Case with 4 Clowns (37 page)

“It seems to me,” I observed, “that all you're doing is to show me why no one in the circus could have even wanted to commit a murder.”

“I wouldn't need to,” retorted the Sergeant, “if it wasn't for
the funny ideas you've got hold of. But there was a murder, just the same. Which we'll come to all in good time.”

“But,” I objected, “you can't deny that there were attempts at a murder before this. What about the affair when Helen stabbed Anita, and later when the lights failed? How do you account for those?”

“We'll take those one at a time,” said Beef calmly. “Now what you ought to have seen was that that little dust-up between Helen and Anita was all there was to it. I mean, that was the beginning and the end of it. You know as well as I do that those two sisters were really fond of each other, and that neither of them wanted such a thing to happen again. But you wouldn't believe that. You thought something else might happen between them. But you must have missed one very curious little thing which told me that everything had settled down, and that there wouldn't be any more trouble. Because, you see, when Helen stabbed her sister she did just what was wanted—she made everything all right.”

“I don't see what you're getting at,” I said.

“Didn't you notice that after the wound had healed up it left a scar?” asked Beef. “And what's more, Anita did a funny thing what most women wouldn't have done. When she got better she didn't wear clothes that would cover the scar; in fact, she might almost have been proud of it the way she let everybody see it. Why do you think that was? A way of getting her own back on her sister? Not a bit of it. She knew that the reason for Helen going for her like she did was because they were both exactly alike, because they were twins and Helen felt she didn't have a soul of her own. That's what it was. And the scar, you see, made all the difference. Every time Helen saw that scar she knew that she and Anita had something a little different about them. So you see, there wasn't any chance of any more trouble between them.”

“And what about hypnotism?” I demanded. “Anita told me that old Margot was a hypnotist.”

“Hypnotism,” said Beef scornfully. “That's just the sort of thing you take a pleasure in. French idea, that is. What if the old girl did do a bit of mind-reading on the stage at one time or another? That didn't mean she was likely to crawl around making people do all sorts of things they weren't responsible for. You want to get some of these romantic ideas out of your head and get to the bottom of things some time. Why, Anita told you herself it was only a simple sort of hypnotism what couldn't do no harm to anyone. But of course, you never believe what you're told.”

“In other words,” I said bitterly, “I've been making a fool of myself all this time. But I still think that there was something suspicious in the way those lights fused right in the middle of the trapeze act.”

“That,” said Beef, “is because you never took the trouble to think about it. Now as a matter of fact, the reason why that little job couldn't have been done on purpose was because it
did
come at such a peculiar time. Suppose you was outside the tent by the lighting lorry and you wanted to turn them out just when someone was flying through the air. How would you go about it? You see, it's impossible. Suzanne was only in the air about two seconds at the most, and Len Waterman couldn't have run around to have a look in the tent and then run back and pulled the fuse out in that time. And if it had happened at any other time, even just when she was preparing to let go a split second before, they would have stopped the act until the lights came on again. And another thing. Did you ever take the trouble to find out how often those lights fused? Or if they had ever fused before?”

“No,” I admitted, “I didn't.”

“Exactly,” said Beef. “But I did. And I found out that they'd gone wrong three times this season, twice in the after
noon and once in the evening. The wires were so patched up and mucked about with that you couldn't expect anything else. Didn't you notice that none of the people in the actual circus were at all suspicious about them fusing? They weren't. They took it all a day's work, like they would a drop of rain or a bit of bad luck. And a third reason why you were wrong about that was that Len Waterman wasn't the sort of man who would do a thing like that. I admit that he was jealous of young Darienne, and that he was still a bit in love with Suzanne. But that's not the way he would have tried to get even with them. Even if he'd wanted to get even.”

“But there's one other thing about Len and Christophe that you seem to have forgotten,” I told him, “and that is the little affair when we were having that fight with Bogli's Circus. If you remember, they had a quarrel then.”

