I flung the pile of bills that had arrived in the morning mail on the desk, then sat staring at them in disgust.
When I had launched into business on my own as a private investigator two months ago, I had been way up on Cloud Nine. I had envisioned a new Cadillac, a flock of beautiful broads, all beating a path to my office door, a closet full of expensive tailor-made suits, and membership in the most exclusive country club in the area.
Now, after all this time without a single case, I felt like someone sitting on a bubble just about to burst. Even with Helen, my faithful secretary there was a new twist to an old routine. Instead of me wining and dining her and making with the flowers and the candy, she was loaning me money with which to foot the bills.
That Helen was in love with me, I fully realized. I was very fond of her, that much was sure, but I hadn't yet figured out whether what I felt for her was just strong physical attraction plus high compatibility or the real thing.
The fact that I was letting her advance money to me, and that I had no immediate way of repaying her made me feel like a first-class heel. The only way I could salve my pride was to keep telling myself that something was bound to turn up soon.
Absentmindedly, I crumpled a bill into a tight wad and slipped a rubber band around it. Then I flipped it aimlessly at a design on the rug. At least it was something to do.
Just then, Helen opened the door and walked out, and the paper wad landed down the front of her raincoat. She gave a startled laugh as she removed it, then put her open wet umbrella in a corner to dry.
"What a night! If I had a turned up nose, I would have drowned." She paused and raised her eyebrows.
"I see that my delinquent has found something with which to amuse himself," she added, with a smile.
"Yeah, it was a perfect bulls-eye," I said, with a sheepish grin.
She puckered her lovely full red lips and blew me a kiss, then walked over to me. She was an enticing picture in a white ruffled chiffon blouse and a pencil-slim skirt that caressed her lush curves as would a jealous lover. Her coppery hair billowed out into the latest-style coiffure.
I whistled in admiration. "Some hairdo you've got there, kitten."
"Do you really like it, honey?" she asked, tilting her head from side to side. She was a sucker for a little sweet talk.
"It was designed especially for you," I vowed.
"Do I look like Cleopatra?" she asked, eagerly. "This is the new Egyptian hairdo."
I gave her a light kiss on the nose and tapped her gently under the chin.
"Baby doll, Cleopatra was lucky that she didn't have you to compete with," I assured her. "She wouldn't have had a chance."
Helen fairly glowed. "You're wonderful, Steve! You always say the right thing!"
My eyes involuntarily strayed to the pile of unpaid bills, and my smile faded.
"Down in the dumps again, honey?" Helen asked as I picked up the bills, frowning.
"Bills, bills, bills and no damn money to pay them with," I said, dejectedly. "If something doesn't happen pretty quick, I'll have to get a job as a street cleaner. In the meantime, I keep taking money from you. It isn't right."
"As long as my ex-husband's alimony checks don't bounce, I can get along. So stop worrying, Steve. You were good to me when I was broke and came to you, asking for a job."
"And a helluva job it turned out to be ... all work and no wages!"
"Honey, don't talk like that," Helen pleaded.
"Well ... I don't like it, not a damn bit," I said, sullenly.
She gave me a long, lingering look. I could see the love brightening her eyes.
"I remember the first time I saw you, Steve," she said, quietly. "And I liked what I saw, right up to your six-foot height and your black crewcut."
"You did?"
"You bet I did. And I liked your blue eyes and your crooked smile. And even the slight limp in your left leg, especially when you told me it was from a wound you received in Korea, and that you had a Purple Heart because of it. Remember how I had to draw you out? You were too modest to talk about it, and that made me extra proud of you."
"I had no idea you felt like that, baby."
"Well, I did. And know something?"
"No, what?"
"I knew the very first time I looked at you that I was going to bed with you."
"You're the greatest, Helen!"
"But I want to be your friend, not just your bedmate. Can you understand that, Steve? Even if you didn't want me any more in that department, I would still want you to feel that I was your friend."
"That goes both ways, sugar, and you can bank on that."
"You see, Steve, even though you can't pay me a salary right now, I know you'll get a case one of these days," Helen said, earnestly. "Then we'll look back and laugh at all the bad breaks you've been getting so far."
I pulled her into my arms and hugged her. I loved the feel of her warm, soft body, so close to mine.
"You're marvelous, kitten, just a living doll," I murmured.
Our lips met in a burning kiss. One of my hands roamed down inside the front of her blouse and fondled her breasts, especially those delectable hardening nipples.
"Let's forget about business troubles for now and have a ball, Steve," she said.
Her breath was coming faster, and I knew I had her going.
"That's the best offer I've had so far tonight," I kidded.
Helen began to get out of her damp clothes. As she removed her blouse and skirt and her half slip, I stripped down to my briefs. Then I walked over to the old-fashioned fireplace and poked the logs with a poker. It afforded the only heat in the office, but the warmth was ample. It sent off a warm, comforting glow.
When I turned around, Helen was sitting on the couch, smoking a cigarette. I could tell that she was trying to look a lot more casual than she felt.
I walked over to her and crushed her into my arms. Then I was kissing her firm pointed breasts, taking each nipple in turn into my eager mouth.
"You have lovely breasts, darling," I said, as I rolled her beneath me. She spread her anxious, shapely legs and wound them around my waist.
"Take me, Steve," she murmured. "I can never get enough of you, you big handsome hunk of man!"
That kind of an order, I like to follow. I played a little longer, teasing her, getting her hotter than a pistol, just as ready to go off with a bang.
As I trailed my lips down her throat, over the lush mounds of her ripe-melon breasts, down her quivering flesh clear to her navel, she moaned blissfully, yearningly.
"Do it, lover," she begged.
She began squirming under me and her moans grew sharper, so I figured it was exactly the right time. As I thrust she almost screamed her pleasure, and from then on, it was wild.
I had to go some to keep up with that frantic thrashing about, that greedy, zestful reaching.
We reached zenith together, and I blinked back the showers of colored stars.
After it was over, we fell asleep in each other's arms. Within an hour, we awakened. Helen picked up her blouse from the floor where she had dropped it and I put on my briefs.
Outside, the storm had increased in intensity. Rivulets of rain splashed against the windows. The velocity of the wind lashed around the wooden frame building with the roar of a wounded lion. But inside it was warm ... warm and cozy and inviting.
