Case with 4 Clowns (4 page)

“ ‘The mattock tottered in her hand,' “ I said.

“That's not a mattock,” said Beef, with perverted realism. “Let's go and help the old girl.”

But the “old girl” did not seem to appreciate Beef's intention, for when he approached her she straightened herself up and stared uncompromisingly at him.

“What do you want?” she asked in a toneless voice. “I can
manage by myself, young man. You mind your own business.”

It was difficult to judge her age since her face had the leathery preservation of a person who has spent most of his life out of doors. She might have been anywhere between fifty and a hundred and fifty. She had a long, fleshless nose over which the brown skin was stretched tight and shining and reflected the light as if it had been polished with oil. Her eyes were large and dark, so that it was impossible to tell which was pupil and which iris. She stood staring at us both for a minute or more, her long, bony hands on her hips and her head thrust suspiciously forward so that two heavy gold earrings swung out from under her hair and rested against the withered skin of her cheeks.

Then, with a quick turn which made her black skirt flare outwards, she walked into the little tent. There was a peculiar woodenness in her movements, like that of a man who has had to learn to walk a second time after an accident which has deprived him of the use of his legs for more than a year—something which is learned by reason rather than by imitation. She used long precise strides, her shoulders were level, and her arms swung with unbent elbows. In a moment she had emerged from the tent again, this time carrying a placard which she leaned against the front of it. It read:

GYPSY MARGOT

will tell, by the shadow of your future in the crystal, by the symbol of your death in the stars which were at your nativity, by your hand which is the instrument of your future; and by your eyes, which are the windows of your soul.

YOUR FORTUNE

“You know,” I commented, “there's style in that. I should think that she's a very unusual woman.” Beef appeared not to be listening.

“Education,” I went on. “Of a queer sort, I expect. A feeling for words. In any case, not what one usually expects from a fortune-teller on a fair-ground.”

Beef still did not hear me. His lips moved silently as he finished reading the notice, and then he made a sudden dive for the opening of the tent.

“Here,” I heard his voice saying, “I want to have a talk with you.”

T
HE
old woman looked at Beef with calculating eyes. “Cross the gypsy's hand with silver,” she said.

But Beef disregarded her, pulling out his notebook and sitting down at the table in the center of the tent. Margot slowly took her place in the deep arm-chair on the other side, and her eyes moved restlessly from Beef to myself and then back again to Beef.

“We don't want our fortunes told, old lady,” said Beef cheerfully. “We want to find out what you know about this here murder story you've been telling my nephew.”

“Murder,” began Margot, “I see in the crystal the gathering shadows of angry men and women. Why are they angry? Ah, they walk back. What lies at their feet? It is the body of someone killed. They are crying, I hear the sounds of their crying like the distant cries of gulls circling the cliffs. They are lost in a forest of crying trees and no one can show them the way. They are wandering …”

“Here,” said Beef, “I can't hardly follow all that fancy business. I want to know how you know there's going to be a murder—if there is going to be a murder—and what made you tell Albert. Couldn't you leave out the trimmings and tell us what you know?”

The old gypsy closed her eyes and rocked backwards and forwards in her seat, then suddenly folding her arms she stared straight at Beef and began to speak very quickly in a high-pitched whine. “Beware of a dark woman. She is not to be trusted. She will ask you to follow her on a journey, but you must resist the temptation. For you the future is best when you do not obey impulses. Return to the fair woman I see waiting patiently at home for you. Nevertheless,
you will make a journey and return home with something of value, though it will not be gold. People will admire you for it, though they cannot see it …”

Beef looked up at me in despair. “What can you do with a case like this?” he asked dismally. “She don't want to speak plain. What's all this about journeys and dark women?”

“Tell her what we're doing here,” I suggested.

“Look here,” said Beef, turning back towards the old gypsy and speaking slowly and distinctly, as if to a child. “We came up here because of what you told Albert about there going to be a murder in the circus. We're detectives, see. We want to find out about it.” He looked imploringly at the silent figure facing him, but she gave no sign that any of the words had been heard. Beef tried a new tack. “Do you know Albert?” he asked.

Margot nodded.

“Will he leave the circus?”

She nodded again.

“Why?”

“The circus,” she said slowly, as if she were spitting out the words, “will break up.”

“But why should it?” I asked, “it's doing pretty well.”

Margot shook her head violently, so that the heavy gold rings which hung from her ears jingled as they swung from side to side. For a moment she seemed to be considering us, then she began to speak in a slow measured voice, flat, as if she did not realize what she was saying, almost automatic.

“There is much hate in the circus,” she said. “I have seen it suddenly lighting an eye or directing a hand. It is like oil in the wheels; the circus is run on hate. Then suddenly a hand is raised in anger and a man is struck to the ground. When he rises there is bitterness in his heart which he tries to conceal. He will mark the slate with his anger, and the mark will only be washed away with blood. A woman drops
through the air like a falling peregrine and behind her in the air is hate. Two men have watched her like animals, frightened to come out of the shadow of the undergrowth into the light where she stands. Their hands are clenched over daggers. There is death in their eyes. And the circus which is built on these foundations will crumble and fall. I smell blood in the air, and terror which feeds on the heart at night. The cold lights shine over the empty tober and a cold wind blows where once was the circus.”

“Poetic, isn't she?” said Beef admiringly.

“Poetic nonsense,” I said shortly; “we shan't get anything out of her.”

“Who's going to get bumped off?” asked Beef, “that's what I want to know.”

The gypsy looked at him blankly.

“Is it a man or a woman?”

But she had obviously said all that she would say, and simply stared at us with an expressionless face until we got up and left the tent.

“So that's your hope of regaining your reputation as a private investigator,” I said bitterly. “The word of a gypsy fortuneteller?”

“I wouldn't go so far as to say she didn't know nothing,” said Beef.

“Obviously,” I continued, “she knew a great deal. At least, that's my guess. Personally, I think she's a very clever woman. The question is, what does this murder prediction actually mean?”

“What does it mean?” echoed Beef.

“Yes. Why did she tell Albert? There are two possibilities, I suppose. Either she thinks there is going to be an attempted murder—and we won't worry just now about how she might know that—or else she has a very special reason for trying to make people
think
there's going to be one.”

“And which do you think is the correct one?” asked Beef.

“I don't know, and what's more I don't think it's very important. It's quite possible she thinks there is going to be some trouble here. But I don't see any such possibility myself. I think we're wasting our time.”

“Oh, you do,” said Beef stubbornly. “Well, I'm going to stay on and see into it. If you take my advice you'll stay on too. Where are you going to get the book from if you go home?” he ended triumphantly.

“My work has never been that of writing funny stories,” I said tartly, “and that's about all I'm likely to get here.”

Beef's mouth drooped downward in a ludicrous fashion, like a boy just beginning to cry. “All right,” he said dismally, “if that's the way you feel about it. But I'm going to stay on and see this through. I think …”

But I never heard what it was he thought, for at that moment there was a commotion outside and looking out we saw a group of people come slowly into view. One of the elephants formed the center of the crowd, walking slowly and steadily forward, taking no apparent notice of the noise. Its trunk was held high in the air wrapped tightly round the struggling figure of Albert.

“Let me down,” he was shouting desperately, but his demand was only greeted by a fresh outburst of laughter from the crowd. Albert's fists punched uselessly at the thick gray trunk which held securely to his waist and his feet kicked wildly in the air.

“Uncle,” he shouted suddenly, as he caught sight of Beef and me hurrying towards him. “Uncle, tell them to make him put me down. I can't breathe. I want to get down.”

“Here,” said Beef commandingly, “what's all this about?” But though his voice might have made petty thieves tremble in the little town of Wraxham, where he had been a Sergeant,
he had a rather different problem to deal with now. The crowd swept by us without taking any notice.

“Here,” said Beef again, and then, because there was nothing else to do, we joined in the procession behind the elephant and walked slowly out of the field and into the main street of the village. The elephant appeared to know the way, for it turned confidently down towards the market-place. By this time most of the population of the village had collected and were joining in the laughter at the free show. Beef angrily elbowed his way to the front of the crowd to where Tug, the hunchback we had first met in the elephant tent, was marching, a broad grin on his face, at the head of the elephant.

“Here,” said Beef once again, laying his hand on the man's shoulder, “who's supposed to be looking after this animal?”

“S'right,” said Tug cheerfully, “that's me.”

“Well, can't you make him put young Albert down?” asked Beef.

Tug looked at Beef as if he found something immensely funny in this last sentence. “Can't make an elephant do anything,” he said. “At least, not unless he wants to. And when he wants to do something, then you can't stop him. Not unless, that is, he wants to be stopped.”

This somewhat involved statement was interrupted however by the elephant itself, who had moved on ahead of the arguing couple and had reached the market-place and made its way over to a large slimy pond which occupied one corner of it. Walking in until the water was above its knees, it suddenly released the shouting Albert and began unconcernedly to squirt water over its own back. Albert struggled to the edge of the pond and climbed out on to the bank as Beef and Tug arrived on the scene.

“You did that on purpose,” he shouted at the hunchback, in a voice which had become high pitched with anger.

Tug, who obviously thought himself something of a “funny
man,” shrugged his shoulders innocently and looked round at his audience with an imploring gesture of his hands.

“Yes you did,” persisted Albert. “That elephant wouldn't have done a thing like that on its own. You told it to.”

“The elephant,” said Tug, “never forgets.” Which witticism raised a howl of laughter from the audience.

But Albert was apparently not in a joking mood. He pushed forward until only an inch or two separated him from the hunchback.

“I'm not a fool,” he said angrily. And then, as the people seemed to be taking this as a joke too, he turned suddenly on them. “Yes, I know you think so,” he went on, “you think this is a great joke. You're always doing this sort of thing to me. That's all I'm here for—to be laughed at. Well, I've just about had enough of it.”

An anonymous voice from the center of the crowd called out, “Poor little Albert. He's getting all hot and bothered. Let's put him back in the nice cool water.”

Beef turned to me and said quietly: “I'm going to put a stop to this.”

“You'd better keep out of it,” I told him, with a vision of the Sergeant himself following his nephew into the pond.

“Can't have so many of them on to one,” said Beef, and stepped forward. He stood square in front of Tug, who seemed, as much as anyone, the leader of the demonstration.

“Now then,” he said, “this has gone far enough.”

“What the—is it to do with you?” Tug asked.

Never mind about that,” said Beef calmly. “You leave the boy alone and get back to your jobs. The whole lot of you.” And he slowly moved an authoritative hand in the direction of the circus tents.

I watched him with keen interest, and once again found myself startled by Beef's success. It really is an extraordinary thing about him that whenever I am most confident that he
is going to make a fool of himself, the Sergeant comes out on top. One would have imagined that a middle-aged ex-policeman, holding up his hand as though to control traffic, would have been no obstacle to these people. And even had he been in uniform one could visualize helmets flying. But there was something about Beef, I had to admit. It may have been good humor, or it may have been some odd individual version of what is called personality. At any rate, there it was. They stopped.

“If you don't want to get back to work,” said Beef, with something of a grin, “I recommend the ‘Five Carpenters' over there. Nice drop of bitter, and very pleasant people …”

This announcement left me wondering at what point Beef had found time to “slip out” or “slip in,” to use a phrase he himself adopted when speaking of public-houses.