Chapter 5
I rapped loudly at the door of the large semi-trailer that was parked directly behind the sideshow tent.
Celeste, a tall, willowy blonde in a black satin dressing gown, opened the door. Her lips smiled, but her eyes were like cold blue ice, and she spoke in a mocking tone.
"Come on in, peeper," she invited. "I've been expecting you."
"It seems as though everyone has been expecting me. I'm certainly getting popular around here."
"Oh, I've entertained worse," Celeste said, matter-of-factly.
"Thanks," I replied, dryly.
I scanned the trailer. It looked like a sick desert rat's mirage, a combination taken from the Arabian Nights and from the ultra modern. Three large bearskin rugs covered the floor, overlapping each other. A king-size sprawling sofa, piled high with plump colorful pillows, dominated the room.
The effeminate young fellow I had seen at the cookhouse earlier, was stretched out on the sofa. He was smoking a cigarette in a long jade holder. A dreamy expression was on his face. He waved a languid hand at me and squealed. "Whee! A man!"
"This is a private quiz kid, Fran. He's got some questions for us," Celeste said.
"I nodded at him and wondered what the hell I was walking into.
Mimi Chanture, the bearded lady, was seated on an enormous pile of cushions at the far end of the trailer. She held a tall glass in her hand. Her face, above the beard, was flushed, her eyes were glassy, and she was well on her way to her own private lost weekend.
At one end of the trailer, there was a large altar with an incense burner atop it which sent forth a sweet nauseous aroma that filled the trailer. A tremendous tapestry, made up mostly of bold riders and of trees, hung above the altar. It was so realistic that the horses seemed an actual threat, as though they might really trample the occupants of the room to death.
On the opposite wall, hung three large African masks, grotesque in their realism. Directly beneath the masks, was a small camper's ice box, with a whiskey bottle and several glasses on top.
As I stared around the trailer, I shuddered. The only thing with which I could compare it was my idea of a hop-head's nightmare.
Celeste sank gracefully down onto a pile of cushions, stretching luxuriously. She motioned for me to follow suit. Immediately, she started to massage her cheeks with her open palms, opening and closing her eyes, rapidly.
"Say your piece, Donlon. Don't mind me. Facial exercises, you know."
I'm afraid I appeared rather clumsy as I sat down on a cushion. I also was a bit embarrassed. It was the first time I had ever carried on a conversation with a lady in the process of doing facial exercises.
Francis ogled me from the sofa, as I ran one finger around the inside of my collar. I stared at Celeste.
"Someone suggested that you might throw some light on Sheik's murder," I said to her.
She drew herself up, hotly. "Why? Because we were friendly at one time? Show me a carnie dame that wasn't and I'll show you a damn liar."
"Here, here!" Francis trilled.
Mimi emitted a loud burp.
"By 'friendly' you mean intimate, don't you?" I challenged.
"Intimate, naturally." She flaunted the word.
"Sheik had an algolagnia complex. I adore lovers, but I am allergic to brute strength."
At the words 'brute strength' Francis rose up on one elbow, staring intently at us.
I ignored Francis, concentrating on Celeste. "In other words, you still were friends?"
She spoke harshly. "Friends! Sheik had no friends. As a human being, I loathed and detested him. Now as a lover, that was different. Let's say he knew his trade well. You'll probably find out he was the one who terminated our relationship. I could gladly have killed him for that reason alone. No man casts me aside. I'm the one who does the booting out." Her final words dripped with venom.
Did you kill him, Celeste?"
She eyed me, sharply. "Someone beat me to it."
I rubbed my chin reflectively. I was thinking, this Celeste is a cool character, but is she capable of murder? My eyes flashed back to her as I asked, "Where were you when Sheik was shot?"
She gave me a contemptuous stare. "I went to bed right after the night's performance. I had a terrible headache, so I took a couple of sleeping pills. I haven't been sleeping well lately."
"How convenient," I said.