I unwound Helen's arms from around my neck and glanced over at the logs which were crackling in the open fireplace with a music of their own.
"Let's smoke a cigarette and relax, kitten," I suggested. "Then supposing you make some coffee."
She stretched like a lazy Angora cat, and. her green eyes still gave off tiny sparks of desire.
"Isn't this wonderful, to be here in the office, just the two of us in a world all our own," Helen cooed. "That's the way rain affects me. I feel as though we are cut off from civilization."
I grinned and reached for a pack of cigarettes that had fallen to the floor. Then I lighted two of them and put one into Helen's mouth. She got up and walked toward the small hotplate on one of the wide shelves on the wall. She looked damned cute in the blouse, with no skirt on yet. I started to laugh.
She turned around and smiled.
"What are you laughing at, darling?" she asked. "Did something tickle your funny bone?"
"No. I was laughing at your sexy little ass. It has the imprint of stripes on it from the upholstery."
"Those are jail stripes-I'm your prisonor. And know something, honey? I don't want to escape."
Helen had almost made me forget my problems. She made me forget that I had picked the wrong town in which to operate. If there was anyone living in this burg who cheated, he or she was discreet enough not to let the other citizenry become suspicious and hire me to tail them. And as far as any murder cases go-well as I heard it, no one had been bumped off here in the past twenty-five years.
It was a good thing I had the office to shack up in!
The really ironic feature of it was that all I needed was one case to pull me out of the red. But why kid myself? It was beginning to look as though there never would be any case!
Helen filled a pan with water at the small sink, then put it on the hotplate and turned on the electric switch.
"It won't take long," she called, looking over her shoulder. She reached for the jar of instant coffee and for a couple of cups.
I went over and threw another log on the fire. Helen brought the coffee over to the end table next to the couch and set the steaming cups down.
I could hear the rumble of thunder in the distance. At intervals, streaks of lightning brought their half beautiful, half terrible glare into the room.
"Come on, honey, drink your coffee before it cools," Helen urged.
As I walked toward her, I noticed that her eyes were surveying my body, speculatively. Why it should excite Helen to see me barefooted and in my briefs always astonished me, but it did. but why try to define her reasons? I was glad that she felt as she did about me.
I sat down next to her on the couch and she handed me a cup of black coffee, so hot it was steaming. She was so close to me, the ruffles on her blouse tickled my ear.
"Why don't you take that damn thing off?" I suggested. "You have gorgeous tits ... show them."
Helen put down her cup, and squirmed out of the blouse. Her body looked like that of a Greek goddess, as the glow from the firelight flickered on her smooth, ivory skin, giving it pink undertones. She picked up her cup again and lifted one of her shapely legs over mine.
"You have sexy legs," she said. "They're so muscular and so masculine."
"Are my legs the only thing about me that you dig, kitten?"
"Not exactly," she replied as she finished her coffee, got rid of the cup, then flung her other leg over me.
I gulped down the rest of my coffe, then put the cup on the floor.
Outside, the fury of the storm persisted, and we could hear the creaking of the rafters.
"This night isn't a fit one for man nor beast to be out in," I said, just as the sound of a crashing tree reached our ears.
"Who cares, Steve? Storms excite my senses ... and you excite me even more, and...."
I reached for her desirable, almost naked body, and bending my head quickly, I clamped my mouth down hard on hers, shutting off her words.
Helen reached down and felt me. It was remarkable how she could get a rise out of me every time. In spite of taking her before we had fallen asleep, I was ready to go at it again!
There seemed to be a chemical reaction between us such as I had never experienced with any other woman. After I had had sex with others, they had left me cold.
I pushed her back on the couch and started to work out of my briefs.
She rested her auburn head back against a cushion, making a lovely picture, with her symmetrical, spread thighs that were anticipating the moment when she would be possessed. She was all woman!
I kicked my briefs aside, then flung the weight of my body on top of her. Our mouths met in a searing soul kiss, and her tongue reamed my mouth hungrily as I reciprocated the onslaught of her passion.
The shrill ringing of the telephone came clashing unexpectedly, with a nerve-shattering awareness, into my sex-numbed brain.
"Damn it!" I said, under my breath. "What a time for the phone to ring. All week it sits there, silently collecting dust, and now the son-of-a-bitch has to ring!"
"Probably a wrong number," Helen said, with a note of annoyance in her voice. "Don't answer it, darling."
When a good secretary says that, you've really got her going!
Persistently the phone continued to ring.
The spell already was broken, so I decided I might as well find out who in the hell it was. I got up, went over to the desk, and picked up the receiver.
"Hello ... Yes, this is Steve Donlon ... I just happen to be at liberty, Mr. Grass ... Of course it'll be expensive and I'll want a retainer ... Okay. I'll get out there right away ... Yeah, I know where it is."
When I had hung up, I let out a loud whoop. "Hey kitten, guess what! I've got a case!"
I grabbed her by her tiny waist, and swung her around.
She giggled. "Steve, you fool! Put me down. What kind of a case is it?"
I pulled her onto my lap. "It's that carnival murder that's been in all the papers. And Sam Grass, the guy who owns the carnival, has hired me to find the killer."
"Oh Steve, I'm so excited. Just think, your very first case!" She gave me an impulsive kiss. "Are you going to see him right away?" she asked.
"Yeah kitten. Will you please call the Vista Motel and make a reservation for me? It's across the street from the carnival."
Helen got up, walked over to the window, and looked out. The windows still were streaming.
"Shall I make reservations for a rowboat, too?" she joked. "It looks like a lake out there."
I started to dress, and called over my shoulders, "No, kitten, but you can look in the closet and find my raincoat and boots-and I think there's a trench hat on the top shelf."
By the time I was dressed, Helen had my rain gear laid out.
"Good luck, darling," she said as she kissed me.
I grinned at her, happily. To hell with the weather. I had a case, and this meant I could hold up my head, and feel like a man again.
CHAPTER TWO
Thunder shook the sky with demented ferocity. Lightning flashed, illuminating the canvas tents on the Midway. In the brief flashes, the rides appeared to be huge iron monsters transported from another world. The howling wind shook the tents in a weird dance, and eerie shadows became grotesque forms with many tentacles, reaching toward me.
I shivered as I moved forward. The wind whipped the canvas side wall of the tent I was passing, slapping me sharply in the face. I almost lost my footing in the ankle-deep mud. I cursed loudly. A hell of a night to be called out on a case!