“And why not?” demanded Beef. “Trouble with you is that you want everything explained for you. When Christophe and Len started that little bit of a scrap that day it was because they were circus people, that's why it was. Nothing else. Circus folk love a bundle now and again. They don't worry about who it is they're fighting, so long as it's a fight. But it doesn't mean anything—not the way you think it means.”

“And how about Bogli's Circus itself?” I asked. “Perhaps there was nothing much in the scrap they had, but why did they turn up to the performance, and why were they so critical all the time? They couldn't have come just to enjoy the show. Cora Frances told me that Suzanne used to be with them before she joined Jacobi's. Was there anything in that?”

“Now look here,” said Beef, shaking his large forefinger at me. “I've told you before that you just don't understand circus people. Now if you like, there's a sort of rivalry between the two circuses, but the point is, it's friendly. They're people with the same sort of ideas, the same way of living, and the same job. When one circus comes over to see the show of the
other, it's friendly, see? It was a bit unusual cutting their own performance, but then the Jubilee show was a special affair, and it was a very nice action to come over and watch it. And as for being critical, they weren't half so critical as what you are of me all the time.”

“But that's different,” I protested. “I'm your friend and I believe you like to know what I think. I mean, if you can't be frank with your friends, who can you be frank with?”

“And that explains the business of Bogli's Circus very nicely,” commented Beef. “Only why you have to have it pointed out to you first, I can't see. Still, let's get on with this business. We'll take the Dariennes next, and that affair between Christophe and Suzanne.

“Now you know brothers are funny. Sometimes they're as close as you like, and at other times they simply hate the sight of each other. I've noticed it many a time. It all depends, I suppose, on the way they're brought up. Well, with those Dariennes, they never had no parents and they had to get along together. Got sort of to rely on each other, I expect. Then, as you heard, Paul was ill, and there was no one to look after him, only his brother. Well, that made a bit of a difference to them. I don't say it wasn't unusual, mind you. But it was something you could understand. They were the sort of brothers you just couldn't imagine not being together all the time. And then this Suzanne comes along and falls for young Christophe. What could be more natural than that he should be worried about it? In the first place, Christophe knew it wouldn't go down too well with his brother, so he kept it from him as long as he could. Suzanne was a bit jealous of the way Paul and Christophe were always together, case of love me, love my dog, as you might say. And, of course, Paul didn't like the idea because he'd become so dependent on his brother. And there they were at sixes and sevens when along we come to the circus on the look-out for
a murder. But there was nothing like that about them. They had their little tiffs now and again, but it was nothing that couldn't be straightened out with a bit of care. As a matter of fact,” continued Beef, grinning at me, “I did a bit of straightening there myself, and I can tell you that everything's all right. I just got that Paul alone for a while and gave him a good talking to. What with having a bit more experience than him in the ways of life and in the ways of women in particular, I soon got him round to see my point of view. I only had to show him that this wouldn't break up the act, or take Christophe away altogether, and he began to see daylight. Now he doesn't mind how soon they get married. So you can see I've done some good somewhere, anyway.”

“Since you seem to have found everybody on the circus had a heart of gold and wouldn't have committed a murder whatever the situation,” I said coldly, “I'm surprised that you stayed so long. I suppose you couldn't even find something sinister in Cora Frances?”

“Oh yes, I could,” answered the Sergeant quickly. “I saw right away that she was a dangerous baggage.”

“In what way?” I asked.

Beef paused. “Well,” he said slowly, “I may be a bit old-fashioned in my ideas, but directly she came poking her nose into the circus I knew we were going to have trouble with her. Look at the way she behaves! All that paint and powder all over her face, and throwing her money about! And the way she runs around after some of the men. Doesn't seem to care whether it's Clem Gail or young Darienne. Women like that ought never to be allowed out. Sending telegrams!” Beef's scorn was burning. “Repeating things between people what she ought to have kept to herself! And the way she turned her nose up when she found we were here, and she couldn't have the circus all to herself, that should have showed you what she was. Then there were those elephants all done
up silly. Fancy anyone messing about with the acts like that!”