Celeste looked icicles at me. "We can do without your insulting remarks."
"I assure you I wasn't intending to be insulting," I said, with mock solicitude.
Her reply was a surly, "Humph!"
I stared at the floor. "Under the circumstances, I suppose it would be silly for me to ask if you heard the shot that killed Sheik. Forgive me for thinking aloud," I added, hastily.
She gave a short, nasty laugh, staring at me as though she thought I had taken leave of my senses.
I tried another tack. "Well, just let me ask you this, Celeste. Do you know who Sheik's latest love-life was?"
Celeste fiddled nervously with the corner of the cushion on which she was sitting. She avoided looking directly at me. She moistened her dry lips.
"Probably the two-headed lady with the circus," she smarted out.
"Very funny, but it's hardly an answer." I scowled and sank back against the cushions.
The bearded lady hiccoughed loudly, a ghoulish smile on her face. I wondered vaguely what she would charge for haunting houses.
Leaning forward, I tapped my knee with the tips of my fingers.
"Do you by any chance own a gun, Celeste?" I purposely made my tone accusing.
Her reply was arrogant. "Yes, I do. I've got a pistol, a .45. And I've got a permit for it, too. I often have occasion to carry large amounts of money.
"Not a .32, but a .45, eh?"
Celeste answered with vehemence. "You heard me. I know Sheik was killed with a .32, and I tell you once and for all, I didn't do it!"
I stalled, lighting a cigarette, my mind busy. If I were to believe any or all of the show people with whom I had talked so far, Sheik had killed himself.
Celeste rolled off of the cushions on which she had been sitting. Just like that, she stood on her head. She spread her shapely legs and turned in a swinging motion. She just missed my head by an inch or two.
"Excuse me," she said gaily. "More exercises, you know!"
I moved my cushions away from her to a slightly safer area and turned to Francis.
"How about you? Had you joined Sheik's parade?" I asked.
Francis giggled like a school girl. "I'm afraid he preferred an all-female stable, and as for killing anyone ... well, really now, I'm just not the type."
His words trailed off into high, hysterical laughter.
I thought, He's got a point there. In fact, I could not agree with him more, but I might as well give him the works as long as I'm here. What the hell, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
I asked my routine, but highly important question. "Did you hear the shot that killed Sheik?"
He gave me a wide-eyed stare, such as a pretending child might put on.
"This is all such a nuisance, really," he complained. "What if I did hear it?"
"I know it's impertinent of me to question you like this, but since it's murder, maybe you'll bear with me," I said, sarcastically.
I was sure the sarcasm would be wasted.
Francis stared at me, fascinated, then he gave his high giggle. "Oh, now I've made you angry. I'm sorry. Go ahead and ask me anything you want to."
Just answer my last question," I snapped.
He raised up on the couch, resting on one elbow. "Yes, I heard it. Hank and I were just a little way from the girl-show top. We had been in Sheik's trailer, drinking with Dimples and Dolly.
Celeste did a full split, gliding in front of me. She looked up at me through strands of blonde hair with a glib and flippant, "Exercises, you know."
I snorted. If my luck wasn't running high, her exercises could kill me before I could get out of this kooky joint.
Celeste gracefully leaped to her feet, moving away from in front of me. Gratefully, I again turned my attention to Francis.
"When you heard the shot, did you notice anyone lurking about or running away?"
Francis snickered. "No. You see, we were a teeny-weeny bit tipsy."
I shuddered. Francis was as phony as three-dollar bill. I made my voice brisk. "What did you do when you heard the shot?"
Francis shifted to a more comfortable position on the couch. Then in his shrill voice, said, "I think I squealed. I remember saying to Hank 'That sounded like a pistol shot.' "
He tittered. "Hank called me loco, and staggered off, down the Midway."
"What happened then?" I prompted.
