Chapter 7
After a leisurely shower, I shaved. It was sheer pleasure just to put on clean clothes.
I conjured up a mental picture of the possible suspects I had so far questioned. I wondered what had happened to Pierre last night. I still was anxious to see him. His story had better be good.
I ran over the names Sam had given me on the phone the day he called me. The name, Nellie Carter...."Mom" to the Carnies ... kept needling me. After seeing Pierre, I would have to call on her. I gave myself one last glance in the mirror. I was spruced-up again, but my face looked haggard. I would be glad when this case was over.
I breakfasted at a nearby cafe, then drove back and parked my convertible in front of the motel. I made my way briskly across the street. My day's work was about to begin.
I went directly to Pierre's trailer and knocked on the door. He had been at home I knew, because the lights were out now. I rapped again. Damn, Pierre was gone. Where could he be?
A horrible thought assailed me. Could he have met with foul play? I decided to try the cookhouse.
When I got there, it was empty of customers. Whitey walked over to me.
" "How are you doing, Donlon?" he inquired.
"Oh, just great," I answered, sarcastically. "Have you see Pierre this morning?"
"Yeah. He was here earlier ... I would say a couple of hours ago. Had his usual ham and eggs."
Whitey's face was impassive, but I could see he was burning up with curiosity.
"Did you notice what he did when he left here?" I asked, anxiously.
"You're in luck, Donlon," Whitey said. "There wasn't anyone else here at the time. I watched him walk up the Midway and I saw him get into his car."
"Well, that's that," I muttered.
"Did you say something, Donlon?"
I stood up and tossed a dime on the counter. "No, just thinking aloud, Whitey. And thanks."
"Sure, sure," Whitey grumbled as I took off.
The next one I wanted to see was Nellie Carter, so I started in the direction of her trailer. After a tour between tents and behind trucks which obstructed the part of the grounds where the trailers were, I finally located it.
I rapped softly at the door.
Soon, I heard Nellie's soft voice. "Come in."
I turned the knob and the door opened. Then I had to bend my head to get through the small space.
"I'm afraid that door wasn't built to accommodate your large frame," Nellie said.
She was a large-boned woman in her late fifties with silver hair and a motherly-looking face.
"I hope I'm not intruding," I apologized, "but you're the only one I haven't as yet questioned. You know who I am, don't you?"
"Yes, I heard about you. Please sit down."
She pointed to an old sofa. It was clean, but it had definitely seen better days.
The expression on her face puzzled me. I couldn't quite figure it out. Was it fear, guilt, or merely uneasiness? There was some strong force at work behind her placid exterior.
Briefly, I surveyed the trailer. It was sparsely furnished. Other than the sofa and a chair, there was a postage-stamp-sized sink in the corner; a small medicine cabinet above it, one large closet, a small drop-leaf table covered with a red-checked cloth, and a cage with its own stand from which a mynah bird with its head cocked, stared at me.
There was something wrong with the room; something was missing. I couldn't pin-point it, but I wouldn't shake a vague consciousness of a missing item. I frowned, trying to concentrate.
"Is anything wrong, Mr. Donlon?"
I forced a smile. "No. I was just thinking. How well did you know Sheik O'Dea?"
The question shouldn't have been unexpected but I had definitely startled her.
"I knew him only as a fellow showman, but not as well as some of the other troopers I've become acquainted with, did." She paused, and moistened her lips.
"Yeah. Sam told me that most of the show people call you Mom, and that they are genuinely fond of you."
At this precise moment, the mynah bird decided to talk. "Ho there, Handsome, hi there!"
His voice was as high and as clear as a bell. We both laughed, and the mynah bird laughed with us.
"Quiet, now, Cocoa, quiet!" Nellie said to the bird.
When he shut up, I continued. "I was saying that the show people think highly of you."
I studied her face. She bit her lower lip and seemed to be upset about something. "I hope they like me. We all like to feel that we have friends."
