Hastily Don searched among the costumes inside until at last he found one that might serve. He donned it and grabbed a jar of makeup. His practiced fingers smeared the white over his face in record time, and then, with red and black grease pencils, he added the enormous grin, the high arched eyebrows, the flaming red nose that were identical with those a certain other clown had been wearing, a clown that Don was fairly certain was now in a police car chasing Chan!
Then he stepped out of the truck and went boldly in search of Inspector Church. He found him, by the trailer, issuing orders now to Doc Whipple and Schneider. “—men you can trust,” he was saying. “I want this place surrounded until Butterfield’s men can get here.”
Diavolo circled and approached from the direction of the sideshow tent. And when he spoke his brisk official tone exactly matched the voice of the Federal dick, Mike Hailey.
“I collided with a tentpeg,” he said disgustedly. “I’m afraid he got away.”
Church snapped at him. “You get out front on that main entrance. Don’t let anyone leave until I’ve given them the once over. Chief Butterfield will be back in a moment with men to help you.”
Don Diavolo said, “Yes, sir,” and left at once.
It was two hours before the last of the audience trickled through the tight police lines. The Inspector caught two fish in his net, Pat and Mickey Collins.
He growled at them ill-temperedly, gave them a quick questioning, and got a lot of “I don’t know” answers.
“For two bright looking young ladies,” he said, “you sure act awful dumb. How would you like a few days in jail?”
“We don’t know,” Pat said again.
“You’ll know after this,” Church growled. “Butterfield. Have some of your boys take them in.”
Two more hours went by as Church, Butterfield and his men, and a certain Mike Hailey, vainly examined the circus people and searched the trucks, trailers and tents. It was three A.M. when the Inspector finally gave up and admitted to himself that Don Diavolo must have left the lot in the interval before the reinforcements arrived.
He left and returned with Chief Butterfield to the latter’s headquarters to direct, by wire and phone, the widening search for the magician. He was so busy at this that it wasn’t for yet another hour that he noticed Mike Hailey’s absence. A lot of water had gone under the bridge in that hour — and something else too.
It was just after Church had searched the menagerie tent that the clown assistant he thought was the Federal detective had disappeared. He had lagged behind as the searching party left and, except for one of the elephants no one saw him as he ducked beneath the lion’s cage and settled down to wait.
The minutes dragged slowly by in the dark tent. The bull boss came in a little later and rolled up for the night in a blanket near his elephants. But Diavolo remained awake, his ears alert for the slightest sound. He watched the cage of the black leopard two cars away. He could hear the animal moving restlessly as his padded feet paced the floor of the barred enclosure. Above Don’s head the lion snored. Finally it happened.
He glimpsed the dark silhouettes of the two men that slipped in silently and he heard the soft thud as one of them blackjacked the sleeping animal trainer.
Diavolo waited. Presently a small pencil of light from a pocket flash appeared before the leopard’s cage. The magician peered cautiously out. He saw the sudden thrust of a man’s hand as it threw something between the bars. He heard the sudden quick leap of the jungle cat and the beginning of a snarl — then silence.
Don Diavolo knew that the thrown object had been Schneider’s missing sixth arrow!
In a moment he heard a metallic creak as the cage door opened. Don Diavolo moved silently, the clown white on his face shining ghost-like in the dark.
He edged across the space between the lion’s cage and the sidewall, lifted the canvas and rolled under. He wasn’t going to tangle with those boys in the dark, not when one of them might still have the clawed, poisoned weapon that had caused three other deaths. The thing to do now was call out the marines, quickly, quietly.
But that plan failed. There is no defense for a quick, hard blow that strikes from the dark at the back of a man’s head.
As he fell he realized that there had been a third man on watch outside the tent.
That, however, was his only thought before he lost consciousness.
A half hour after that a speeding car slowed on a bridge ten miles out of Lakewego toward New York.
One of the two men in the front seat said, “This would be a good place to get rid of uncle.”6
His companion nodded. The car stopped. The limp body of a white-faced clown lay on the back seat, tied hand and foot. The two men lifted it out, swung it between them up on to the bridge rail, and gave it a push. They grinned when the sound of the splash came back from the Norwalk River, thirty feet below.