He giggled, foolishly. "Well then, of all things, Dimples came flying out of the girl-show top, yelling, 'Sheik's dead. Someone's killed him. "
He sat up on the couch, putting one hand on his hip, waving the other hand at me. "Well, I was so startled you could have knocked me over with a feather, but really-"
In spite of myself, I had to laugh. Francis apparently thought I was laughing with him, instead of at him, and he giggled, loudly.
"What did you do then? Did you go into the tent?" I asked.
Francis peered intently at me. Obviously, he was contemplating his reply. "I guess I just stood there, rooted to the spot, for a while."
He paused, then simpered, "It took a while for me to grasp the fact that Sheik had been murdered. It seemed so horrible that I became quite ill."
I eyed him with distaste, then lit a cigarette, and waited for him to continue.
"I finally decided to go into the girl-show top," he went on. As I headed toward it Dimples walked up to me. She was walking somewhat unsteadily, so we locked arms and wobbled into the tent together, in silence."
He paused, then added, "I couldn't stay in the tent. After Clem came in, I knew Dimples wouldn't be alone. I just had to leave-all that blood, and a dead body. It was ghastly, believe me. I was ill, ill, ill."
I turned back to Celeste. I noticed her motioning toward the bearded lady.
"Think she still can talk, and answer questions?" I asked Celeste.
Celeste grinned. "Sure. You don't know Mimi. She has consumed only a fifth. She can drink a lot more than that before she blacks out."
I walked over to where Mimi sat. She had a death grip on a fifth of whiskey. She peered at me owlishly. Her luxurious beard was spattered with dried saliva. I had to close my eyes to keep from turning away in disgust.
I sat down on the floor, cross-legged, in front of her.
"Mimi, do you think you can answer a few questions for me?"
Her eyes had the look of a wounded animal. '"Sure. What do you want to know?"
"How well did you know Sheik O'Dea?"
She stared fixedly at me. When she finally spoke, her voice was slurred.
"I loved him," she moaned. "Heaven help me, I loved the dirty dog."
Two big tears rolled down her white cheeks, into her beard.
Tell me about it, Mimi," I coaxed.
Mimi swallowed a big slug of whiskey, her eyes squinting. It was as though she were in a trance. She started talking in a low monotonous voice.
"I'm a freak. You see this beard? It made me different. I had to join the side-shows. I wasn't accepted anywhere else....nowhere ... nowhere else."
She paused, hiccoughing, and took another swig of whiskey.
I was afraid to speak, afraid of breaking the spell. I waited. Celeste and Francis also were silent.
Mimi spoke again, softly. I leaned nearer to catch her words.
"The only refuge I could find was with show people. They accepted me. I was one of them. No staring or whispering behind my back. You see, with the real troopers, looks or social position don't count. All that does count is heart, guts, and a job to do. It's like a small town. If you're right, you're accepted. I got so I didn't even mind the marks ogling me, because you see, they stare at the physically perfect ones, as well. It seems, though, when you're in show business, you're different, and that difference makes for curiosity and suspicion."
Mimi broke down and sobbed, bitterly.
I sat, ill at ease, waiting for her to recover enough to continue.
After sobbing herself out, Mimi went on. "I wanted love, wanted it desperately. I didn't think I would ever find it. Then Sheik approached me. He made me believe he loved me. He was so kind, so gentle, so ardent ... he did his job well. He was an artist. I would have died for him. He was the only one I had ever loved, ever come really close to."
Her voice broke on a harsh sob. I marveled at the deeply-rooted feeling of love, of passion, this bearded caricature was capable of evidencing.
Francis leaped up from the sofa, his eyes flashing.
"Hell, she's ill, this dame's really ill!" he shrilled. "I've got to get out of here. I can't stand any more of this maudlin dribble!"
He rushed out of the trailer door.
I was sorely tempted to rush right after him and to wring his skinny neck. But what would be the use? I might as well beat up a dumb kid.
Celeste got up from her cushions, walked over to the portable ice box, and mixed herself a stiff drink.