It was here, among all these rides and amusement games, that a killer had crept cunningly and stealthily in the darkness of the night, to strike down his victim. The bold headlines flashed vividly through my mind. They screamed: Sheik O'Dea, operator of a girl show, shot and killed in a girl show tent.
There were pictures of the girl show; pictures of O'Dea's flamboyant wife, and of other girls working in the show. Some of the pictures were cheesecake, some were pictures of the carnival, and there were pictures of every other damned thing connected with the murdered man.
The newspapers were having a field day. This was something way out of the ordinary for a small town like Pottsville, and they were making the most of it. Generally, all the paper had was an occasional news item such as that somebody's college daughter was visiting for a weekend or who had dinner at whose house.
Peering down the inky Midway, I could distinguish a police car parked on the right. I wondered where Sam Grass was to be found. Over the phone, he had said I would find him in a big Spartan house trailer, near the entrance to the Midway. Lightning again spit with its angry forked tongue, and in the sudden glare, my gaze fell on a long silver trailer.
Rain dripped from my hat brim and bounced on my nose as I trudged toward the trailer with mud sucking at my shoes.
I wondered what kind of a man Sam Grass was. All I knew was that he sounded frantic, that he seemed desperately in need of help. I knew that his call had something to do with O'Dea's murder, seeing it had occurred on his Midway. A nice juicy murder was just what I needed for my first case!
As I was trying to estimate how many policemen were roaming around the grounds, the beam of a flashing hit me squarely in the eyes, and two strong arms pinned my arms securely to my side.
I struggled, then when I realized resistance was futile, I yelled, "What in the hell is going on? What do you want?"
A gruff voice snapped, "We'll ask the questions, wise guy. Now, what are you doing here?"
They were policemen all right. I smiled, but it was without humor.
"Sam Grass sent for me. I'm Steve Donlon, a private investigator," I snapped right back at them. No sense taking a back seat.
One of the cops spoke. "Can you prove who you are?"
I reached into the inside jacket pocket beneath my trench coat and pulled out my driver's license and my badge. I shoved them into the cop's outstretched hand.
He flashed the light on the items and looked them over carefully, with practiced efficiency.
"No need to get riled up. We're only doing our duty," he said, mildly.
The other policemen glanced at my license and at my badge.
"Think he's all right, Joe," he asked.
"Yeah. He looks like the real thing."
The one called Joe turned to face me. "You can go. But make sure you head straight for Mr. Grass's trailer. We'll be watching every move you make."
I took my license and my badge from his hand and rammed them back into my pocket.
"Thanks. Thanks for nothing," I said, thoroughly exasperated.
As I walked up to the trailer, I shivered from the cold. Then, when I reached the door, I banged on it.
It flew open, immediately, framing me in a blaze of light.
"Mr. Grass?" I inquired.
The figure in the doorway stood aside and gave a nervous laugh. "Come on in. Sorry to get you out on a night like this."
I stepped up into the trailer and pulled off my rain-drenched hat. The man I faced was attired in a loud brown-and-orange plaid dressing robe. It screamed for attention. He stretched out his hand.
"Let me take your wet things," he offered.
I slipped out of my coat and handed it to him.
He looked with dismay at the puddle of water that was forming at my feet.
"Have a seat. I'll be right with you," he said.
I sat down on one end of a roomy couch and fumbled in my pocket for a cigarette.
"I was stopped by a pair of stupid cops," I told Mr. Grass as he returned to the living room, smoothing his white hair with one hand.
A big diamond, the size of a car headlight, winked at me from his little finger. I was impressed.
He gave another nervous laugh, then he scowled, but it all was evidence of his solicitude.
"That's too bad, Mr. Donlon. I forgot about them when I talked to you on the phone. I could have warned you. I've been brushing cops out of my hair ever since this thing happened."
Depression seemed to surround him like a visible fog, and he laughed again, nervously.
"Can I fix you a drink, Mr. Donlon?" he asked.
"Yes, thanks." I wiped at my wet hair with my handkerchief. "Of course you are referring to the recent murder."
Sam walked over to the refrigerator. "Yes, the murder is a nasty business."
"Is Buslimill's Irish all right for you?" he asked, over his shoulder.
"That will really hit the spot," I replied, glancing around me.
The trailer was expensively, if not tastefully furnished. The couch on which I was seated ran across the entire front end. A drop leaf table stood at one side of the couch, an end table at the other side.
On the end table, a large lamp with a chartreuse shade stood, its base the figure of a nude negress in a pose of complete abandonment. White satin draw drapes, striped with gold, hung at the wide windows and fell in graceful folds to the floor. A sprawling coffee table was placed in front of the couch. An ornate silver cigarette box with a matching tray and lighter rested on the coffee table. A gold satin brocade lounge chair completed the furnishings of one corner of the front room. A white leather hassock and ecru wall-to-wall carpeting completed the living room decor.
My glance encompassed the sink where Sam busied himself pouring whiskey into two glasses. The kitchen was compact and complete as are almost all trailer kitchens. There were blonde cabinets from ceiling to floor, a built-in deluxe stove, double sinks, and a refrigerator with a table model television on it.
Because of the sliding doors which were closed, this was as much of the trailer as I could observe. I could hear faint sounds coming from behind the doors, a rustling as of taffeta, soft footsteps. Someone was back there, moving about, probably Sam's wife.
As he seated himself beside me, Sam handed me my drink. He took a long swig of his. Over the rim of his glass, his cold blue eyes measured me.
I finished my drink quickly, meanwhile returning his stare.
"Suppose we get down to business, Mr. Grass," I suggested. "Just why did you send for me?"
He gave the nervous laugh which seemed to introduce all of his conversation. I was beginning to expect it.
He spoke hurriedly. "Of course you've read about O'Dea's murder. The papers are full of it."
"Girl show operator, wasn't he?"
Sam laughed again. "Yeah. He was a damn good operator, but he also was an ornery cuss. Happened night before last. Time of death was two-thirty in the morning."
I nodded and massaged my left leg. It still bothered me in damp, rainy weather.
"Let me get the facts straight," I said. "Who found the body?"
"Dimples, Sheik's wife. She had been drinking with Dolly, Hank, and Sleepy in her trailer. Hank and Sleepy left, and Dolly had passed out so Dimples went to find Sheik."