5 Gow: Dope. Snow: Cocaine. Junk: Morphine. Witch hazel: Heroin. Piece: 1 ounce. C: $100.
6 Uncle: Underworld argot for a Federal Narcotics agent. Sometimes called “whiskers” or “gazer.”
CHAPTER XV
Loose Ends Tangled
INSPECTOR CHURCH had just started to wonder about the missing Mike Hailey when he got the report that sent him scurrying back to the circus lot. He took a look at the dead leopard, the poisoned arrow, and the empty secret compartment beneath the floor of the leopard cage. He questioned the two wounded policemen who had tried and failed, amid a shower of bullets, to stop the car that had roared, speeding, off the lot.
It was four A.M. and after but when Inspector Church decides he wants to ask questions like the ones that plagued him then, the time of day is of little account. He returned to the city jail at the head of a procession of cars that carried a good share of the circus personnel.
Dawn was breaking and the Inspector’s inquisition was in full swing when a car stopped before the jail and deposited on its steps a sorry looking object, a man whose clothes dripped water and whose face was strangely streaked.
The detectives inside stared for a moment and then pounced like a dozen cats all after the same mouse. Don Diavolo made no resistance.
“Go easy, boys.” he said. “And relax. I’m all out of vanishes at the moment. Where’s Church?”
They told him. In fact, they took him — at once.
The Inspector was in Butterfield’s office firing questions at Colonel Van Orman whom the police had traced and routed from his bed in a nearby hotel.
Church took one look at Don Diavolo and his face beamed like the rising sun outside.
“Good work boys. Where did you find it?”
Lieutenant Brophy answered, his voice puzzled. “He walked in and gave himself up.”
Diavolo shook his head. “I walked in, but I haven’t given up. I came to get Pat, Woody and Horseshoe out of hock. Any news of Chan?”
“Yeah. He was picked up about an hour ago, halfway to Vermont.” Church scowled. “But you don’t get them; you join them.”
“Vermont?” Don laughed. “When Chan goes in for misdirection he does it up brown.”
Church was saying, “Brophy, I want three men on every door and window in this room. I want—”
“You still think I’m it?” Diavolo asked.
“You’re going to have one sweet time proving that you’re not.” Church replied defiantly.
“Okay. Shall we begin now?”
“Sure, go ahead, I guess I can listen to one more of Uncle Don’s bedtime stories. What is scheduled for this broadcast? Goldilocks and the Three Bears?”
“No,” Diavolo answered wearily. “It’s one you haven’t heard yet. Mr. X and the Three Bodies. It was almost four bodies. I just went for a swim with my hands and feet tied. Oh, by the way, did anyone down the line pick up a Buick sedan containing a couple of gunmen and two suitcases full of snow? They couldn’t have gotten very far. I drew a big swastika in the inside of one of the rear seat windows with clown white. I thought perhaps that mig
ht get them a little attention.”7
It was Colonel Van Orman who asked, “Suitcases full of snow? Is the man crazy?”
“Snow, Colonel, is cocaine. And I think the Inspector knows now what the murderer’s cryptic little message about the snow leopard meant. He was hinting to his victim that he knew about the dope on the leopard’s cage. And Hagenbaugh, curious to find out who knew anything about that, let him come in.”
“You said this was going to be something I hadn’t heard,” Church objected. “I figured that out some time back. Like Hailey said, the show has been smuggling dope down from the Canadian border. The gag was that a customs officer isn’t so likely to make a real thorough job of examining the inside of a leopard’s cage — especially not a cat that had this one’s mean reputation. But let’s hear you get down to brass tacks. That first solution of yours I’ll admit was almost good in one or two places, but—”
“Almost good,” the magician objected. “Why you low-lifer! That’s a fat lot of thanks. It was perfect except for—”
“Except,” Church broke in, “that it named the wrong man. What’s perfect about that? And another thing. You said Belmonte might have trailed his wife in to the Emperor Theater Building and then was killed because he had seen and recognized the murderer there.