I still was trying to figure out the overall picture. That was it. There weren't any pictures! That's what was missing! Nine times out of ten, an elderly woman), especially the motherly type, would have at least a few photos around her home. What could be the reason for the absence of them here?
Her voice interrupted my train of thought. "I really don't know anything about Sheik O'Dea, but I didn't like him. And on the few occasions when I ran into him, I noticed his extreme cruelty to others, his overbearing ego, and his lack of respect for anyone or anything."
Her previously soft cultured voice had risen, had become sharp and rasping. Her hands were shaking visibly as she wiped her forehead with a handkerchief.
"Forgive me. I don't feel well," she said.
My thoughts were scrambled. Why should speaking of Sheik upset her so? Or had it? After my thought process regarding photographs, I didn't really trust myself. Either I was getting stupid at this stage of the game, or I was tuned in on the wrong wave length.
"Can I get you a glass of water?" I offered.
"That's kind of you, but I'll be all right," she replied.
At that moment the door opened, and Sleepy Austin, the midget, came in. He carred an envelope and some paper under one arm. The customary stogie dangled from a corner of his mouth.
"Hi, Mom!" he said. "How about penning a hot note to my girl friend for me?" Then he saw me.
"Hi, Donlon," he greeted me. Then he turned back to Nellie.
"If you're busy, Mom, I'll come back later," he said.
"No, it's all right. I'm sure Mr. Donlon won't mind."
"Don't let me interfere. Go right ahead."
"It won't take long," Sleepy said as he handed her the paper and an envelope, then lifted himself up on the sofa, by resting his hands on it, and sat next to me. His chubby legs dangled over the edge and he squinted his beady little eyes.
"Just say 'My love bug, your little old honey bun pines for you. Eevery time I think of you, my heart flip-flops. I know you're little, but you can lick a four-cent stamp. How about some word from you, baby doll?" just sign it, 'Your little old heartbeat, Sleepy.'"
Nellie and I exchanged amused glances.
Sleepy slipped off the sofa and reached for the letter.
"I sure appreciate this, Mom." he grinned, broadly. "I want to hurry over and mail it. Be seeing you.
With that, he scrambled excitedly down to the floor and bustled out.
"He's quite a character," I said, after he was gone.
"Yeah. But he's a great little guy," Nellie commented.
I studied her in prolonged silence, as she lit a cigarette and fell into a pensive mood.
"Nellie, where were you the night Sheik was murdered?" I asked, breaking the silence.
She leaned forward, and her face became flushed with annoyance. "Well, you know I sell tickets for the merry-go-around. I went home as soon as we closed. I made myself a cup of hot tea, covered Cocoa's cage, then went to bed. I'm not used to keeping late hours, and that's ray usual routine unless I have a visitor. Sometimes carnies drop by, but they never stay late. They know I like to retire early."
I didn't doubt her story. Yet, there was something too pat about it. As though it had been rehearsed, just in case I should pay her a visit.
"Didn't you hear the shot, Mom?" I asked.
"No. I didn't hear a sound, and I didn't know he'd been shot till the next morning."
"Do you own a gun?"
Her lips pursed into a tight line as she replied, "No, I don't. Weapons of any kind frighten me."
I still was trying to think of other questions it might be well to ask when the trailer door flew open and Francis came skipping into the room. His gaze darted all about, into every corner, he waved his hands in excited gestures, and his voice was ecstatic with excitement.
"Mom, guess what! I'm a papa ... I mean a mama ... I don't know what I mean or what I am. Oh damn, what I mean is Oscar laid an egg!" His eyes met mine, and he smiled, foolishly. Nellie's eyes bugged in genuine astonishment. I tried hard not to laugh at Francis.
"Oscar is my cockatiel," he explained, excitedly. "I thought she was a he. That's what I get for being too modest to examine her."
Mom and I both laughed at this remark. "I really had to let you know, old girl. Remember you said it looked like a female. It's really got me all shook up. Now I've got to make the rounds and let everyone know. Maybe I should get some cigars to pass out."
He walked to the door, making sure to brush my leg as he passed. I gave him a nastly look that I know Nellie caught. I flushed under her steady scrutiny.
