“In 1887, wasn’t it?” said Claire.
“The year before. We don’t know that he was killed by one of those four, but they’re enough to be going on with. I’d like to find the revolver that killed him, as well as the person. Joe Carey has a revolver, but no ammunition—so he says. Dodo never possessed a revolver in his life—scared stiff of the things, so he says. Miller used a revolver every day. At least, he stood outside the ring with a loaded revolver while Anton was doing his act with the tigers—just in case anything went wrong. That’s an argument in Miller’s favour, if anything. If Miller wanted to kill Anton, he had every opportunity to do it when the tigers were being frisky yesterday afternoon, and then make out that he’d misfired and shot Anton instead of the beasts. In any case, Miller’s revolver is handed up to the ring-master and locked away at the end of each performance.
“Whether Lorimer owns a gun or not I don’t know. He’s cleared out, and until he turns up we can’t get very far, I’m afraid. I hate a case with a lot of suspects. I’d much rather start where it was a physical impossibility for anyone to have done the dirty deed. However, one can’t complain. It’s a case, and it’ll pass the time away until you get married to the vacuum on Saturday.”
“And after that?”
“After that I’ll hand the whole thing over to the locals, and get back to the peace and quiet of London.”
“Of course, you’ll have solved the thing long before Saturday…”
“I expect so. If only we could lay hands on Lorimer, we might get somewhere.”
Lorimer, taking his cue neatly, came into the dining-hall and ordered an omelette aux champignons, with a black coffee to follow.
“Well!” said Mr. Minto.
“Well!” said Claire.
Robert took advantage of the silence to get the thing that had been worrying him off his chest.
“I…I’d like to tell you something about this case,” he said.
“Carry on,” said Mr. Minto. “All help gratefully received. What’s on your mind, Robert?”
“I know who killed Anton.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Robert…on two glasses of Sauterne…”
“I’m quite serious. I know who killed Anton. He came to the church this morning and confessed.”
Mr. Minto stared at his brother. He had not yet realized the position. If one had a brother who was a priest, and if murderers made a habit of confessing to the priest, then it saved a great deal of trouble. He waited for Robert to tell him the name of the confessee.
“You understand, of course, that I can tell you no more than that,” said the priest. “I only told you that in case the matter became…um…embarrassing for both of us. The man confessed—through me—to his God. It concerns only the man and his God. I know you will understand the position I am in.…”
“Quite,” said Mr. Minto. “Quite, Robert. Perfectly. Of course.”
Mr. Minto went to lie down.
Mr. Minto enjoyed the unusual, but this was a bit too much. To try and solve a murder case, and at the same time to be rubbing shoulders with a man who knew the murderer’s name, was a new sensation for him. Robert, of course, was perfectly right: if that was his religion, he must abide by it. There must be no pumping of Father Robert Minto—no attempt to catch him off his guard and get him to give away this very important piece of information. Mr. Minto had solved a good many murder cases without having to call in his brother’s help as a father-confessor, and he was not going to start now.
There was, of course, no reason why he should not use the information that Robert had already given him—however unknowingly. The murderer was a man…which cut out Miss St. Clair, the stout lady who handed the Indian clubs to the jugglers, and Miss Mae West. The murderer was also a Catholic, and that narrowed down the field a great deal further. Mr. Minto sat up suddenly on his bed, and went out to ask people questions.
As a result of these questions, Mr. Minto found that Lorimer was a Catholic, having joined the Catholic Church on marrying Loretta.
Mr. Minto also discovered that the man Miller was a Catholic, coming of good Irish stock from Dublin, where he had once broken a beer-bottle over a man’s skull to clinch a religious argument.
Mr. Minto found, too, that Joe Carey was a Catholic, and had—somewhat surprisingly—attended Mass that very morning.
And, finally, Mr. Minto found that Dodo was a Catholic.
Mr. Minto went back to lie down.
