady drumming on the canvas over my head. And the thunder was starting now. It was a low, far-off rumbling, and it was scary. You knew it was just clouds bumping together, but it didn’t seem like that; it was more like an animal growling, some big animal you couldn’t identify by its voice, but that sounded as big as the night, and far away but deadly.
I put on my raincoat and went out to the midway. The rain beat down on my hat like it was a drum, and the lot was beginning to get muddy. Luckily, though, the lot sloped off and there wouldn’t be any lakes of standing water, and shavings would take care of the mud.
I crossed the midway and headed for the green trailer back of the freak show top. There was a light on and when I rapped on the door Lee Carey’s voice called out for me to come in.
He grinned at me and said, “Yeah, you can play the phono. I’m going out awhile though.”
“Any new records?”
“A Jimmy Dorsey album. Some pretty good stuff.” He put on a slicker and went out, and I plugged in the portable and played the Dorsey album. It was good stuff. But the thunder kept getting louder, and I couldn’t concentrate on the music. I decided the hell with it and went out again.
It was raining a lot harder, almost a cloudburst. I hurried back to our booth and Uncle Am was there, standing in the lee of the popcorn wagon with an eye on our canvas. The wind was up, but not really dangerous.
I stood with him until the rain slowed down, and the wind with it, and Uncle Am went back to the G-top. The G-top, if you don’t know, is the gambling tent that some of the big carnivals pitch for card games among the carneys themselves. Marks, outsiders, aren’t allowed in; it’s purely a family affair. I went with Uncle Am and watched him play rummy awhile, but I didn’t sit in.
After a few hands I went back to our sleeping tent. I was wet in spots under the raincoat, so I stripped and rubbed myself dry with a towel.
It was while I was doing that that the lights went out. Not only the bulb inside our tent, but all over carney. I stuck my head out through the flap and there was only utter pitch darkness, everywhere.
I swore a little and groped around until I found matches and lit the carbide lantern we kept for emergencies. I was getting into a dry pair of shorts when Uncle Am stuck his head into the tent.
He said, “You okay, kid?”
“Sure,” I said. “What happened?”
“Lightning hit some wires and fritzed the generator in the Diesel car. They won’t get it fixed tonight; burned out all the windings. Storm’s over, but it took a parting shot at us.”
When he left, I got my detective magazine and tried to read. But I kept getting sleepier and sleepier. The rain started up again, softly, and then died down. Over the soft drumming of the rain I could hear a clock strike, and a far train whistle.
There was the faint sputter of the carbide lamp, the soft drone of the rain, and the dull story that couldn’t keep me awake … and didn’t.
I don’t believe I heard the shot. If I did, it was mixed up in whatever dreams I might have been having, and I don’t remember it clearly.
What woke me was Uncle Am’s voice, from the tent entrance. He called out, “You okay, Ed?” I sat up on the cot. I said, “Sure. What—?”
“There was a shot just now. I thought maybe—” He didn’t finish it; he’d meant he thought I’d been messing around with the thirty-two he kept in his trunk, maybe, and had fired it accidentally.
He’d stepped into the tent, and a big bulk loomed behind him—Hoagy, bending his neck so his head wouldn’t scrape canvas. His voice rumbled, “Somebody says it came from the side-show top. Going over, Am?”
Apparently Uncle Am was, because suddenly I was alone in the tent, still dopey from sleep. I swung my feet off the cot and pulled on my boots. Outside, now, I could hear a lot of voices, and sloshing footsteps. There was no longer sound of rain. I grabbed my raincoat and got into it. It felt cold and clammy against my bare skin. I hurried out, buttoning the coat as I went along the side of our ball game booth, out to the midway. There was still a fine drizzle of rain.
There were others running or walking in the same direction. Most of them had flashlights; I’d been too sleepy to think of bringing one, forgetting the midway would be as dark as pitch. But by following the others, I managed to get across to the side show without falling over anything.
I found the fence in front of the side show easily enough by running into it. I climbed over, groped my way to the canvas without tangling with any stakes, and went under the side wall.
Inside, there was light—dancing irregular light from maybe twenty different flashlights, adding up to enough illumination to light the whole place dimly—and one spot very brightly.
The bright spot was near the middle; a knot of people was gathered around it; I couldn’t see what they were looking down at. I ran to the edge of the group there and managed to stretch enough to see over shoulders and between heads.
Then somebody ahead of me backed out of the circle and I had a clear view of what lay on the grass. I wished I hadn’t been so eager to see.
It was a kid lying there, face down on the grass, without any clothes on. A boy, it seemed, about six or eight years old, with a very white skin and with short-cropped dark hair.
There was the hilt of a knife sticking out of his back. It was a heavily weighted hilt; it looked like the hilt of one of the throwing knives Australia used in his act.
I didn’t know the kid; at least I didn’t recognize him from his back.
Other people were pushing in behind me, some of them talking excitedly. Pop Janney, across the circle from me, was on his knees putting a hand on the boy’s shoulder. He said, “Dead as a mackerel. Stone cold.” He took his hand away quick. Somebody else said “Jesus Christ” and it didn’t sound like swearing. Somebody else said, “Don’t move him; don’t touch him.” Somebody said something about coppers, and somebody else swore.
I pushed my way backward into the open. I saw Uncle Am and Hoagy in another, smaller group, around someone who was sitting slumped down on the edge of the geek’s platform. Whoever it was, was sobbing, and the sound seemed to run precariously along the edge of hysteria. It was a girl, I could tell by the sound. A very scared girl.