“But you tossed that out because it meant having to crack one of the solid gold 14K alibis we have too damn many of. Maybe you’d be interested to know that Belmonte was in New York, that one of the men who tailed you to Hagenbaugh’s office saw him in the downstairs lobby. He recognized a photo of Belmonte I rushed back to headquarters a little while ago.”
Church leaned forward across the desk, his cold blue eyes fixed on Diavolo. “Let’s hear how you squirm out of that one. I’ll listen — about five minutes worth. But, I warn you, this in-the-river story sounds to me like another great big helping of your fancy misdirection.”
“Inspector,” Diavolo protested. “Won’t you ever believe anything I say?”
“I doubt it. If I ever find a magician who always tells the truth, I’ll let you know.”
“But even magicians tell the truth sometimes. Times like now — when a police inspector is bearing down.” Don shivered. “Let’s get this over with. If I don’t get out of these wet clothes I’ll find myself without a speaking voice when my act opens Monday.” The magician took a step forward, showed the Inspector a pair of empty hands, and then, with a small flourish, produced a paper folder of matches from thin air. He dropped them on the desk before Inspector Church.
“That,” he said, “is the match folder you found this afternoon in the suit the window washer was wearing. The murderer, when he traded clothes, was careful to remove anything that might be a clue to his own identity. He overlooked the match folder and the two pennies, or possibly didn’t think they were important. Yet those matches can tell us who he is.”
Church picked the folder up, opened it, turned it over, scowled and said, “All right. How?”
“If you’ll bring a choice selection of those people you have cooling their heels just outside I’ll match those matches with their owner. Van Orman and Hailey are already here. I want Doc Whipple, Captain Schneider, Miss Powers, and Naga, the Leopard Man.”
Church shook his head, “Oh, you do, do you?”
Don said calmly, “I do. And if you won’t oblige, then I’ll wait and give the story to Woody Haines. When the D.A. reads it in the New York Press he’s going to want to know why you let the murderer escape. If we don’t get him now, he may not be handy tomorrow.”
“If the D.A. knew I was sitting here listening to you pull my leg, he’d — oh well, once a sucker, always a sucker. Tell your men to shoo them in, Butterfield.”
The Inspector’s teeth clamped bulldog fashion on his cigar. His fists clenched firmly behind his back seemed to indicate that he had to hang on tight to keep his fingers from fastening firmly on his adversary’s throat.
Butterfield’s men began herding the dramatis personæ of the case into the room. Church glowered darkly when the Leopard Man shuffled in, but refrained from comment. Slowly the group assembled.
Don Diavolo waited until the persons he had asked for were all present. Then he put his hand in his coat pocket and drew forth a cased deck of playing cards. He opened the case and removed the pack. The cards were wet and they stuck together. Diavolo tried to shuffle them without much success.
Church growled, “Dammit, I knew there’d be monkey business.”
“Relax, Inspector,” Diavolo said, “But keep one hand on your gun. This trick has a socko finish.” He fanned the cards as well as he could considering their condition, and then offered them to Miss Powers.
“Take a card, please.”
The girl looked at the Inspector and then back at Diavolo. Then, hesitantly, she put out her hand and drew one from the fan.
“Don’t let me see it,” Don directed. “Look at it, hold it to your forehead and concentrate on it. That’s fine. You have the seven of hearts. Am I correct? Thank you.”
He repeated this same maneuver five times. Van Orman, Whipple, Schneider, Hailey, and with the captain’s aid as a translator, the Leopard Man.
As he named the last card, the ace of spades, he turned to Church and said, “You see, Inspector? Now you know why the claw marks on Hagenbaugh and the window washer were on the left sides of their faces. And you know why the two words, Snow leopard, in that note were so awkwardly written even though the man with the bandaged face did write with his right hand. Two of these people are left-handed! We can easily eliminate one. The other is the murderer!”
He permitted his glance to rove around the room, resting briefly on each of the two who had drawn cards with their left hands.
“Yeah. I caught that. Two of them drew their cards with their left hands. But …” Church glanced down at the match folder again and then his eyes lighted as he saw it.
“Compare that match folder,” Diavolo went on, “with some of your own. You are right-handed, and you’ll find that you invariably tear out matches from the right-hand side of the booklet and work toward the left. But the ones missing from the folder the murderer left behind have all been taken from the left side!”
Inspector Church dug into a pocket and brought three half-full packets of paper matches. In each, the matches had been pulled from the right-hand end. “You see?” Don murmured.
Church was really interested now. He stood up, gun in hand. “And, since Butterfield had Whipple in jail all afternoon, we can eliminate him. Schneider, put up your hands!” The Inspector’s gun leveled on the animal trainer’s chest.
Schneider’s slender frame seemed to contract, as if something had sharply tightened a set of springs within him. He pushed his hands flat against the arms of his chair and half rose.
Diavolo’s voice cut through the tense silence that was like a palpable thing in the room. “No. We can eliminate Schneider because he had no chance to poison Belmonte. But Doc Whipple did! He was alone with Belmonte for a few moments after Woody and Hailey carried the body to the trailer. He sent the rest of us away on errands. And what’s more, if Schneider had tried to imitate the clawmarks of an animal on his victims, he would have known better than to use five scratches. A leopard — any cat’s paw in fact — has but four claws.”
The Inspector’s gun hand wavered, not sure which man to aim at.
There was not a sound in the room, and the silence was electric, supercharged. Don Diavolo felt a sudden warning tingle in his palms.
Don Diavolo took his eyes from Whipple long enough to give the white-faced chief of police a glance. “Butterfield,” he added, “now that you know what it really was that Whipple wanted that alibi for, now that you realize that you’re an accessory before the fact to murder, don’t you think you had better talk? How much did Whipple pay you?”
It was Chief Butterfield’s gun that suddenly spurted flame. It was Doc Whipple who fell.
His knees buckled; an expression of pure amazeme
nt crossed his face. He took one lurching step forward, and collapsed. No one else had moved.
Butterfield let his gun drop to the floor. Hopelessly he said, “He gave me too much. I should have guessed it wasn’t for what he said it was.”
The Inspector finally had to give in and let Pat Collins, The Horseshoe Kid and Chan out of clink. He had too much evidence to the contrary. From then on it rolled in on him like a circus parade. Chief Butterfield’s confession, in itself, was plenty; and then, when a search of Doc Whipple’s car revealed the money and the glove, it was all over but the shouting,
A show’s legal adjuster, in the circus lingo, is known as “the patch,” “the mender” or “the fixer.” A big part of his work, on a grift show, consists in fixing the local cops so that they will look the other way when the lucky boys go to work on the towners with their crooked concessions — the shell game, the gaffed roulette wheels, and spot-the-spot joints.
Butterfield was a “right” cop who didn’t mind as long as the fixer gave him his little cut. He liked to hear the clink of cold cash in his hand, or as a con-man would say, he had “tin-mittens.” Doc Whipple, of course was well aware of this and when the show had hit Lakewego he sold the Chief a proposition that really did make Butterfield’s palm itch.
Butterfield, it turned out later, was the kind of honest citizen who cleaved to the side of strict ethics until the moment of the big chance for easy money. If Whipple hadn’t come along with his sure-thing scheme, Butterfield might have remained a conscientious plodding official for the rest of his days.
Whipple had told him first that this year the show was a “Sunday School” outfit, that Hagenbaugh had cut out the grift joints.8 Then, while Butterfield was growling because no grift meant no rake-off for him, Whipple explained that Hagenbaugh was going in for bigger things.
He had a gilt-edged sucker all lined up for the pay-off in a sure-fire con game. The score would run into real money and if Butterfield wanted to cut in for ten grand it might be done. The con-game wrinkle R.J. had worked out had only one flaw. The sucker, once he’d been trimmed, might catch wise unless Doc could furnish a gilt-edged alibi for a certain three or four hours in the afternoon.
Death from Nowhere Page 9