"Poor Francis," she said, after he left. "He can't help himself, you know." She sounded extremely sorry.
I shrugged, indifferently.
"I neither censure nor approve," I retorted. "But fairies are out of my line."
Mom gave an obvious yawn, and I took the hint to leave.
"Guess I'd better scram," I said. "I want to catch the sheriff before he leaves."
Nellie suddenly grew alert. She scanned my face.
"Any new development that he has discovered?" she inquired.
I was evasive. "Not that I know of, Nellie. I'm glad we had this chance to talk."
Now, she looked her age. A tired old woman making a visible effort to smile. As I left the trailer, I suddenly felt genuinely sorry for all the poor, tired, old people in the world. I flushed at this unaccustomed softness, and tossed if off immediately. My thoughts returned to Nellie. I hadn't completely eliminated her from my private list of possible suspects.
As I strolled back down the Midway, my mind once more busily sorted the facts I had accumulated about Sheik. My mind whirled like a drunk in a revolving door. All the stories I had heard about him were substantially the same. They all boiled down to this: He was a shrewd cookie, he would do anything for a fast buck, he was a lover-boy where women were concerned, he stepped on anyone who got in his way, and to hell with the consequences. He thought he knew all the answers, he always had a variety of dames at his beck and call, and he manhandled them or pushed them aside whenever he felt like it. Violence figures, with his type. He had finally stepped on the wrong guy's toes, so now he's dead and we have to find the killer. Some assignment! The whole carnival personnel as suspects.
I decided I needed a change of scenery for a couple of hours. I thought I would run over to my office for a while, just to see if anything was cooking. I practically ran off the Midway, jumped into my car, and it was a matter of minutes until I was pulling up in front of my office at the corner of Main and Cedar, above the drug store.
I climbed the familiar stops, two at a time, whistling off key. I paused outside the door, reading the sign: "Steve Donlon, Private Investigator."
I always got a special charge out of that sign.
I opened the door and went inside. The office was cramped and hot. My mail was thin, and my secretary was her usual beautiful self. She greeted me with open arms, giving out with a happy squeal.
"Let's stop with the passion routine, kitten. I've had enough passes made at me to last six months," I told her.
Helen drew back in mock indignation. "Really? Maybe I had better go back with you as a chaperone. How's it coming?"
I pinched her lightly on her shapely buttocks. "Maybe you'd better just stay here and try and drum up more business. So far, I'm getting absolutely nowhere."
She teased, "Afraid I'd cramp your style?"
I ignored the crack with a smug smile. "Anything important happen while I was gone?"
She smiled, wrinkling her nose. "Just routine matters, nothing that needs the master's touch."
I sat on the edge of my desk, swinging one leg.
"Did you miss me, baby?" I asked, fondly.
She looked at me with a flirtatious gleam in her eye. "I could hardly stand it here without you, Steve."
I laughed. "That's right, kitten, butter me up. I love it."
She became serious. "Tell me about the case. Don't you have at least one clue?"
"Yeah. But let's not talk about it now." I pulled her close to me. "Come here to daddy, doll. I happen to have other things on my mind, right now."
She snuggled up to me and her soft arms went around my neck. Then bending my head down, her parted lips clamped on mine like hot coals, burning.
I pulled her close to me in a tight embrace, not wanting to put out the fire. Her nails dug into my arms as I nibbled at her earlobe and kissed the hollow of her throat, then our lips met again in a hot, moist kiss.
I moaned, crushing her closer. I felt the tension of the last few days melting away as our mouths crushed together in long, passionate kisses. We finally moved apart, but every nerve in my body was throbbing for her.
I lifted her in my arms, my lips brushing her cheeks as I carried her over to the door and secured the bolt. Then I carried her to the couch and gently lowered her onto it. Her hot parted lips found mine, and we pressed together as one, as our kisses became more demanding.
She gently pushed me away and stood up. I watched her breathing heavily as she slipped out of her blouse and her skirt. She pulled her brassiere from her firm pointed breasts and posed in front of me in her glorious nude beauty.