I didn’t feel any too good myself. Not scared, not like the girl was feeling, but a little sick at my stomach.
I went out the entrance and leaned against the high bally platform at the front. I wondered who in hell would knife a little kid like that, and why. I tried to place who the kid might be, and I couldn’t; that was funny, because there weren’t many kids with the carney, and I thought I knew them all by sight if not by name.
One kid about that size and age was a favorite of mine, a kid by the name of Jigaboo who was a tap dancer with the jig show. Jigaboo, at seven or thereabouts, had more rhythm in his feet than Krupa has in his hands. But this kid wasn’t Jigaboo, not with a dead white skin like that; Jigaboo was as black as the inside of a cave.
But the kid lying there, I thought, must be a carney, not a town kid. A town kid might possibly be around the side-show top this late at night, but not without his clothes on. For a carney kid, that wasn’t too strange; I mean, a lot of carneys sleep raw in hot weather. Surely a kid would, but—
After a minute my stomach began to quiet down. There was a bad taste in my mouth, literally and figuratively, but I wasn’t going to shoot my lunch.
I heard Uncle Am’s voice call my name and I yelled back, “Yeah,” and started for inside the top again, when Uncle Am and Hoagy and a girl came out of the entrance toward me. The girl was walking between them, and each had an arm across her shoulders. She wore a long green slicker and a green beret and very muddy high-heeled slippers. There was a lot of mud on the slicker and on her bare legs below it. She was leaning forward slightly, with hands over her face. She was still sobbing a little. Uncle Am was talking to her, very quietly. He said, “Rita, honey, you know my nephew, Ed? Ed Hunter, same name as mine. Look, he’s a good kid. Let him take you for a drive, just around a few blocks, till you’re feeling better. Let him get you away from here for a while.”
The girl’s sobbing stopped. She took her hands away from her face. I recognized her now—one of the new girls with the posing show. She’d been with the carney only a week; she’d joined up in Louisville. I’d seen her around a few times. I remembered she was a good looker, although she didn’t look that way now, with her face puffy from crying and with mud on her cheeks.
She said, “H-hi, Ed,” and tried to smile. I forgot the feeling that had been in my stomach and throat, and smiled at her. I wondered if the kid that had been killed was a brother of hers, or something. He couldn’t have been her son; she wasn’t that much older than I, if any. She couldn’t possibly have had a kid that old; she didn’t look over eighteen. Uncle Am left her with Hoagy and came closer to me. He took my arm and leaned forward so he could talk quietly enough that the others couldn’t hear.
He said, “She found the kid, Ed; fell over him in the dark, cutting across the inside of the side-show top—on her way to the doniker, probably. She nearly went nuts. Look, you take her—”
“Who is the kid, Uncle Am?” I asked. “Do you know him, or does she?”
“No, but forget that. Look, I want to stick around and so does Hoagy. Hoagy’ll give you the keys to his car; it’s in front of his trailer but not hitched. Take her for a ride and get her mind off what happened.” He grinned, looking for a moment like a cheerful satyr. “Give her something else to think about. Maybe you can think of something.”
“Sure,” I said. “But look—if she found the body, won’t the cops be sore if she isn’t around when they come?”
He made an impatient gesture. “We’ll take care of that. If the cops start questioning her the way she is now, she’ll go to pieces and have hysterics. So let ‘em wait. Damn it, I’d say I found the body, except that so many people heard the gun go off—”
“Hey!” I said. I’d clean forgotten the shot until he mentioned it. “The kid was stabbed. What was the shot?”
“That was Rita’s gun. A little pearl-handled outfit she had in her raincoat pocket. She was carrying it because she was a little scared walking around in the dark with all the carney lights off; she isn’t used to the carney yet. She had her hand in her pocket, on the gun, and it
went off when she fell over the kid in the dark.”
“Didn’t hurt her?”
“Not even a powder burn. The bullet went in the ground ahead of her as she fell. Put a hole in her raincoat pocket, but that’s all. Now quit asking damn fool questions and get the lead out.”
I turned back and Hoagy gave me the car keys.
I said, “Ready, Rita?”
She said, “Okay, E-Eddie, let’s go,” her voice still trembling a little, but not so much.
The rain was a fine mist that blurred the windshield almost as fast as the busy little arm of the wiper could scrape it off. The rest of the windshield, outside the arc of the wiper, was opaque as frosted glass, as were the side and back windows of the ancient sedan. We were in a little rectangular world of our own, shut off from the outside wetness and darkness, seeing into it only through the windshield wiper’s arc.
There was a pretty girl beside me, but that didn’t mean anything just then, because I had to keep all my attention focused on the shining strip of road ahead, unwinding into unexpected curves. It took all my attention to follow that unwinding asphalt and keep the car on it.
But after a little while it occurred to me to wonder where I was going that I had to drive so fast. I took my foot off the pedal and let the car idle down to a crawl.
I grinned at the girl beside me, then, and she smiled back. She said, “I was wondering what you were in such a hurry about.”
It seemed entirely natural that she moved over closer and that I put my arm around her. But, natural or not, it felt nice.
I let the car edge off the road and stop. Almost right away, as the windshield wiper quit, the arc of windshield misted over and we were cut off from the world outside, completely, in a little rectangular universe of our own, the inside of the car.
I turned and looked at her. She was pretty, even with all her make-up washed off by the rain. Her eyes, I saw, were light blue, sort of misty. They met mine, levelly.
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