"You want one, Donlon?" she asked.
"Yeah, I really need a drink."
She handed me a glass of whiskey with a dash of mix in it, walked back, and sat down again on her cushions.
I took a big gulp from my glass, then I suddenly became alert as Mimi again started talking.
"He laughed at me. Drained me of all my love, and laughed ... said he'd always wanted to make love to a bearded lady, and I had served my purpose. 'Make love to a freak,' I think was the way he put it."
She shook all over, in horrible, demented laughter. Her wild, uncontrolled laughter filled the trailer, becoming louder and louder.
I leaped to my feet, and running over to her, sharply slapped her twice on the cheeks.
Her laughter subsided to a low whimper, and she sounded like a small, hurt puppy.
"What a hero!" Celeste snapped.
"It had to be done," I told her.
Mimi's whimpering had stopped.
"I killed him," she rasped. "I killed him, and I'm glad!"
She flung herself face down on the floor, beating her fists up and down, crying bitterly.
I faced Celeste. "Do you think she did?"
Celeste answered, sarcastically, "Don't be stupid, She's morbid, and definitely psycho."
I thought, maybe. Where there had been such a great, consuming love, might there not also be an equally great, a murderous hate? The old cliche came to mind: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.
I stood Up, muttering, "I'll see you later. I've got to get some air, and try to think."
As I walked through the door, Celeste's voice floated after me. "Think? What with, Donlon?"
I went back through the side-show top. It was empty. I walked outside and stood, lighting a cigarette. I still was thinking or Mimi's confession when one of the small gypsy boys approached me. He held a piece of paper out to me, and spoke in faltering English.
"Mr. Private Eye, Mr. Pierre, the free art guy, he say give you this."
I took the paper, reached in my pocket, pulled out a quarter, and handed it to him.
He eyed me solemnly, placed the coin between his teeth, and bit hard. Then he removed the coin from his mouth, and gave me a dazzling smile.
"Gee, thanks!" he said.
I read the note he had handed me which read: "Sir, I think I know who killed Sheik O'Dea."
The note was signed, "Pierre LaTrent, the Great."
I glanced at my watch. It was five o'clock. I wondered if Pierre really knew the identity of the killer? But, whether he did or not, I had to follow every lead.
As I strolled down the Midway, I noticed that some of the concessionaires already were busy rearranging their joints for the night's opening. I suddenly felt hungry, realizing I hadn't eaten since breakfast. I walked rapidly to the cookhouse, and sat down.
Whitey greeted me with a foolish grin. "My old lady gave me hell for talking so freely to a private snooper-excuse the expression-those were her words."
"You've got broad shoulders, Whitey," I answered dryly. "Can't you take it?"
"Sure. Anyway, I didn't say anything wrong. What do you want? Coffee, or something to eat?"
I looked over at the griddle where some pork chops were sizzling faintly.
"Give me a pork chop dinner, Whitey," I said.
As Whitey busied himself at the griddle, I glanced around at the others sitting around the counter. Dimples and Dolly sat opposite me. They were sipping cokes. Dimples had on a low-cut blouse and I would swear, no brassiere. I couldn't help but stare.
Dolly looked up, and our eyes met. She made a tantalizing picture in a clinging black jersey deal. She waved at me.
"Hi, handsome," she said sweetly.
Dimples gave me a cool look. "Have you decided who you're going to pin the murder on, chum?"
Her voice held its usual gravel-like quality. "It usually turns out to be the victim's wife, doll."
She flushed, and her gaze shifted away from mine.
Dolly snickered. "Isn't he cute?" she said.
Whitey slapped my food down in front of me, and I devoted all of my attention to it. As I ate, I listened to the idle banter of the ride boys. They were entertaining Dimples and Dolly, and enjoying every second of it. Their laughter and badinage was amusing, until I suddenly remembered what I was here for. Things started going through my mind, and they all revolved around a big capital "M" for murder!