“Now there's one person,” I said, “I'm very anxious to hear your opinion of. And that's Tug Wilson.”

“Ah,” said Beef. “Now there you had something to be said for you. I had my eye on him as soon as we set foot in this circus. When I saw the way he handled them elephants when they ducked poor Albert, it did make me think. But there was no real harm in him, as it happened. Throwed a nice dart, too.”

“But that phrase he used,” I said. “That surely had some significance?”

“What phrase?” asked Beef.

“When he said ‘The ghost walks tomorrow' to Ginger.”

Beef leaned back in his chair and his enormous laughter seemed to fill the wagon. “The ghost walks,” he chuckled to himself.

“I with you'd let me into this joke,” I snapped. “I don't happen to see anything funny.”

“You will,” promised Beef. “Would you like me to tell you what he meant?”

“I most certainly should,” I answered.

“Well, if you'd learned a bit more circus language, like what I have,” lectured the Sergeant, “you'd know that ‘the ghost walks' is circus slang for ‘pay-day.' See?”

There was nothing I could say to this, so I sat patiently waiting for the Sergeant to tire of his merriment and continue with his explanation of the case.

B
EEF
stopped laughing at last and pulled out his handkerchief, but whether to wipe away tears or perspiration I was not sufficiently interested to observe.

“I promised myself a good laugh,” he said, “over you being took in by that ‘ghost walks' business, and I've had it. So now I'll tell you about the murder. You still think, though, that if I prove to you I knew the who, how and why of that murder, I'm a genius, don't you?”

I nodded impatiently.

“However simple they are?”

“Unless you knew something I didn't,” I asserted.

“Well, here goes then. Do you remember that day when we went across to see Ansell?”

“Yes,” I said.

Beef leaned forward as though he were going to accuse me of the murder. “And do you remember what he was doing?”

“Of course I do,” I said huffily, for neither my observation nor my memory is as bad as Beef thinks. “He was digging.”

Beef leaned back. “Ah,” he said, as though with tremendous relief. “He was digging.”

“Well, what about it?” I asked.

“You may well ask about it. That was the key to the whole thing.
Digging.
Did it never occur to you to ask yourself why a man with a traveling circus should be digging the ground with a spade?”

I sat up. “Of course,” I gasped. “A corpse.”

Beef did not even laugh. “Don't be silly,” he said, “there wasn't no corpse. At least,” he added, as though something had occurred to him, “not the corpse of a human being.”

“What, had one of the monkeys died?” I asked.

“No,” said Beef, “a horse.”

“A horse? But, good heavens, we should have heard about that.”

“Not about this one, you wouldn't,” said Beef, and settled down to talk. “Now let's consider Mr. Ansell for a moment. He'd been educated at what he called a ‘public school,' meaning, I suppose, one of the most private and exclusive colleges in England. He'd been brought up to consider himself a gentleman, and there he was sweeping kangaroo droppings out of a cage. Didn't that seem funny to you? He hadn't seen his parents for fifteen years. Now, I'm not one who's always talking about parents and children, but I never believe much in a young fellow what's got parents and doesn't take the trouble to go and see them. Then he said he's been in prison, and half a minute later he was talking about one of your highbrow writers, whose name, I have no doubt, you can remember, if only because it had no importance whatever in the case.”

“Ernest Hemingway,” I murmured.

“That's it. But there was funnier things than that. What did he do when that tiger got out and there was a young lady present? Shut himself up in a cage, didn't he, and wouldn't be shifted? That told me something when I considered him as a possible murderer. I knew that if he did go for somebody else, it wouldn't be straight out with a butcher's knife, as you might say, but round the corner, subtle, secret. He said he'd been on this job for over a year. Why? He'd never stuck another job as long as that. He wasn't a circus man, and the circus people didn't like him. What was he after? It didn't take me long to find that out. He was after Corinne Jackson as sure as eggs is eggs.