Case with 4 Clowns (10 page)

“Well, what would they do?” I countered.

“They'd hush the whole matter up,” said Waterman decisively. “That's what they'd do, they'd hush it up. They don't want to bring their heroes into ridicule and contempt, do they? Of course not. You can't tell me that that there Lord Simon Plimsol don't ever make a mistake. I bet he does, but we never hear of them. It wouldn't do.”

“You suggest, then,” I said, “that I should have been dishonest over the Sergeant's last case, and not written it?”

“That's right,” said Len Waterman. “And what's more, when he gets a case again, if I was you I should do it serious. Write as if you really meant it. Stop making the Sergeant look a fool. Well, that's what I think. No offense meant, I'm sure.”

Before I had time to assure him that I took his criticisms in the spirit in which they were offered, a voice from the tent could be heard sharply calling for “Len.”

“That's me,” he said, as he moved away. “Something gone wrong with the lights, I expect. Well, we'll have a little talk some time, shall we?” and with this he ducked under the side of the tent.

April
27th
(continued).

A
FTER
the evening show Beef and I watched the business of “pulling down.” Every day this happens in the tenting show; every day, at the end of the performances and somewhere around ten o'clock at night, the whole of the tent has to be pulled down and packed away, the gear tidied and stacked into the lorries, the animals fed and shut up in their cages, and everything got ready for the early start next morning. Boy Scouts would no doubt have called it “striking camp,” but what Beef and I watched was considerably outside the scope of the usual Scout's training.

Even before the show had completely finished the tent hands were running round loosening the guy-ropes, holding them in position until the last note of “God Save the King” had sounded. Then the walls of the tent came down with a rush, and almost before the first person was out of the tent in the open air, it was being rolled into large heavy bundles and moved away ready for the lorries. The light from the tent top flooded out over the tober and made the work easier, and a special light fixed to the head of the electricity lorry helped the work. The crowd moved out slowly. The older ones only lingered a few minutes and were soon on the road home, but the younger ones hung about in groups, some of them waiting their turn at the fortune-telling booths, some of them visiting the zoo, and others simply gathering into small knots of people and talking.

As I watched the hands and artists alike at work on the tent I realized that each person had his own particular job, and that the task of pulling down had been rationalized to its limit. There was a certain order of tasks, and people to do
them, and this was the method which got the work finished in the shortest possible time. Some of them were dismantling the seating and stacking it into one of the lorries, others were collecting the quarter-poles, others taking out the pegs and collecting them, others on the canvas itself, rolling it into separate bundles which would need three or four men to lift them.

“Standing at the corner watching other people work,” sang out Ginger as he strode past us carrying three poles on his bare, gleaming shoulder.

“And
very nice, too,” answered Beef.

At last the two king poles were carried away, and the last bundle of canvas thrown into the back of the lorry. Only one or two of the smaller tasks remained to be finished and the artists had disappeared, leaving these to the tent hands.

“Let's go along to the clowns' wagon,” suggested Beef, already on the move towards it. “I could do with a cup of tea and a bit of a chat.”

We got both with no trouble at all. Sid Bolton, still in his make-up and clown's costume, was juggling with the tea-pot when we entered and poured us out a cup each before we had even spoken. Clem was seated in front of the mirror wiping his face, tearing away the false tufts of hair and trying to get the grease-paint off as fast as he could work. The color ran into one mixed mess all over his face as his fingers moved briskly over the skin. Then, rubbing with an old greasy rag, he sluiced his face quickly in warm water and stood before the mirror again drying himself thoughtfully with a towel. The face which emerged from under the make-up was an exceptionally good one. Clear, unwrinkled eyes, straight, firm nose, and wide humorous mouth.

“That's the trouble,” he said suddenly aloud.

“What's the trouble?” asked Beef.

“This face.”

“Seems all right to me,” said Beef, inspecting it carefully.

“That's just what I mean. It
is
all right. And that's the trouble.”

“Sorry,” said Beef. “Would you mind telling us what you're talking about?”

“Well, it's like this,” said Clem Gail, stripping off his clown's costume as he talked. “Now, I'm a bit ambitious. I like people to think I'm a good clown, that I do my job well and all that. But how can I when they never know it's me who does it?”

“But your name's on the bill,” said Beef.

“No, it isn't. ‘Archie' is. You see, I'm two different people. There's me now, with quite a good face, and there's me in the ring, with a funny face. But people never connect the two. If the others walk down the street the people nudge one another and say, ‘Look, that's the trapeze artists, isn't it?' or ‘Isn't that the wire-walker?' But they never say that about me because they wouldn't recognize me.”

“First we get two people who are so alike people think they are one,” I interrupted softly, “and now we've got one person who people think is two. Fine state of affairs. I suppose this chap will have to stab himself.” But Beef nudged me heavily to shut up.

“What did you say?” asked Clem, who had not heard.

“Nothing,” said Beef hurriedly. “He was just trying to be funny, that's all. Go on.”

“Well, that's all, I suppose,” grinned Clem. He was dressed now, and flicked the comb through his hair. “The only other grouch I've got,” he went on, and I heard Sid Bolton groan behind me as if at a much-heard tale, “is that I have to change after pulling down, and by the time I get out on to the tober …”

“The tent hands have bagged all the best girls,” finished Sid, with a chuckle.

“So that's what you're hurrying for,” observed Beef. “I thought perhaps it was for our benefit.”

Clem turned at the door to grin at us. “Not—likely,” he said, and ran quickly down the steps.

“He's a fine one,” said Sid as we got up to leave. “Always grumbling about never being able to pick up any girls. Seems to get one most nights, though.”

“What's his trouble then?” I asked.