He paused, clearing his throat, another nervous habit he had. I waited for him to continue.
"She had gone through the girl show top first on her way to the G-top, thinking he might be there. He was there all right ... he was lying on the ground in a pool of his own blood. Of course, that's only her story. I didn't see any of it happen."
Being careful to keep my face impassive, I inquired, "And where were you at the time of the murder, Mr. Grass?"
Sam Grass shifted uneasily in his chair. "In bed. I'm a sound sleeper. I finally was awakened by a loud pounding at the door. It was Clem. He said Sheik had been murdered. So I told him to call the cops while I hurried up and got dressed.
"Shiek was shot with a thirty-two revolver, wasn't he?" I asked.
Actually, it was a statement, but you have to be diplomatic.
Sam looked troubled. He hesitated before replying. "Yes, he was. At close range. It had to be someone he knew."
"Nothing personal, Sam, but do you own a gun?" My gaze never left his face.
"I own a little twenty-five automatic," he replied, flatly. "Don't tell me that you suspect me, Mr. Donlon?"
Again the nervous laugh.
"I keep an open mind when I'm on a case. It's the only way one can be handled effectively. No offense intended."
Sam spoke in an annoyed tone. "The police are at a standstill. They don't know any more now than when I first called them. That's why I called you. I want to try and get this murder cleared up."
He cleared his throat. "You know the sheriff, Ran Johson? With all his loud blustering talk, no doubt he's capable, but the carnies just won't talk to him."
Sam paused and shrugged. The gesture indicated helplessness.
I put my empty glass on the table and stood up, frowning, in deep thought.
"I don't know how you expect me to get the carnies to talk if they won't open up for the police," I said. "They won't trust a private eye, either. To them, a cop is a cop."
Sam grew excited. "I thought I would introduce you as an old friend who is interested in buying the show. If they don't know who or what you really are, maybe they will talk."
I chuckled as I realized that I had underestimated him. "It might work at that, Mr. Grass. Of course it will be expensive, just as I told you on the phone."
I looked at him, questioningly.
"Expensive, Mr. Donlon? By the way, do you mind if I call you by your first name? No use being formal, now that we're going to be friends."
"Fine by me," I said.
I sat down again and stretched my long legs out in front of me. Then I shifted to a more comfortable position.
"Now what were we talking about? Oh yes, expense. That's no object." He leaned forward, his voice rising as he warmed to his subject. "This delay is costing me a fortune. We should've left town here yesterday. I've broken one contract already this week. I still have ride-help to pay. If I don't watch out, I'll be sued for breach of contract. It cost me a pretty piece of change to bring my outfit here in the first place. The overhead is terrific. There's a lot of hidden expense in this business, Same as in any other."
He gave me a sly wink.
"I hadn't thought about that," I said.
Sam laughed. "If you can catch the murderer for me so we can move on, you can write your own ticket. I've got dough, plenty of it. Plenty of it," he repeated, with a smug smile playing over his ruddy face.
"Fifty dollars a day is my price, Sam."
He reached over and grasped my hand, pumping it up and down. "It's a deal, Steve, and if you clear it up in a week I'll give you a five-hundred-dollar bonus. How about another drink?"
"All right, Sam. Now, suppose you fill me in on any details that weren't mentioned in the paper?"
The sliding doors opened, and a living doll stood before us.
My eyes bugged, devouring the luscious creature.
She was petite, about five feet tall. Chestnut hair, shoulder-length, hazel eyes with long sooty lashes, and a pouting, rosebud mouth. As she met my gaze her lips parted in a smile, exposing uneven teeth, the only flaw in her perfection.
She was wearing a black velvet hostess gown which molded her curves like a glove. A zipper ran down the length of the gown, and it was zipped down far enough to reveal the snowy swells of her breasts. She was a stunner! Mentally, I bedded her down. She was a lot younger than Sam.
Sam handed me a fresh drink.
"Steve, this is Lorette, my baby," he said proudly.
Some baby! I thought. No wonder he looks so old and tired. This gal must be using up any mileage he has left.
Sam draped one arm around her small waist, patting her shapely buttocks.
Lorette's voice was low and husky, surprisingly so for so tiny a person.
"Pleased to meet you, Steve," she said in the sexiest voice I ever had heard. It did things to my every nerve.
Lorette streched lazily in the lounge chair. Her robe fell open at her knees. She crossed her shapely legs and stared up at me.
I forced my eyes away from her and tried to focus them on Sam. He had a pleased smile on his face as he eyed Lorette, then looked at me. Mentally, I kicked myself.
Come on, son, I admonished myself. You're an old vet, not a punk kid on his first sight-seeing tour. The world is full of good-looking broads. You should know. You've had your share. I drummed my fingers on the coffee table, trying to quiet my nerves.
"Have the police singled out any one suspect as yet?" I asked, as I tried to divert my attention from Lorette.
"They suspect everyone. We all disliked Sheik." Sam's voice held bitterness. "Oh, the carnies talked to the fuzz all right. They just didn't say anything."
I rubbed my crewcut, speculatively.
"How about Dimples O'Dea, his strip tease wife?" I asked. " I should think she would be the obvious suspect."
"I don't think she did it," Sam said, shifting uneasily.
I smiled. "Why not? According to the newspapers, he gave her a rough time."
Lorette gave a brittle laugh. "He owned her. She's just a wild, mixed-up kid. A full-blown body he had taught to lure and to tease ... a child's mind, still intent on toys."
Lorette's eyes held a trace of tears. Sentimental, I thought, along with passionate. The ideal combination.
"We don't know all the facts, Lorette. Better let Steve meet her, then judge for himself," Sam said.
I was silent, thoughtful, for a moment. "What type of person was Sheik?" I asked, finally.
Sam bit his lip and frowned. "Sheik had been with me five seasons. He ran the G-top where the carnies drink and gamble. He made a lot of money. Some say he was crooked."
"A bad loser?" I queried.
Sam sighed, heavily. "Could be." He paused, then added, hastily, "I've heard that he also had some run-ins with his help on his wildlife show."
I nodded. "What about his other strip teaser? Any fire there?" I paused, then added. "Or was there some other hot current affair going on?"