Chapter Ten
Mr. Minto watched the afternoon performance of the circus from the draughty alleyway, and found it—in addition to being draughty—extremely exciting.
Joe Carey had taken the whole morning to persuade Miller to change his name to Anton, put on Anton’s abbreviated tiger-skin pants, and go into the big cage with Peter and the rest of the troupe. Miller, who had been so keen to get back into the act, appeared to have changed his mind about it now that the chance had actually come. He was having none of it: he admitted frankly that he was scared. If the cats tore up Anton, what the devil would they do to him?
“But they didn’t,” said Carey. “They never touched ’im. ’E was dead as a door-nail before ever they went near ’im.”
“I don’t care,” said Miller. “I’m not doing Anton’s act—not with the beasts in that mood, thank you.”
Mr. Carey coaxed, wheedled, bullied, cajoled, and threatened. Until half an hour before the matinée performance was due to begin, Miller was still having nothing to do with the proposition. Mr. Carey promised him Anton’s salary. It nearly broke his heart to do it, but it seemed to be the only thing. Miller wavered. Mr. Carey said that, of course, they would not expect him to go into the ring unarmed, as Anton had done, and that there would be plenty of people standing round the ring in case anything did happen—not that there was the slightest chance of anything happening. Miller wavered a little more. Mr. Carey then made rather a faux pas by saying that, if anything did go wrong, he would make himself personally responsible for Miller’s wife and family—they would be looked after and cared for in the event of Miller’s death. On hearing this, Miller stopped wavering at once and said that he wouldn’t go inside the cage with the tigers for all the gold in Christendom.
Mr. Carey gave up trying to be diplomatic and persuasive, and played his trump card. If Miller didn’t do the act that afternoon, he could pack his grip and clear out of the circus right away.
Miller, sweating, said, “All right…I’ll do it.”
The six hundred school-children and fifty-odd adults who saw the matinée performance will not easily forget it. Mr. Minto, standing in the wings beside a group of silent performers, was as frightened as he had ever been in his life.
The cage was set up at the record speed for which Carey’s was famed; the long tunnel leading from the tigers’ own cage into the ring was placed in position; the band gave the cue, and was drowned by the roaring of the tigers as they slouched down from their cage, along the tunnel, and into the ring. They were in no mood to be played with…certainly in no mood to be put through hoops of fire. Mr. Minto, staring at them before Miller entered the ring, wished that he was on speaking terms with these tigers. Here was a murder case in which no fewer than eight living beings—seven tigers and a Roman Catholic priest—knew the name of the murderer, and would probably have been only too glad to have passed on that name if they could have done so…and Mr. Minto had to try and solve the thing on his own, surrounded by these eight know-alls. It was very trying.
The tigers were jumpy and excited. Even the cubs were wide awake, and two of them staged a fairly vicious fight between themselves before Miller entered the ring. The new trainer threw off his dressing-gown beside Mr. Minto, and Mr. Minto wished him luck. He was very pale and trembling a little. Mr. Minto didn’t like the look of it at all. Why should this man Miller be so scared of doing the act, when—
only the night before—he had boasted that he could do it far better than Anton himself?
Mr. Minto started to think. These seven tigers knew who had thrown the body of Anton into their cage last night. They hadn’t actually mauled him; they had raised their necks to heaven and roared the place down. There must have been a certain bond of attachment between the tigers and their trainer—though it certainly had not seemed a very strong bond at yesterday’s performances. It was quite likely that these tigers, more than any of the humans in Carey’s Circus, could solve the mystery of Anton’s death. If the man who placed Anton’s body in their cage were put before them, wouldn’t they show their feelings in no uncertain manner? Suppose that man had been Miller—at this moment opening the door and stepping slowly into the ring.…Mr. Minto watched closely.
