Death from Nowhere

by Clayton Rawson

  Chan preferred to believe the worst. “In India, in the Naga Hills between Assam and Burma, the leopard men are not sufferers from a skin disease.”

  If the rest weren’t interested, Woody was. This would make a swell story. “And what sort of leopard men do they grow there, Chan?”

  “Headhunters,” the boy replied.

  This got him some attention.

  “They believe,” he added, “that when a man is killed he becomes the slave of the slayer after death. The more people they kill the more slaves they have to serve them in the hereafter.”

  “A wholesale motive for murder,” Don said. “But why are they called leopard men?”

  “Because they are,” Chan said simply. “They practice lycanthropy.”

  Don Diavolo gave the boy a sharp look. The Horseshoe Kid now found Chan using words he didn’t understand. “What’s that?” he wanted to know. “I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “It means werewolves,” Don said, “or, in this case I suspect, wereleopards. Right, Chan?”

  Chan nodded. “In the Naga hill country, when you shoot a leopard, you may be killing a man too. The Naga hillsmen do not hunt the leopard. They might find they had killed a friend or relative whose soul had left his body to enter that of a leopard. Many of the Naga witch doctors claim to be able to project their souls in this way at will.”

  “Just the same,” Don Diavolo said, “I’ll bet you that the Leopard Man in Hagenbaugh’s sideshow will turn out to be the common garden variety — a negro with vitiglio.”

  Chan should have taken that bet.

  … Leatherlung Mike, at that very moment, was striding back and forth on the bally platform before the Hagenbaugh-Powers sideshow top. His stentorian voice rose above the lights and music of the midway.

  “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry! The last complete performance before the Big Show begins. Just starting now! See the weirdest, most amazing congress of strange people and curious oddities ever assembled under one canvas! All alive and all on the one ticket! See Bobo, the Dogfaced boy! See Bella, the fattest woman alive! See the Oriental dancing girls! And don’t fail to see Naga and his collection of human heads! Naga, witch doctor of the headhunting Leopard Men from India!! Thrills! Chills! And amazement! Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!”

  The Hagenbaugh-Powers Leopard Man was the real thing.

  CHAPTER X

  Death in the Air

  THE tires of the big car screeched along the pavement as Don Diavolo brought it to a sliding stop before a gas station on the outskirts of Lakeside.

  The Horseshoe Kid allowed himself a sigh of relief and slowly relaxed. “Does beat all,” he said, “how these city fellers do burn up the roads!”

  Diavolo glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Eight-thirty sharp,” he said. “Seventy-five minutes from Broadway.” Then he turned to Horseshoe. “See that drugstore across the street?” he asked. “Get over there on the doublequick and bring back one bottle of their best black hair dye. Come on, Woody. Washroom. You and I are going to do a quick change act.”

  Woody Haines blinked. “We’re what?”

  His voice was shaky.

  “You heard me,” Don replied. “You’re changing clothes with me, and when we hit that circus I’m going to be introduced as J. Haywood Haines and you’re going to be Don Diavolo.”

  “No, you don’t,” Woody objected. “Not if I know it. Some other time — but not when there’s a murder rap about to land on you with both feet at any minute. Do I look as simple-minded as all—”

  “Do you want a story?” Diavolo demanded. “Or don’t you? Do you want to know who killed Hagenbaugh? Do you want to get the exclusive inside dope on how the vanishing murderer disappeared from Hagenbaugh’s office? Do you want—”

  “Sure,” Woody said. “All of that. But I’m not leaping before I look. What’s the idea? Why—”

  “A trap for the murderer,” Don said. “He knows what I look like. And he went through my pockets after he knocked me out. I’ve got a driver’s license in my billfold; he knows who I am. If any of the people we’re going to meet in the next few minutes catch wise to our little act, if someone knows that you’re me and vice versa, we’ll know he’s our man. We may not have time to collect a lot of alibis and make a batch of fancy deductions this trip. We’ve got to trap our man into making an error and we’ve got to work fast.”

  Pat and Mike prodded the reporter. “If you don’t,” they threatened, “we’ll never speak to you again.”