Sam got to his feet, hesitated for a minute, then spoke slowly. "The other dancer, the one mentioned in the papers, is Dolly Vickers. According to rumor, Sheik showed no partiality between Dimples and Dolly. He divided his favors equally between them. As for any other current love affair, I'm afraid I wouldn't know."
I whistled. "Some setup. How about jealousy?"
Sam shrugged. His voice was glum. "Who knows?"
After her one outburst, Lorette had been I strangely quiet. She sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
Sam gave each of us a fresh drink.
I accepted mine gratefully. The guy really could sling them.
He sank down on the couch beside me and spoke reluctantly. "There also are rumors that Sheik was peddling marijuana and horse in the G-top. I had never found any evidence, of course."
"Did you tell Sheriff Johnson about this?"
Sam smiled, sheepishly. "I'm afraid I didn't."
He paused and gave me a sharp glance.
"Conversation between a private eye and a client is like that between a doctor and a patient, isn't it?" he asked.
"As long as my license to practice isn't threatened," I conceded.
"I understand." He gave me a big smile. "You can get started on the investigation immediately, can't you, Steve?"
I nodded. "I've taken a room at the motel across the street. I made a reservation by phone this afternoon right after you called."
Sam smiled, sheepishly. "I prefer to have you close at hand."
"Well, it's against my policy to be away from my own apartment, but I'll see how it works out," I said.
"Fine. Suppose we go down to the G-top now, and you can meet some of the carnies."
"Good idea, Sam." I stood up.
Sam went over to a closet, and took out a bright yellow slicker and a rain hat. He slipped them on, and handed me my raincoat. Then he kissed Lorette lightly on the cheek.
"I won't be gone long, baby," he told her.
She smiled. "Okay, Sam." Then she turned to me.
"Good night, Steve," she cooed.
Sam opened the door and stepped outside. I followed him. The rain slashed at us and I felt like going right back in to the warmth and comfort of the trailer.
The G-top was filled with studs. I gazed around me, surprised at the layout. There was a portable bar about six feet long, built so that it could be knocked apart readily; easy to set up and to take down. The four bar stools were occupied by guys, who were drinking. A table behind the bar contained bottles of whiskey and cases of beer.
A thin, pimply-faced man stood behind the bar.
The tent also had a large portable dice table. Several fellows stood around it, their eyes on the active cubes. Another gaming table held a huge Chuck-a-Luck cage. This table was empty. At a third table, four engrossed characters sat, playing poker.
Sam removed his rain hat and stood, holding it in his hand. Activity had stopped, as well as conversation; all eyes were turned in our direction.
Sam laughed. "Don't let us interrupt, gentlemen. I just wanted you to meet a good friend of mine. This is Steve Donlon."
Acknowledgements of the introductions were mumbled and grunted by the various men, but from their stares, I felt as though I were in the lineup at headquarters.
I smiled broadly. "It's a pleasure, fellows," I responded.
"Let's get a drink, Steve. I'll introduce you personally to the man at the bar," Sam said.
I followed him over to the bar. The man behind it was patronizing.
"What'll you have, Mr. Grass?" he asked.
"Slats, I want you to shake hands with Steve Donlon. We'll have a couple of highballs."
Slats extended his hand across the bar. Our hands clasped, and his felt like a dead fish.
"Pleasure, Slats."
He mumbled, sizing me up, and put two glasses of whiskey doused with mix in front of us.
I sipped my drink, and studied the man next to me. He was conversing with a midget who was perched on the edge of a stool. One of his hands grasped the bar. He chewed the end of a stogie, working it back and forth in his mouth.
I nudged Sam. The big fellow was talking. "I'll tell you, Sleepy," he was saying, "I'd bet my bottom dollar that Clem killed Sheik."
He snorted, "Not that I'd blame him. Sheik worked the pants off Clem and of course, Clem is nuts about Dimples."
The midget took the cigar from his mouth, and spat. His voice was raspy. "I don't know, Red. Dimples is some gal. A lot of studs around here go for her. She might've done Sheik in."
Sam slipped down from his stool, walked over and tapped Red on the shoulder. "Red, I'd like you to shake hands with Steve Donlon."
He nodded toward me as he made the introduction.
"Steve," he said, "this is Red Swank, my brother-in-law. He's the show's legal adjuster.
I stood up and shook hands with Red Swank. He was a sharp dresser. He had auburn hair and freckles. I noticed that he avoided my gaze as our hands met. I made a mental note to watch this character. His eyes were shifty, and his chin was weak.
The midget kept staring at me, and Red. muttered, "Steve, meet Sleepy Austin."
"Hiya, Steve," Sleepy said, affably. Nature sure had pulled a boner with this poor little jerk. His head looked like that of an old man on the body of a five-year-old.
The dark-haired man next to Sleepy reached past him, his hand outstretched.
"I'm Fishpond Blackie," he said, heartily. "Put 'er there, chum."
The man next to Blackie had stood up and Fishpond Blackie turned to him, introducing us. "Steve Donlon, this is Cryin' Bert."
Cryin' Bert had a thin face. He was an ugly man, with protruding eyes and buck teeth. He sniffed, and his voice had a nasal twang. "Hi, Steve," he said. Sam walked over. "Hey Slats, give the boys another round on me," he said in a jovial tone.
Slats had just refilled our glasses, when a loud crash splintered the hubbub of voices.
I stood up and whirled around, facing the room. The poker table had been slammed over.
A tall young man, his face livid with rage, had leaped on a negro boy who fell in a sprawl under his attacker's weight.
The tall young man screamed, "I'll kill you ... you ... black mother...!" Dealing me a card from the bottom of the deck!"
The colored boy growled incoherently as he attacked, rolling from beneath the other man who had raised himself to a crouching position, as the colored boy's shoe connected with his guts.
I heard Sam Bark, "Stop it, Clem. Hank, break it up."
The midget had been jumping up and down, at the same time screaming. "Atta boy, Clem!"
He winced as the negro's shoe collided with Clem's belly. Now he was silent, as were the others.
Clem staggered. He shook his head. With the grace of a panther, he leaped at his opponent, swinging a bruising right into Hank's middle. As Hank hit the ground, Clem lunged on him, his hands closing around Hank's throat.
I ran toward them. Sam was at my heels. It took both of us to drag Clem off the other.
Sam was shaking with rage. He shook Clem roughly by the arm, and yelled, "Now you get out of here, Clem, until you Cool off."