Five of the seven tigers had their backs to Miller as he stepped into the ring. The sudden roar of the other two and the clang of the door as it shut made the five swing round to face their new trainer. The band brought its introductory music to a close with a roll on the drums, and there was silence in the tent for a moment. Only for a moment. Peter, facing Miller, stood motionless. If only, thought Mr. Minto, if only one could tell what Peter was thinking at this moment. Was he, by any chance, thinking: “…This is the man who threw the body inside the cage last night…this is the man who killed Anton…this is the man whom we want to kill…?” Peter gave one roar, and sprang.
Miller lashed out with his whip, hitting the tiger across the face. The beast stopped, a yard away from him, and gave a second roar, of pain. The other two older tigers and the cubs were closing in on the trainer. The six men stationed at various points outside the ring stood still, their hands round the revolvers concealed in their uniforms. One of the cubs broke away from the rest and slunk round the wall of the cage, coming up behind Miller on his right side. Miller saw it out of the corner of his eye and slashed out again with the whip.…The cub winced and slouched back into the centre of the ring, but in that moment Peter saw his chance, and sprang again. Miller leapt aside, lost his balance and fell on the sawdust.
Peter was on him in an instant. A great paw thrashed across his naked body, from the neck down to the waist. Blood poured out suddenly. The women in the audience screamed; the children kept a frightened silence; every person in the tent, without knowing it, had left their seats and stood up, staring at the unpleasant sight in the ring. The men outside the cage whipped out their revolvers, and two of them fired high into the roof of the tent. It was impossible to fire direct at Peter in case of hitting Miller. Impossible at first: as soon as it was realized that Miller would probably prefer to be shot than to die the death which he was being dealt out at present, three more shots cracked out simultaneously. Peter leapt back and sank down on the sawdust beside Miller. He had two bullets in the throat, and lay pawing the ground feebly. The cubs, unhurt but terrified, raced round to the far side of the cage. One of the other beasts had taken a bullet in one of its paws, and limped round the ring in fury.
“Play, damn you!” shouted Joe Carey. The band struck up “Tiger Rag”. No one could blame them for seeming so callous about it; this was the next piece of music on their programme, and they had not thought of changing it to a more suitable tune while Miller was being torn to pieces.
Mr. Minto could not gather what happened after that. There was a tremendous amount of excitement and yelling and running; somehow the tigers were shoved out of the ring, up the tunnel, and into their cage; somehow the body of Miller was carried past him and out to the nearest tent. He heard Joe Carey roaring for Dr. Blair, with a great many unnecessary but understandable adjectives thrown in. He caught sight of Dodo, in a brand-new clown’s costume, standing in the wings with no expression on his painted face. He realized that Miss St. Clair, who was next on the bill, had fainted untidily right at his feet, but before he could do anything about it she was lifted up and carried off to the same tent in which Miller was lying. It was not, Mr. Minto thought, the ideal spot for a lady to recover from a fainting fit.
He looked back through the flap into the tent: the audience was still in pandemonium, and Peter, the biggest of the seven tigers, still lay motionless in the middle of the ring. But once again Mr. Minto was forced to marvel at the organization of Carey’s Circus, for here was Joe Carey in person entering the ring, stepping over Peter, making a short speech, telling everyone to keep calm, assuring them that no serious damage had been done and that Anton (he nearly said Miller, but checked himself in time) was only slightly hurt.
Here, too, was a small squad of men carrying the heavy, limp body of Peter out of the ring, and a larger squad taking down the huge cage. Dodo was in the ring now, playing the fool, doing double somersaults and ending up with a brilliant timing in a large pot of whitewash.
The children slowly forgot how scared they had been, and began to snigger at the clown. The sniggers grew to laughs, the laughs to roars…much more pleasant roars than the last that had been heard in that tent. The band changed its tune. Miss St. Clair, revived with a large brandy, appeared with her Educated Ponies. The show went on.…
“Is he only slightly hurt?” asked Mr. Minto, as Carey came out of the tent.
“What d’you think?” said the proprietor. “’E’s dying—or dead.”
“I’ve got to see him, then,” said Mr. Minto.
He ran across the grass to the tent where Miller had been carried with Carey following him, puffing freely. Miller was lying on a trestle table. He was not a nice sight. Dr. Blair was fortifying himself with a double whisky…two cases of this sort within two days was a little too much for him.
“Is he dead?” asked Mr. Minto.
“No. Not yet. I can’t do anything for him, though.”
“Not if you stand there drinking whisky,” said Mr. Minto, and went across to lean over Miller’s body.
The man’s eyes were closed, but he was still breathing.
“Miller…” said Mr. Minto. “Miller…can you hear me?”
The eyes gave a flicker and the lips moved slightly.
“Miller…I want to ask you something. Take it easy—don’t move. You’ll be all right if you lie still. Last night—when you went away from Dodo’s party—where did you go? What did you do?”
The eyes opened and stared up at Mr. Minto. Mr. Minto did not hold with putting a man through a shorter catechism in circumstances like this, but it had to be done. Miller had perhaps a quarter of an hour to live—perhaps less. And after that quarter of an hour had passed Mr. Minto could do very little in the solving of Anton’s death where Miller was concerned.
“Where did you go, Miller? I’ve got to know.”
“Outside…walked round the field…that’s all.…”
“You know what happened last night, don’t you? Anton was murdered—shot dead and then put inside the tigers’ cage. Miller…listen to me, if you can. Did you go near that cage last night?”
“No.…”
“Did you see Anton at all last night—after the party, I mean?”
The man closed his eyes again and lay still.
“Did you?”
“I…saw…”
“Take it easy—don’t move. You’ll be all right.”
“Joe Carey…caravan…”
“What’s that?”
Mr. Minto could hardly hear him. It was going to be considerably less than the quarter of an hour he had given him.
“Miller…did you kill Anton?”
No answer.
“Did you kill Anton?”
The man raised his head a few inches. His lips opened but no words came. The head sank back on the trestle table. The eyes closed and he moved no more.
“Blair! Come here, damn you—do something!”
The Doctor crossed to the table and made a brief examination.
“We’d better get a priest,” said Mr. Minto. “He’s a Cath
olic.”
“He’s dead,” said the Doctor, and sounded relieved.
“And a hell of a lot you did to keep him alive,” said Mr. Minto, and walked angrily from the tent.
One of the four suspects gone. Mr. Minto was in more of a quandary than ever. Did that mean that the case was finished so far as this world was concerned? Or did it mean that he had still to go on, on the chance that Miller had not been Anton’s murderer? He could do a certain amount of nosing around before deciding on that point, at any rate. Mr. Minto went straight to the ring-master, and found that gentleman steadying his nerves with a cup of strong tea. He spoke with a Yorkshire accent as strong as the tea, which came as rather a surprise to Mr. Minto: apparently the immaculate English with which he announced the turns was confined to his appearances in the ring and could be dropped at will.
“Miller’s dead, poor chap,” said Mr. Minto. “It’s just possible that he was the man who killed Anton last night. I’ve got to check up on one or two things before I can be sure about that. Now, I want your help.”
“Ay,” said the ring-master. “Owt I can do, I’ll do it.”
“Miller had a revolver, hadn’t he? Up till today, I mean—when he was on the attendant’s job during Anton’s act?”
“Ay, that’s right.”
“Where was the revolver kept?”
“In here. In case, over yonder.”
“Is it there now?”
“’Course it’s there now. Never been taken out. He didn’t need it today, seeing he was doing act himself. Eh, poor fellow…been a heap better if he’d had goon, wouldn’t it?”
“Let’s have a look at it.”
“All right. All goons are handed in to me after performance. It’s a right strict rule in circus, it is. Miller’s was kept in here beside rest of them. Eh, now! What do you know about that?”
“Nothing,” said Mr. Minto. “What do you mean—isn’t it there?”
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