  Woody gave in. “Okay. But I still don’t like it.”

  When the car pulled away ten minutes later Woody was driving. He wore Don’s clothes. His blond hair was black. He was still objecting.

  Don ignored him. He spoke rapidly to The Horseshoe Kid. “The Great Belmonte, Captain Schneider, Lillian Powers,” he said. “Do you know any of them? We need an in. You’ve worked that three-shell game of yours on half the circuses in the country.”

  “Leatherlung Mike,” Horseshoe said. “He did the kidshow bally last year. If he’s still with them—”

  Chan spoke up. “He is. Remember that name from Billboard story. Practically impossible to forget.”

  Five minutes later Woody drove the car on to the lot and parked it behind the sideshow top. As they got out they heard a voice from within the tent, “—a member, ladies and gentlemen, of one of the world’s few remaining tribes of real dyed-in-the-wool headhunters. Naga, leopard man of India! And his unequaled collection of bona fide human heads, each and every one a trophy of savage vengeance!”

  “Chan asked quietly.Vitiglio?”

  Diavolo frowned. “Looks as if you win, Chan,” he said. “This complicates matters, and Church isn’t going to be happy about it at all.”

  “That’s Mike’s voice,” the Kid said. “He must be doing the inside lecture, too. Come on.” He lifted the canvas sidewall and ducked under.

  On the inside, arranged at intervals around the tent, were a dozen low platforms on each of which sat a “strange person” or a “curious oddity.” A broad-shouldered man who stood by a ticket box just inside the entrance saw The Horseshoe Kid and the procession that followed him as they made their unorthodox entry.

  “Hey!” he yelled and suddenly sprinted toward them. “What do you think this is? A public highway? Get the—”

  Calmly Horseshoe said, “Take it easy, big boy. We’re with it. Or we will be as soon as I see Mike.”

  The ticket taker gave him a suspicious scowl, noted that Horseshoe’s green-checked suit looked like something a circus man might wear, and then glanced toward the Leopard Man’s platform where Mike was lecturing the group of customers gathered around him. Mike, who had also seen the parade as it came under the sidewall and who, by now, had recognized The Horseshoe Kid, threw the ticket taker a nod of assent. Mike’s booming voice filled the tent. “When the Leopard Men of India go on the warpath they assume the costume which you see Naga wearing — the leopard mask and the leopard claws.”

  Naga, a slender brown-skinned man, wore a leopard skin loin cloth. His head was encased in a mask that represented the leering, sharp-fanged head of a snarling black leopard. In one hand he held a short, broad-bladed spear; the other wore a glove which with its sharp curved claws resembled a leopard’s paw. A half dozen grisly shrunken objects were displayed on a rack at his side — human heads hanging by their hair.

  Chan whispered in Don’s ear. “Heads very probably manufactured in this country. Also suspect mask and claws. The Nagas don’t dress as leopards. They wouldn’t think it was necessary. Not when they think they can be leopards.”

  Leatherlung Mike finished his talk and directed the attention of his audience to the stage at the far end of the tent. “The next attraction offered for your edification and amusement will be the oldtime Plantation Revue, a syncopating extravaganza of mirth and melody. Take it away, boys!”

  A four-piece negro band on the stage swung into action. A buxom coffee colored singer swayed her hips and sailed into what she may
have thought was a song of the Old South but which sounded a lot more like The Boogie Woogie Blues.

  Leatherlung Mike stepped down from the platform and came toward Horseshoe and his companions. “Hello, Kid,” he grinned. “Where have you been keeping yourself all this time?”

  “Oh, I’ve been around, Mike,” Horseshoe said. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.” He introduced Pat, Mickey and Chan. Pointing to Woody he said, “This is Don Diavolo, the Scarlet Wizard. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He vanishes elephants and stuff.”

  Mike pumped Woody’s hand. “Yes, of course. Read about your elephant stunt in Billboard. I’d like to see it some time. We’ve got a few bulls out in the menagerie. Don’t suppose you could give us an impromptu demonstration?”

  “Why sure,” Woody replied unexpectedly. “Any time at all. Glad to.”