She lifted her arms up to me, her eyes shining with excitement. Her breasts heaved with passion as I reached out and pulled her to me in a tight embrace. My voice was thick with emotion as I whispered, "I need you, kitten."
She moaned as I put her back on the couch. She pulled me to her in a frenzy and parted her legs.
Dimples and Dolly were wiped from my mind as I took my love. I had never known Helen to be so lustful. Her eyes were closed, her head flung back. She was all sensuous wanting.
She wrapped her arms about me, pressing me tight against her breast, then her legs went about my waist.
As we moved together, emotion grew, intensified, soared to a blinding glory of every hot kind of light and fire the universe has to offer.
Spent, gloriously sated, we lay side by side at last, still achingly conscious of the pleasure each of us found in the other's body.
I lit two cigarettes and handed one to her. She rested her head against my chest and looked up at me, adoringly.
"Steve, are there many pretty girls at the carnival?"
"Jealous?" I teased.
She wrinkled her nose at me and toyed with the hair on my chest.
"Don't be mean, Steve," she pleaded, "I'm curious."
"Well, I'll tell you, baby. There are two terrific broads out there, beautiful to look at, but man, are they progressive! They come on like gang-busters. I'm far from prudish, but they scare the hell out of me. They would rape a guy at the drop of less than his trousers. Then there are a few old bags that keep trying, but they don't count. Comparing them with my maiden aunt, Aunt Hazel, they would make her look like a sexpot."
Helen tossed one of the couch cushions at me, laughing. "Steve, you're crazy. I don't believe a word you tell me."
If she only knew!
She put her head on my shoulder, her passion-touseled hair brushing against my cheek. Lying there like that, I felt as though I didn't have a care in the world. We both were silent for a few minutes, each wrapped in thought.
Finally, Helen looked up at me. "Steve."
"Yeah."
She smiled, raising up on one elbow. "I'm hungry."
I pinched her lightly on her thigh. "Mercenary wench! Here we are together, and all you can think about is eating."
"Is that so?" she said, throwing herself on me and kissing me.
I started to respond, but she pulled away, laughing. "Oh no you don't. I demand to be fed."
I rose, took her hand, and pulled her up. I was ready for another round, but-"All right, get dressed. Come to think of it, I'm starved myself."
We got decent then, and went to Papa Guidio's Spaghetti House. We had a leisurely dinner of spaghetti and meat balls, such as only Papa Guidio could make, along with some Dago Red.
It was five minutes to ten in the evening when I got back to the show lot. I felt a lot better for my brief reprieve. I crawled out of the car, and locked it. Then I crossed the street and surveyed the overall picture as though I were seeing it for the first time.
There it was ... the carnival in full bloom ... fabulous. Here was the symbol of all traveling shows, hundreds rolled into one. Tall steel rides were silhouettes of excitment against the dark, star-studded sky. Low, sprawling rides, kiddie rides, concessions, shows, the strident calliopes, the lights like a thousand blinking eyes, the false gayety of the people, everything momentarily forgotten in their pursuit of enjoyment ... it was a sight for the gods. The booming voices of the concessionaires, and the grinding of the sound systems ... this was show business, the pursuit of the elusive buck, and in the midst of the bedlam, the curious who had read about the murder, walked, took a chance, invested in a few moment's excitment, nibbled, sipped, and laughed, Somewhere, also caught up in the din and the glitter, was the murderer, still walking around, maybe still laughing at justice.
I thought about Pierre. I would wait for him tonight, for sure. He owed me an explanation, if nothing else.
Red Swank's voice blasted out over the loudspeaker. "Set up to the back of the Midway, folks, where Pierre, the Great will entertain you with his death-defying set on the high-pole. Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!"
I pushed and shoved through the crowd until I spotted Sam, standing off to one side. I managed to squeeze up to him. "Hello, Sam."
"Well, hello yourself! Where have you been?"
"I had to get away for a little while. I drove down to my office, and I stopped at Papa Guidio's for spaghetti."
All over the Midway, the lights had dimmed. A large gaping crowd had gathered to watch the no-charge spectacle.
Pierre was bathed by flood lights which followed his progress up the steel ladder. Finally, he reached the small plank atop the high-pole. He stood rigid, his arms raised in greeting. From that height, he looked small.
We stood, with faces up-turned, watching him. A hush fell over the assembled crowd, as he leaned on one leg, balancing himself. He was doing his one-hand stand, now It was as though the pole had snapped-it careened dangerously from side to side. Something was wrong!
Sam hissed in my ear, "Something's wrong ... his timing's off, he's losing his balance."
As Sam's voice died away, bedlam broke loose.
Pierre was plunging downward, his hands wildly grasping at thin air, his legs kicking crazily.
Women screamed. Here and there, children cried, wildly.
Sam and I jostled and rammed our way through the hysterical crowd. We rushed up to spot where Pierre had landed in a crushed, broken heap.
Red Swank and some of the ride-boys were pushing the crowd back. Sheriff Johnson and Deputy Nickles were kneeling at Pierre's side.
The sheriff covered the body with canvas, then stood up.
"He's dead, poor fellow."
Sam's face was puckered like that of a child about to burst into tears.
Blackie, one of the ride-boys, dashed up and yelled, "Hey Sam, I see where two of the guide cables snapped-right over there!" He pointed.
"Tough luck, huh?" He stopped talking, staring down at the covered body, in horror.
Sheriff Johnson walked rapidly over to where Blackie had pointed. Sam and I followed. We stood watching as the Sheriff turned on his flashlight and examined the broken guide, wire.
"Look here, Donlon. This wire didn't just break. The strands aren't frayed. It's-it's been cut!"
"Really?" I exclaimed, dropping to my knees besides him.
I looked at the wire. The Sheriff was right;-it was a clean cut, most likely made by wire cutters.
Maybe, since the murderer had struck again, I should have confided in the sheriff. Poor Pierre! He must have been on the right track. I wondered what he knew. I would have to tell Johnson now. I stood up.
Sam was staring at me, dismally. Sheriff Johnson blustered.
"Looks like we have another murder on our hands. Deputy Nickels, go phone the station. Get some help out here. Tell Doc to get out here on the double."
He turned, facing the other two officers, and said, "Get these people off of Midway. Tell them to go home, and see that they do just that. Get all of these show people into the G-top. Start taking down their statements. I'll be in as soon as I can."
He was a dynamo of efficiency.
I said, "Sheriff, I have something to tell you about Pierre."
The Sheriff growled, "What did he tell you?"
"That's just it, he didn't. I tried to pin him down, but he insisted he had to have more time to be sure. I was supposed to see him last night, but when I went to his trailer, he was gone. I tried to find him today, but he had left early," I spoke sheepishly, though I had done my best.
"Of all the stupidity! You should have told me right away. If you had, he might still be alive!"
"He wouldn't talk, Sheriff. He was adamant. I tried; I even warned him that he might be in danger. I threatened to tell you, but he said if I did, he'd deny talking to me."
Sam stood, as though in a daze, looking at the canvas-covered body.
A police car pulled up, and Doc Small got out. He had his little black bag in his hand.
"Where's the body?" he inquired.
Sheriff Johnson pointed to the canvas. The doctor knelt down, and pulled it back. Doc was a roly-poly little man with gray hair and light blue eyes. He was brisk and efficient in his examination.
We waited, silently.
Doc Small finally stood up. "His back is broken and there has been internal bleeding. I can give you more complete details when I have made a thorough examination. Was it an accident?"
"Nope. Murder," Johnson snapped.
"Too bad! The wagon will be along soon."
"You'll let me open up tomorrow night, won't you, Sheriff?" Sam asked anxiously.
"If I do, I'll hold you personally responsible for all the showpeople. In other words, if anyone skips, you're the fall guy."
"All right. As long as I can remain open. I can't make any dough, closed."
While they were talking, I watched a skinny guy from the police lab take pictures of the corpse and of the scene of the crime. He took them from every angle. Flash bulbs were popping right and left.
The ambulance came roaring up, with lights flashing and with siren blaring. Excepting for a few officers and our small group, the Midway now was empty.
Pierre's body was placed in a long wicker basket and put into the ambulance. We stood watching as the ambulance drove away.
Johnson turned to me. "Want to go with me and help shake down Pierre's trailer? My boys will be tied up, asking questions, for quite a while. We might as well get the trailer searched."
"Yeah. We might get a lead."
"If it's all right, Sheriff, I'll go to my trailer. I'll be there if you need me," Sam said.
Johnson nodded and Sam gave us a glum smile, then turned and walked away, slowly.
Pierre's small six-foot trailer was very neat. The only furnishings were a sofa that made up into a bed, a small desk, a straight-back chair, and one clothes closet. A small spider monkey slept on the sofa like a baby, her head on a pillow. Her eyes opened, and she jumped up and down, chattering and grinning at us, clapping and skirling. She gave a flying leap and landed on my shoulder, chattering a mile a minute.
"Playful little cuss, isn't she?"
The Sheriff scowled, "You going to help me search, or do you want to play with your cousin?"
"Very funny!" I tossed the little monk back on the sofa. It squealed in glee, then sat cocking its head, peering at us.
Sheriff Johnson gazed about the small trailer, gloomily. "Personally, I don't know where to start. My men searched this trailer throughly right after Sheik's murder."
"Let's start all over again. After all, you didn't have an expert searching before."
I loved to rile the Sheriff. His face puffed out like a bull frog's, as he exploded.
"Some day you're going to go too far, Donlon!" he shouted. "When that day comes, I'll toss you in the cooler and throw away the key."
As we rummaged through drawers and boxes, the little monkey leaped back and forth, skirling continuously. She leaped for the back of chair, and it toppled over on the floor. The tiny animal squealed in fright, landing on my shoulder. I stooped over, lifting the chair. On the under side of the seat, someone had stuck a folded paper.
"Say Sheriff, here's something peculiar, this chair has something stuck underneath it."
I stared at the paper as I pulled it off.
"What'd you find, Steve?" Johnson's voice shook with excitement.
"Why, it's part of an old newspaper." I scanned the heading. "According to the date, it's eight years old."
"Well, what's in it? It must be important, or Pierre wouldn't have gone to so much trouble to hide it."
I searched the paper, hurriedly.
"Here's an article about a suicide that took place in a carnival. A young woman by the name of Laura Swank," I said.
Johnson's voice quivered with excitement. "Swank! Why that's the name of the legal adjuster, Red Swank!" he exclaimed. What else does it say?"
I continued reading, then paused. "Here's something else. It says here that, at first, foul play was suspected. Among the show personnel quizzed was Pierre LaTrent, high-pole artist."
The Sheriff frowned, looking puzzled. "That doesn't make sense. So what? So Pierre was on the Midway at the time of the suicide."
"Wait a minute. Here's Sheik OTJea's name, too!" I exclaimed.
"Give me that paper." Johnson grabbed it and stared, his gaze roving up and down the article.
'It still doesn't make sense," he said, "especially since it was a suicide. Why kill Pierre? Surely, not because of this old paper. Unless we're dealing with a psycho."
I agreed, but I was busy thinking. An idea gnawed at my brain. It had to be more than coincidence, since the paper had been hidden so well. Pierre had saved it for some reason. He had known something, and I meant to find out what it was.
The Sheriff snapped his fingers. "Come on, Donlon. We'll go over to the G-top and confront Red with this paper. At least, we can find out what he knows."
I glanced at him. "Keep an open mind, Sheriff. Laura Swank might turn out to be a distant relative of Red's."
The Sheriffs voice dripped sarcasm. "Oh fine! You're getting to be a regular Pollyanna, aren't you?"
'I just can't see any motive for murder in that article," I said trying to sound unenthusiastic.