“Well, you see,” explained Sid, “he was saying to me just now as we were pulling down that he'd seen a nice girl over by the Zoo and he wanted to get out before one of the hands got hold of her. They usually pick out all the best ones, you see.”

As we left the wagon I noticed that Beef seemed to be exceedingly pleased with himself. He was smiling broadly and every now and again a quiet chuckle would escape from him.

“Well, what is it?” I asked. “What do you find so funny?”

“I got a job for you,” he burst out. “A nice little bit of investigating that's just about up your street.”

“Yes?” I said doubtfully.

“Yes. I want you to follow that young Clem Gail and see what he does.”

“But suppose he picks up this girl?” I objected.

“You just go on watching what he does,” said Beef. “Cor, I've had worse jobs than that in my time.”

“But it's spying on his private affairs,” I said. “I'm not going to do it. Where would it get us, anyway? That's got nothing to do with the case.”

“How do you know?” said Beef blandly. “You just do as I say, and then come back and tell me all that happened. That's a real nice little job, and I think you ought to be pleased with it.”

“Well, I'm not,” I said shortly. “And what's more, if you want to know—and I can't see what use it would be to you at
your age—if you want to know how a young fellow picks up a girl, then you can do your own dirty work.”

“Look here,” said Beef firmly. “Are you on this case with me, or aren't you? Either one way or the other. I'm not asking much.”

“I'll do it,” I said, “if you swear it's something to do with the case. But otherwise not.”

“ 'Course it's something to do with the case,” said Beef. “Anything to do with the circus people is something to do with the case at this stage. How shall we know where we are unless we know something about the people mixed up in it?”

“I suppose you're right,” I said reluctantly, “but …”

“That's right,” said Beef, with a grin. “I thought you'd see it that way. Now run along or it'll be all over before you get there.”

I “ran along,” as Beef so tactlessly put it. I could see Clem over by the gate talking to one of the hands, and looking often at the figure of a girl who was standing by herself outside the fortune-telling tent. As I approached he left his companion and approached the girl and began speaking to her. I walked quickly round behind the wagon nearest them and listened, hoping hard that no one would come along and notice I was eavesdropping.

“Has he run away and left you?” Clem's voice asked.

“Who?” asked the girl.

“Why, the boy friend, I suppose.”

“I'm waiting,” said the girl, almost coldly, “for my mother.”

“If she's having her fortune told, she'll be hours,” said Clem. “Old Margot always takes a wet week. Come and have a look at the animals while you're waiting.”

From where I stood I could see the girl's face, and knew that she would eventually say yes to this proposal. She was a tall, good-looking girl, graceful in a way I suspected she had learned from an intensive study of Ginger Rogers. The
way she swung her small blue hat carelessly by the brim must have made me think of this. And possibly the way she had her hair done. Now she turned to Clem and faced him for the first time.

“Are you with the circus?” she asked at last.

“That's right,” said Clem. “Now what about those animals?”

“But suppose Mother comes before I get back? She'll think I've gone home.”

“You can just pop your head in the tent and tell her you're going off for a minute.”

The girl paused for a moment, and then turned quickly and walked towards Margot's booth. When she emerged again she was smiling. “Mother says she'll go on home without me,” she said. “Now I'm ready.”

Clem seemed to think for a while. “We could go and see the elephant-tent first,” he suggested. “Have you seen the elephant-tent?”

“But it's dark. There'll be nothing to see!” the girl protested.

“That's why,” said Clem briskly, and grabbed her arm.

For a moment she hung back, and I thought he had misjudged his tactics. But suddenly she laughed and moved away with him. “Really, you
are
a surprise,” were the last words I heard her say. “I like people to be straightforward.”

Cursing myself for being so stupid as to take this job, and the couple because they couldn't stand in one place, I slipped from behind the wagon to see where they were going. Sure enough they were walking slowly across the field towards the elephant-tent, and I had to get quickly around the edge of it in order to get there before them so that they would not see me.

I paused for a moment behind one of the wagons which they would have to pass in order to hear, if possible, what
they were saying. They were walking arm-in-arm and I could tell by the way their heads moved that they were speaking.

“What do you do in the circus?” I heard the girl ask.

Clem's reply was indistinct, but the girl took him up and repeated it. “On the trapeze?” she said. “That's funny, I don't recognize you.”

“We look different without the make-up on,” Clem mumbled.

“Yes, I suppose you do. Anyway, you were moving so fast I couldn't get a good look at your face. I think your turn is marvelous. I wish you wouldn't have all those clowns, though. Some of them are clever, I suppose, but they make me yawn.”

“Oh, I don't know,” said Clem defensively. “It wouldn't be much of a circus without the clowns. Why, they're the oldest part of it. Anyway, they're for the children, and I expect you laughed at them yourself, really.”

“No, I didn't. They just made me tired.”

There was a slight pause. Clem was obviously finding this subject a little tiresome and was searching for something less controversial. “What's your name?” he asked at last.

“Alice.”

“Mine's Clem. My real name, of course. We all use other names in the ring; it sounds better.”

The couple walked past me and on towards the elephant-tent, and this time I waited until they had disappeared inside before I moved. The last thing I wanted to happen was Clem or some of the other circus people to see what I was doing. Beef no doubt had a reason for this absurdly uncomfortable “job” he had given me. But, nevertheless, I found it in the worst of taste. I watched Clem hold the flap of the tent open for the girl, and then it dropped behind both of them, and I emerged from behind the wagon and walked as softly as I could across to it. I went round to the back, where I was out
of the light from the tober, and here it was pitch black and impossible to see anything. So much so that I stumbled and fell over one of the tent-pegs.

“What was that noise?” Alice's voice asked urgently from inside the tent.

Clem was calm and reassuring. “One of the elephants, I expect. Nobody will come around here, you needn't worry. Why, you're trembling.”