Clem sullenly left the G-top.
Hank groaned, and sat up, rubbing his throat as he stared up at Sam.
"I could've taken him, Boss," he said. "Why didn't you let us fight?"
Sam chuckled sarcastically, pulling Hank to his feet.
"Right now I don't have a spare tilt-foreman," he said sourly, running his hand over his head. "Clem is nuts," Hand said. "He can't think or anything but fighting, and he's always resented me."
Sam patted him on the back. "You're a good boy, Hank. Forget it. I've always told you I would not allow prejudice here."
The colored boy smiled, sheepishly. "All right, boss. I think I'll turn in now."
I looked at Sam. "I might as well turn in too, if you don't mind."
"Fine. I'll see you in the morning, and you can get acquainted with the rest of the troopers."
I made my way out of the tent and started to walk slowly down the midway. I spotted the two policemen and exchanged a brief "hello." Then I proceeded across the street to the motel.
Later, as I prepared for bed, I mulled over in my mind the different people I'd met.
Clem really had a vile temper. I wondered if he could be the murderer.
My last thoughts before I dropped off into a troubled sleep, were of Lorette. I had a wild nightmare in which Lorette cavorted about in a cave woman's outfit. She was swinging a club, and chasing me. Then huge hawks, with the faces of Sam and Sleepy, swooped down at me from the sky.
Looking up, I saw king-size stars. They were lit up in bold neon lights: RUN STEVE, RUN! I could feel myself breaking into a cold sweat. But I didn't awaken, and at that moment Lorette caught me.
I reached out for her as she bent over me, breathing her hot passionate breath in my face. Then her club came down on my head, and there was only inky blackness.
CHAPTER THREE
I awakened early the next morning. Possibly the strangeness of the bed had something to do with it. I lit a cigarette and lay smoking it, pondering the little I knew concerning the murder.
Evidently, Sheik had been one of those swine who kept asking for violence, and who finally got what he asked for.
A small patch of sunlight from an opening be-twen the curtains and the sill hit me in the face. At least the rain was over. Suddenly, I felt hungry, famished. I swung my long legs down from the bed and crushed out my cigarette. Then I showered, dressed, and opened the door to face what was turning out to be a weird setup. The aroma of perking coffee and of frying bacon permeated my nostrils, tantalizing me. I walked across the street to the show grounds.
The Midway was alive with the sounds of the rising occupants. In the distance, dogs were barking loudly. In a nearby trailer, the voices of a man and a woman were raised in heated anger. A few feet away, a gypsy woman frantically tried to comb the tangled black hair of a kicking and screaming boy. Loud snores sounded from a tent I hurried to pass. As I walked by a living-truck, the door open, and a basin of dirty water was flung out, missing me only by inches. I swore under my breath. This was a new experience for me, one I was sure I would always remember.
As I passed in front of Sam's trailer, he yelled to me from the doorway. "Morning, Steve. Come in. You're just in time for breakfast."
"Fine. Best offer I've had today."
I smiled, noticing the loud checked sport coat and the white flannels Sam wore. He reminded me of a beatnik. I smothered an impulse to scream, "Spout your purple passages, man!"
Sam motioned me to a chair and I sat down at the table.
Lorette, looking fresh and very beautiful, placed a large platter of bacon and eggs before me. She was wearing a loud Mexican skirt and an off-the-shoulder blouse.
"Did you sleep well?" she inquired, solicitously.
"Like a log," I replied, remembering my dream about her.
Sam gave his nervous laugh.
"Have you decided what strategy you'll use in questioning the carnies?" he asked.
I scowled. "I'd like to meet the widow, first. I thought I'd tell her that several friends of her husbands had asked me to convey their sympathy to her. Does that strike you as a good approach?"
He beamed. "Excellent-an ideal opening wedge! She's very gullible. It's a good thing she is because I don't think Sheik had any friends."
Lorette shuddered. "Really, you two sound so cold and ruthless. Poor Dimples!"
I took a sip of coffee, then asked, "Where can I find Dimples O'Dea?"
"Her trailer is parked behind her show-truck, at the back end of the Midway. It's a flashy red and silver job. You won't have any trouble spotting it," Sam informed me.
"I don't like to eat and run, but I think I'll mosey on down to her trailer. In fact, I'm looking forward to meeting her."
Lorette giggled, wagging a forefinger at me playfully.
"Better watch out, Steve," she warned. "Between Dimples and Dolly you might get raped."
I gave her a bold look, an even bolder smile.
"That's an incentive for a guy like me," I said.
As I walked down the Midway past the long line of canvas tents, I met several ride-men who stopped talking to give me curious stares.
I was in front of the side-show tent now. I stared up at the long banner line with its bizarre pictures. A thin young man came rushing out of the side-show and slammed into me, right against my middle. I stumbled and almost lost my balance.
The young man fell backward and landed sprawling, a few feet away.
"Help me or that bitch will kill me!" he yelled hysterically.
A well-stacked female with a long, luxurious beard dashed out of the tent, grabbed the young man by the scruff of the neck with one hand and started to slap him soundly with the other hand.
"Steal my only pair of nylons, will you, you queer!" she shrieked, angrily.
I couldn't control peal after peal of laughter. The young man definitely was a fagot. He kept wringing his hands, trying to ward off the bearded lady's solid slaps to his cheeks.
The bearded lady's back had been turned to me, but at the sound of my laughter, she spun around, and let go of the young man. He rushed inside the tent, and after giving me an icy stare, the bearded lady followed, in hot pursuit.
I still was laughing when I found myself in front of the red and silver trailer. Both the outside door and the screen doors were open. I had just reached my hand out to rap, when I heard voices. I didn't rap, but stood motionless, listening.
Someone was talking baby talk. The conversation didn't make sense. It came from the rear of the trailer. I tiptoed in that direction, and peered around the corner.
As I observed the scene before me, the shock I felt was as though someone had slipped a tray of ice cubes down my back. What I saw was a child's table and chairs, with a play tea set laid out on it. A chimpanzee, dressed in baby clothes sat on one of the chairs. Right next to the chimp, in the other chair, was a shapely blonde. I judged her to be in her early twenties, a small, curvaceous girl with bleached blonde hair, styled in an Italian hairdo.
The blonde was wearing a tight-fitting sweater which emphasized her hard, pointed breasts. Her only other attire was a heart-shaped rhinestone g-string, and sheer nylons rolled high on her thighs. On her feet were high-heeled, toeless gold sandals.
Her toenails were painted black.
I stood watching her, as though I were part of a crazy dream. The contrast between the blonde and the hairy chimp was weird and tragic.
The girl's blue eyes with the long false lashes held a dreamy faraway expression as she leaned over the chimp. She had a spoon in her hand which she kept trying to insert into the animal's mouth.
"There, Mama's itsy-bitsy baby must eat and get big like Mama." She giggled foolishly and leaned closer to the chimp, kissing it.
The strain that the slightest movement put on her sweater almost popped the buttons. I don't know how long I might have stood there, if the blonde hadn't spotted me.
She leaped up, with a loud outcry. As she rose I noticed that her legs were long and beautiful.
"Are you ... Dimples O'Dea? I managed.
She grabbed the chimp by one arm and stepped closer to me, her eyes searching mine. Her voice grated at me. It was coarse, like a truck driver's.
"Who in the hell are you?" she demanded.
I tried to keep a straight face. "I'm Steve Donlon, a friend of Sam Grass."
She drew herself up as though she were a queen and I a presuming peasant.
What's that got to do with me?" she asked, haughtily.
My mind was in a tailspin. What a bundle of contradictions this broad was turning out to be.
I spoke hastily. "I knew Sheik. I just wanted to see you and to express my sympathy."
She stared at me, her hips swaying seductively. She giggled.
"Who needs sympathy?" she mocked. "He was a dirty louse."
I stared, open-mouthed.
Her face registered rage. Then she became coy. She moved closer, pressing her breasts against me.
"Can't you give me more than simpathy?" she asked, seductively.
I drew back. Brother, I thought, what the hell gives? She had a gorgeous body, but her attitude made my blood curdle. I don't like to be chased....certainly not that all of a sudden.
"How about a drink?" she asked.
"I could use one," I replied. And how, I thought.
I followed her swaying hips into the trailer. She still held the chimp by one arm. He followed, docile as a baby.
The trailer was a mess. A table was cluttered with ashtrays, all overflowing with cigarette butts, with empty beer cans and with whiskey bottles, all also very empty. On the sink, swarming with flies, was the remains of a meal ... maybe of several meals.
A cocker spaniel with a litter of puppies snarled at me from a box on the floor.
Another young dame perched on a couch, her body bent over, twisted like a pretzel. She looked up at me from between her shapely legs. She was a pretty brunette with brown hair and eyes to match. She waved two fingers at me.
"Hi, handsome," she cooed.
"Hi," I responded, marveling at her dexterity, thinking how it might give any man ... including me ... a real charge.
Dimples shoved a pile of clothes off a chair and told me to sit down. She laid the chimp down in a baby crib, opened a cupboard door, and pulled out a fifth of whiskey. She took a long swallow, then passed the bottle on to me.
I wiped off the top of the bottle and took a small swig.
The brunette uncoiled her body, untwisted her legs from about her neck, and stood up. She wore a strapless bra and a pair of shorty shorts. Her feet were bare. She stood directly in front of me, pivoting and whirling on one leg, her firm breasts rising and falling with each spin.
I put the bottle to my lips and took another long swallow, then set the bottle down and eyed the brunette. She stood on tiptoe, eyeing me right back. She giggled.
"I'm Dolly Vickers, Sensation of the Nile, Queen of Evil, Venus of Tentation." She ended her singsong spiel with a gyrating bump.
I smiled, foolishly. "Hi, Dolly."
She stretched out one shapely arm.
"Have a bite," she offered.
My eyes must have bugged, but I managed a flippant, "I'll take a raincheck. I just had a big breakfast."
These dolls were weird ... way too "way out" for me!
Dolly pouted. "Sheik used to like to bite me. Why don't you want to?"
I merely shook my head in negation, not daring to trust myself to speak.
Dimples had been standing at the far end of the trailer, cooing at the chimp. She suddenly whirled to face us.
"Stop making a fool of yourself, Dolly," she chided. "After all, he is my guest."
She gave me an unmistakable look, one of open invitation.
Surely, the boys with the white coats will come in any minute now and take us all away. I thought. There was an element of insanity in the entire atmosphere. These two dolls made me feel like a babe lost in the woods. I grabbed the whiskey bottle again, the way a drowning sailor might clutch at a floating spar.
A large tiger cub leaped playfully through the doorway, a leash dragging at its side, and I almost choked on the drink. I jumped up, side-stepping wildly, my mouth open.
Dimples knelt down, clasped the huge beast's head to her breasts and cooed baby talk into his pointed ears. The way this blonde had a mania for spouting baby talk in her coarse husky voice, and to wild animals no less, was the kookiest thing of all.
Clem stood in the doorway.
"I thought you might want me to take Satan for his walk, Dimples," he said.
Then he spotted me. "What the hell are you doing here, Donlon?"
"If it's any of your business which I doubt, I'm paying my respects to Sheik's widow," I snapped.
"All she feels is relief," he said with an ugly laugh. He came well into the little room.
"Are you sure?" I inquired.
Dimples ignored us and proceeded to maul the tiger cub affectionately. Without so much as a glance at either of us, she took the tiger's leash and led the beast out the door.
Clem followed, right at her heels.
"Damn you, Dimples!" he yelled. "You come back here and put more clothes on!"
I started toward the door but I didn't make it because Dolly threw herself at me, wrapping her arms around me. She was breathing hard and there was a primitive expression on her face, a look altogether savage. She was as ready as a foxhound in heat.
I tried to disengage myself from her embrace, but her grip tightened.
"No," she moaned, as though in anguish. I never had heard such desperation in a woman's voice.
I looked at her, my pulse beginning to race. Man, if she needed it that bad, maybe I had better reconsider.
I glanced at the window, uneasily. What if Dimples and Clem came back, right in the middle of it?
Dolly saw my look. Her hot breath practically singed my ear as she leaned close.
"She'll get it from him," Dolly hissed. "You give it to me."
If my life was to be forfeit, I couldn't have said no. Part of me wouldn't let me. Suddenly, I ached for that wildly asking ... and without any doubt ... very capable body.
Seeing surrender in my hot gaze, she yanked her brassiere off and tossed it aside. Next came the shorty shorts and she stood before me, magnificently naked ... even to being completely shaved ... magnificently ready.
She tugged me toward the couch, sprawled on it, her legs spread as wide as she could get them, and pulled me on top of her.
"Hell, at least let me get my pants off," I protested, yanking myself free.
She didn't answer, just lay there, her delightful rump lifting, her eyes gleaming, her crimson lips parted.
Nervous as I was, I never shucked my trousers so fast in my life. The shorts followed. This I wanted for real.
I longed to kiss those juicy looking nipples, but her mouth sought mine, and that hot rough tongue of hers reached for my tonsils.
I gave up and molded myself to her body. She couldn't wait, and neither could I.
When I plunged into that delicious total bareness, she shrieked like a jungle cat being had, and I nearly went of my skull with sheer sensuous sensation.
Her flexible legs encircled my neck like rubber, only much softer, much warmer. Man, what a way to get it all the way in.
I never experienced such wild wonderful movement in all my years of wooing, objective screwing. Man, it was the most.
It didn't last long. It couldn't. Shrieking, she plunged against me a mile a minute and I followed. We crossed the finish line together, a blissful tie.
Dolly smiled, turned her back, and promptly went to sleep!
Slowly, I walked down the Midway. I hadn't garnered much information so far, but brother, what characters I had met! My eyes lighted on the cookhouse, and I walked over and took a seat at the counter.
The effeminate young man I had encountered earlier sat across from me. His hands were waving as he talked rapidly to his companion, a middle-aged woman with bright red hair.
"You think business is lowsy. Well, I have news for you, Lu. You just don't know how bad it really is. Imagine poor Heddy Latose, our side-show hermaphrodite; here she is, exposing her 'all' and not winning a dime. Really, girl, I'm ill, ill, ill."
A short, pot-bellied character wiped the counter in front of me.
"Give me a cup of Java," I said, with a smile.
He slapped the coffee down in front of me. "You're a friend of the boss, aren't you?"
"Yeah," I answered.
He wiped his hands on a grimy apron. "I'm Whitey Mann."
"Hi, Whitey. I'm Steve Donlon."
Whitey leaned his elbows on the counter, a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth.
"Heard about the murder?" he whispered, confidentially.
Heard about it ... with the damned thing in all the papers? How stupid could even a jerk get?
I shrugged mentally, deciding to play along. Maybe I would get a break. Obviously, this was a guy with loose lips. Suppressing my eagerness, I leaned forward.
"I haven't heard much," I said, playing it real dumb. "Guy's name was Sheik O'Dea, wasn't it?"
Whitey spat the cigarette butt onto the greasy floor. "Yeah, Sheik O'Dea. And I'd say that he got just what he deserved."
Whitey snorted. "Hell, no. I hated the jerk. He was evil, just plain evil, and he treated that poor little gal of his as though she was a common bum!"
I nodded encouragingly. "I've met Dimples O'Dea and Dolly."
His lips curved into a knowing leer. "Some babes, eh?"
I chuckled. "Not exactly the type you'd take home to meet mother."
Whitey slapped the counter with one huge hand and laughed loudly. Then he stopped laughing and gave me a sober look.
"You should have met Dimples three years ago when Sheik first brought her here," he said.
"How come?" I egged him on.
"Well," Whitey continued, "she was only eighteen or nineteen then, a mere baby." He leaned over the counter and his voice became a hoarse whisper. "I could tell you a lot of things."
"Such as?" I questioned.
He hissed with excitement, his glance darting about, nervously. "Well, the first year of their marriage, he used to check her into hotels on weekends, and he bragged about the money she made for him."
A loathesome creep, I thought as the ugly meaning of what Whitey had just said fully jarred me.
"He was a logical candidate for murder, wasn't he?" I commented.
"You said it! Many times he came up here and ordered a big steak for himself. At first, I used to kid him about business being so bad that he and Dimples had to eat alternately ... you know, breakfast for him, and lunch for her."
He rubbed his chin and his face grew dour. "You know what that dirty bum told me?"
He didn't wait for an answer, but rattled on. "He said that Dimples was eating hog-jowl and hominy, that she was used to it. He bragged that she didn't even know what steak was, that she had never tasted any. He said that he didn't want to spoil her by letting her find out."
Whitey's words rang with indignation.
I couldn't keep from laughing.
Whitey pointed a finger at me, almost putting one of my eyes out. "Last year he told me ... he was sitting right where you're sitting now ... he told me that he kept her busy all winter at smokers and at stag parties."
I don't know what I might have answered if a dark Latin-type man hadn't walked up and sat down beside me. He had a copy of Billboard Magazine in his hand.
"Whitey, hustle me up some ham and eggs, and don't drown them in grease," he said. Then he opened the magazine and hid himself behind it.
I spoke softly. "Who's laughing boy, Whitey?"
Whitey was busy slapping ham on the griddle.
"Pierre LaTrent, the Great," he mumbled. "That's what he calls himself. He thinks he's a great artist. Bah! Just our free act; he does a few gymnastics on a high pole, once a night."
Just then a middle-aged woman entered from a small enclosure at the back of the cookhouse. She wiped her wet hands on her apron and spoke sharply.
"How about you sharing some of the dirty work, Whitey?" she said. "You got every pot and pan we own all burnt and stuck up. I'll take over here while you finish up in the back."
"Hell, Ruby, a guy ain't supposed to do dishes," Whitey whined.
Ruby picked up a skillet and threatened him, imitating his whine. "Hell, a guy's only supposed to gab with the customers and let me do the dirty work."
Whitey looked at me with a sheepish grin on his face, and muttered, "Drop dead, Ruby."
Then he hurried out. Minutes later, the loud banging of pots and pans could be heard from the rear. I laughed as I stood up and slowly walked away from the cookhouse.
As I rounded the corner I stared, then did a double take. Instinctively, I felt like ducking between the tents, but it was too late. Sheriff Johnson and one of his deputies rapidly walked toward me.
I had met the sheriff before. I knew that he didn't particularly care about private eyes. I would have liked to have ducked him, but he was looking me squarely in the face. I felt like a small boy caught with his hands in the cooky jar. I just hoped he wouldn't louse up the case for me.
"Steve Donlon! What are you doing here?" His double chin quivered with indignation, and he glared at me as he spoke.
"I dropped by to give you a hand, