Case with 4 Clowns (17 page)

Ginger shuddered expressively and emptied his glass. “Nice sort of birthday present,” he commented.

“Why birthday present?” I queried. “Is it your birthday?”

“That's right,” grinned Ginger. “Twenty-three today. You know I should have forgotten it if the Old Woman hadn't sent me a present. Here, you have a look at it.” And after fumbling in his inner pocket, he produced a new fountain-pen for our inspection.

“ 'Course,” he went on, “I only write two letters in a year; one just after we start the season to say we've gone, and another just before the end to say I'm coming home. Still, it's nice to have a birthday, isn't it?”

Peter Ansell, who seemed to have been celebrating his escape from the tiger with a little too much energy, now rose shakily to his feet. “Ginger,” he said, raising his glass, “Ginger, I drink to you. It is imperative that a man should not lose his life on his birthday. They say Shakespeare did, but I don't believe a word of it. Not a word. Once a year a man should be handed his life—on a plate, as it were. And that, my good friend Ginger, is what has happened to you. May you go another twenty-three years before your life is again in danger. I drink to you.”

“ 'ere,” said Ginger, with concern, “I think you've had a drop too much. Come on. I'll help you to get back to the tober.”

“Good of you, my friend,” muttered Ansell.

“I'd better help too,” said Kurt, and with a knowing wink at Beef and me he grabbed Ansell's other arm, and together the three men wandered erratically out of the pub.

“And now,” I said, turning to Beef as soon as they had gone, “what do you think of it?”

Beef looked at me owlishly, and I thought for a moment that he, too, had over-celebrated.

“Think about what?” he asked.

“This tiger escaping, of course,” I said irritably. “Do you think it was an accident?”

“I wouldn't like to say, exactly,” said Beef, with his usual maddening vagueness. “Why, what's your opinion?”

Before I had gone to meet Beef in the pub I had taken the trouble to inspect the lion-tunnel and make a few measurements, although, of course, unobserved by any of the circus people. I now presented Beef with my theory. There were, I explained, two people who might have been directly responsible for the escape; Ansell and Ginger. To take the most obvious first: Ginger was responsible for dropping the trap shut on the tunnel and might, either by accident or design, have dropped the trap in crookedly so that a slight push from the tiger would have enabled it to get loose. Peter Ansell, on the other hand, was within reach of the front of the trap, and could have opened it unobserved, quickly slamming himself in the cage directly the tiger had sprung out of the tunnel.

But, as I pointed out to Beef, there was also the possibility that the tunnel had been tampered with before the affair. In actual fact, the side runner of the trap-door had been detached, but it was impossible to tell now whether that had been done by the tiger or some time before. This possibility cast suspicion first of all on Kurt himself, who had easy access to the tunnel, but also on any other member of the circus, since anybody could have prized the runner loose without being observed.

“In other words,” said Beef, with a chuckle, “you make out that we're no farther forward than we were before?”

“Exactly,” I agreed. “But if we decide that this was an actual attempt at murder, then at least we have a restricted number of people at whom the murder might be aimed. I mean that, assuming this is the murder you have come up here to solve, you now have a much narrower circle of people who might be killed. That is, Ansell, Ginger, Kurt, Anita, and, of course, yourself.”

“And since,” said Beef thoughtfully, “there's already been an attempt to kill Anita …”

“Good heavens, yes,” I exclaimed, “I hadn't realized that.”

Beef finished his beer and stood up to go. “That's all very nice,” he said, “but you still haven't proved that the whole thing was intentional, and not an accident.”

April 29th.

I
N THE
afternoon Cora Frances arrived. I feel bound to give some space to this amazing woman, not only because she is nationally famous as a painter, but because of the effect she had on the whole cast of the circus from Jackson down to and including Beef himself. I had often seen her canvases in many of the London galleries, and was also familiar with her more widely known posters which were used to popularize a certain brand of tinned food, but if I had been unimpressed by her art I was bewildered by her person.

Her arrival seemed to be something of an Occasion. By the first morning post came a letter which was proudly handed round the tober, and which announced that she would be with the circus some time that day. At ten o'clock the first telegram was brought.

LEFT LONDON EIGHT FIFTEEN [it stated] HOPE TO ARRIVE FOR AFTERNOON SHOW STOP AM BRINGING BOODLE STOP LOVE TO ALL CORA.

“Boodle,” explained Anita, with whom I was talking when this missive arrived, “is her dog.”

At half-past ten the second telegram arrived, stating:

POSSIBILITY ARRIVE LATER THAN EXPECTED STOP BOODLE SICK ON A POLICEMAN CORA.

At eleven we learned:

MAKING GOOD TIME STOP BOODLE VERY TRYING CORA.

And at half-past eleven, more briefly:

BOODLE BETTER CORA.

After this there was a slight lull until about two o'clock, when the telegrams began to come in earnest. Not certain that I saw them in chronological order I only realized that Boodle had been sick some three or four more times and that the lady was undoubtedly drawing closer to us. By three-fifteen I noticed they were using two messengers in order to keep up with the flow, as a new message came in before the original boy had returned to the office.

And at a quarter to four Cora Frances arrived.

A magnificent pale blue saloon car drew up to the gates of the tober and gave a prolonged toot on a triple-note horn. Then a woman's head came out of the window, and a hand which waved violently two or three times. Both withdrew for an instant and then reappeared holding a bluish-gray bundle which was held up triumphantly and which raised a cheer from the artists.

“That's Boodle,” was Anita's whispered comment.

Enough time had now elapsed for the whole of the circus personnel to gather at the front of the tent, and the car drove slowly through the open gates and then, like the
Queen Mary
docking at Southampton, drew round broadside to the waiting group.

A sandaled foot, with red enameled toe-nails, descended from the car, followed by its companion, and two very white legs. My eyes traveled upwards to meet first a short homespun skirt of indeterminate greenish color, a wide peasant belt, a leather lumber-jacket, a white silk shirt and brilliant crimson tie. Her head, hatless, was cropped closely like a man's except that one long strand at the front was allowed to fall across her face and was frequently pushed back into place by her long spiky fingers.

She greeted the members of the group with effusive familiarity, incrusting her phrases with Romany words or circus slang.

“Ah, Anita,” she said, as soon as she had worked her way around to us. “My dear, how are you?”

“This,” said Anita, “is Mr. Townsend. A novelist.”

“How nice,” said Cora Frances coldly, and gave me a limp hand which I relinquished as soon as possible.

“My friend Sergeant Beef,” I said, “who dabbles in private detection.”

“But how thrilling,” gushed the lady. “Perhaps you know my friend, Amer Picon.
Un tel homme. Il est vraiment magnifique.”

“Well, yes. I have had that pleasure,” mumbled Beef awkwardly. “He had a sort of an interest in one of my cases, as you might say. Hasn't he gone abroad lately?”

“I shouldn't be surprised,” said Cora Frances. “How that man does get about. He never seems to grow a day older.”

Before there was any chance of pursuing the subject she had turned and grasped Corinne's arm. “And
now,
my dear,” she said eagerly, “you must tell me
everything
that's happened since I last saw you.” And the two walked towards Jackson's wagon talking animatedly.

I had tried to observe what effect this woman had on the majority of the circus artists, whether they liked her or just pretended to. But strangely enough, the only people unaffected by her arrival seemed to be Anita, Beef and myself; and even then I was not sure of Beef, who was gazing after the painter with a bewildered expression. I waited impatiently for his first pronouncement on her.

“You know,” he said at last, “I had a sister that went to an art school once. But she came home at the end of the first week because she didn't like drawing people what hadn't any clothes on. Indecent, she said it was.”

“Cora was jealous of you,” said Anita astutely.

“Jealous,” I echoed. “But why?”

“She hardly ever takes any notice of me. But this time,
when she saw you were talking to me, she made quite a fuss. Didn't you notice? And then when I said you were a novelist she just froze up.”

“Perhaps she's got a grudge against novelists,” I suggested.

“No, it's not that. She hates anybody else being here when she's on a visit. Competition's always bad for patronage.”

But this was by no means the end of Cora Frances. During the days that followed her presence was continually to be felt in the circus. Her voice, harsh and emphatic like a circular saw, was nearly always to be heard about the tober, and there was no escaping it. She appeared to do very little painting, and when occasionally she did decide to get some work done, it took the major part of the day for her to get her easel set up and a suitable position found. Then, before an admiring group, she would begin to execute a new masterpiece of circus life. But it was her voice which chiefly bothered me.

That very afternoon, before the afternoon show, it drew Beef and me out of our wagon to find that she was half-way across the tober seated on the steps of the Dariennes' wagon.

“She doesn't seem to mind who hears what she says,” commented Beef, as her voice suddenly rose in its high-pitched but controlled laugh.

“Why, Christophe,” she was saying. “You didn't tell me you had a new costume. Let me see. Oh,
c'est formidable.”

There followed a low mumble of words from inside the wagon, and then she replied:

“No, no. I promise I won't look. Let me stay here. See, I've covered my eyes.” And with an exaggerated gesture she pressed her hand over her eyes and sat crouched on the steps like one of the Three Wise Monkeys.

“Look at the window of Suzanne's wagon,” said Beef quietly. The curtain was pulled to one side as though someone were looking out. Then it fell back into place, and after
a brief pause the door opened and Suzanne came slowly down the steps.

“Chris,” she called, as she walked over the grass towards the Dariennes' wagon, “Chris, did I leave my hair-brush in your wagon?”

Cora Frances looked disconcerted, and quickly drew her hands away from her face. She bridled slightly as she saw Suzanne approaching and gave a nervous smile.

“But my dear,” she said loudly, “how very compromising.”

“Only if people like to think that way,” said Suzanne shortly. “The boys always borrow my hair-brush to clean their jackets with.”

Christophe thrust his head through the door. “Catch,” he shouted cheerfully, and tossed the brush over Cora Frances's head. Suzanne caught it neatly, and turned back to her own wagon.

“Don't need no clues for a case like that,” Beef muttered to me. “Nor none of that pie—psychology neither.”

“Why, what do you mean?” I asked accommodatingly.

Beef sucked his teeth in disgust. “You don't half ask some silly questions sometimes,” he said. “She didn't want that brush. Her hair was done perfect, and she had one of them bandeau things on. Just wanted to put her spoke in, she did.”

“You mean she was jealous?” I asked.

“The trouble with you,” said Beef bitterly, “is you haven't got any subtlety. That's what's the matter with your books. You ought to let the readers work it out for themselves sometimes. Like a cross-word puzzle.”

“Subtlety,” I choked.
“I
have no subtlety?”

“That's right,” Beef calmly assured me. “You go at things like a bull at a gate. How can I be a Man of Mystery and a Great Detective when you go about asking me downright silly questions the way you do? All I can say is, after all the detective stories you read you ought to know better.”

I had no reply ready for a frontal attack of this kind, but fortunately at this point our conversation was interrupted by the reappearance of Cora Frances.

“Oh, Mr.—er—I didn't quite catch your name,” she said brightly, approaching me. “Do tell me about the novels you write. What sort of novels are they exactly? There are so many different sorts nowadays, aren't there?”

“Detective novels,” I answered briefly.

“But so many people are doing that,” she said. “Why, a young friend of mine does two or three a year—and all in her spare time. But still, it's a way of earning a living, I suppose, like anything else.”

“I had rather wondered myself,” I said in what was, I hoped, a sarcastic voice, “why such an original artist as yourself should come to a circus for subject-matter. But I suppose it is only a fashion.”

She was unmoved. “You know,” she said, pouting slightly and pressing the tip of her finger into the side of her cheek, “I
did
rather wonder once whether Dame Laura Knight had not done all there was to be done with the circus. But then I said to myself: ‘No. The artist must be a free agent. Must be able to paint anything and everything he or she fancies.' And then I discovered this divine circus—and what else could I do but paint it? I mean, the color, the movement, the splendid fitness of everybody, so tremendously alive, so vital. Just crying for a painter's brush. But, of course, Sergeant, you don't see it that way, do you? You see everything from its darkest side. You only see people who might commit a crime. We ordinary ones are uninteresting to you.”