  The Horseshoe Kid blinked. He knew that Woody’s skill at conjuring consisted solely of one or two simple tricks with matches.

  Then Woody covered himself. “Vanish them all for you,” he said. “Your boss might object, though. I haven’t figured out yet how to bring them back again. When I vanish them they stay vanished.”

  Horseshoe cut in quickly before Woody should be asked to demonstrate some more practical feat of sleight of hand. “And this,” he said, indicating Don, “is Woody Haines, star reporter for the New York Press. He’s got an assignment to do a series of circus articles. He’d like to interview some of the performers. I thought maybe you could fix it for us.”

  Mike nodded. “Sure. Doc Whipple’s the man to see. He’s the fixer and he runs the outfit when R.J.’s not on the lot. But you’d better wait until I can take you back. Doc’s a bit touchy tonight and he might bite. I’ll be tied up here for awhile yet. Why don’t you all go in and catch the show for a bit until I can get away. Then—”

  “What’s wrong with Whipple?” Horseshoe put in. “He hasn’t been having cop trouble, I hope? I heard there wasn’t any grift on this outfit this season.”

  “That’s right,” Mike replied. “But we had a run-in with the law just the same. The fuzz in this town is poison. The chief of police hit the lot this noon with a damage suit some towner has been nursing ever since we played here last year. He attached the day’s gate and threw Doc in the cooler just to make sure he collected and the show didn’t move out from under. Miss Powers got Doc sprung just a little while ago. Took all the afternoon gate and part of tonight’s advance ticket sale to make the bond. Whipple’s fit to be tied. And besides that I saw Colonel Van Orman blow in a few minutes ago.”

  “Van Orman? What’s that mean? The Mighty Van Orman Combined Shows playing this territory, too?”

  “I’ll say so. We’ve been scrapping for the same stands all the way down through New England. And when the Colonel arrived he was asking for Doc and spitting fire. He says R.J.’s advance crew has been tearing his paper.4 But it’s six of one and half a dozen of the other. We caught a punk on the lot day before yesterday playing a mouth organ. My hunch is that Van Orman put him up to it.”

  “You are having your troubles, aren’t you?” Horseshoe said. “Sounds like old times.” Then, seeing the bewilderment on his companions’ faces, he explained. “A mouth organ on a circus lot is the worst kind of bad luck. Leaving a hat on a bed, whistling in the padroom, a band that plays Home Sweet Home any time except the last show of the season — they’re all bad, but playing a mouth organ is worse.

  “If Van Orman put someone up to that it means he’s trying to give the performers the jitters. That’s bad because if you’re trying to do a back somersault from horse to horse, or a two-and-a-half to a catch by the legs in the flying act, and you expect an accident to happen — it probably will.”

  “That,” Don Diavolo said, “gives me a lead for an article. Circus superstitions.” He turned to Mike. “I’d like to do one on the sideshow, too, especially your Leopard Man. Is he the real McCoy?”

  Mike nodded. “He is. Captain Schneider who works our cat act brought him back from India. Picked him up on one of his ‘Bring ’Em Back Conscious’ expeditions.”

  “Haven’t you gilded the lilly a bit though, Mike? Chan here knows India pretty well and he’s never seen a leopard mask like that before.”

  Mike grinned. “Well, maybe I did a bit. But you don’t need to print that. Schneider says the leopard men are supposed to be able to turn themselves into leopards or something of the sort. But that’s sort of a tall one to get the customers to believe. So I got R.J. to get his Outdoor Amusement Supply Company to fix me up that leopard head mask and the claws. It gives the act a little punch.”

  “What about the heads? Are they window dressing, too?”

  “Yes and no,” Mike answered. “One of them is the real thing. The others are papier mâché. When I tell ’em that Naga has killed a couple of dozen people I’ve got to have more than one measly head to make it sound good.”

  “I see,” Don said. “Sideshow performers don’t have much free time during a day, do they?”

  Mike shook his head. “No, hardly. This is a grind show. We run a crowd through every time we get one together and the acts have to be on deck. We give two performances before the big show starts, one or maybe two while it’s going on, another after it blows, and on the come-out after the concert—”

  Diavolo interrupted. “What time is the main show over in the afternoon?”

  “Five o’clock.”

  “And Naga was on his platform all this afternoon?”

  Mike frowned. “Yes. But why—”

  “Did he have that leopard paw glove of his?”

  Mike’s frown deepened. These questions, even from a reporter, sounded a bit odd. “Yes,” he said hesitantly, “He had it, but I don’t see—” Mike turned his head as the negro band music came to a sudden stop. “I’ve got to give ’em the fat woman and the knife throwing act yet. Then I’ll be with you. But why do you ask if—”

  “I write detective stories in my spare time,” Don said quickly. “I just had an idea for a circus murder. Your leopard man would make a good suspect and I was wondering if he’d have time to sneak out for a murder or two. But it looks as if you keep him too busy. I’ll have to think of something else. But thanks for the information.”

  “Sure,” Mike said. “Don’t mention it.” He left them, puzzled and not completely satisfied with the explanation.

  To the others Diavolo said, “We can’t wait for him. This is rush. And I see trouble ahead. If the afternoon show was still in progress at four forty-five when Hagenbaugh.…” He stopped, frowned, and added, “Come on. We’ll take a chance on Whipple.”

  Don lifted the sidewall and held it as the others ducked under. Then they started across the lot toward the lighted expanse of the big top, toward the “backyard’ where a line of trailers and trucks were drawn up facing the entrance the performers used in going in to the arena and the rings.

  The brassy blare of the big top band told them that the performance was in full swing. As they approached the music changed, a whistle shrilled, and a swaying line of elephants emerged and moved off toward the menagerie.

  Then Horseshoe pointed toward two men standing near the entrance. “There’s Van Orman now,” he said. “By the backdoor. The peppery little bird in the ten-gallon hat. He looks mad.”

  He sounded mad, too. He hopped up and down and waved his arms like a windmill in a high gale. “Whipple,” he spluttered at the lean gloomy-faced individual before him, “if those hyenas on your advance don’t leave my paper alone, I’m going to show Hagenbaugh what opposition really is! And you don’t need to yell if somebody gets hurt. You can tell that double-crossing, four-flushing son of a spavined camel for me that—”

  Whipple took a long stogie from his pocket, angrily bit off the end, spit it out nearly in the little man’s face and drawled with apparent but deceptive calmness, “Go tell him yourself, Colonel. And get the blazes off this lot! I’m beginning to have a damned good notion who was behind the shakedown
we were handed today, and if I could prove it—”

  Two husky working-men suddenly materialized, one on either side of Van Orman. “Okay, boss,” one of them said. “Maybe you better mosey along.”

  “Why you — you—” The colonel, purple in the face, stuttered, snorted, shook his fist once under Whipple’s nose and, turning, started to stomp off.

  Don Diavolo said, “Just a minute! Colonel. I want to see you.”

  The colonel stopped. “You want … Who the devil are you?”

  Don addressed his answer to Whipple. “The name’s Haines. Reporter for the New York Press. I thought you might appreciate a word of warning. The cops are going to be on your neck again any minute. And instead of throwing Van Orman off the lot, perhaps you’d better hang on to him.”

  Whipple stared at him. “What—?”

  Don Diavolo had decided that perhaps a sudden bombing attack might be the quickest way to get the information he needed. “Because,” he said, “Van Orman’s got a motive. Hagenbaugh was murdered this afternoon!”

  The little group around the entrance stared at him dumbly. Inside the tent the music of the band blared a lilting sprightly waltz. A group of baggy-trousered, flap-footed clowns hurried past into the arena.

  Don threw a flying squadron of words at his listeners. Somehow, within the next few minutes, he had to get authority to ask the needed questions.

  “I’m after a story,” he said. “I’m following a lead that says the murderer is on this show. There’ll be cops here any minute saying the same thing. If you can hand them the killer when they arrive, you’ll have a chance to move this show in the morning. Otherwise, it’ll sit here until they get through investigating. Whipple, if you get me the answers to some questions, I may be able to swing it for you.”

  The circus manager eyed him suspiciously. “I don’t believe it,” he said. “How do I know—”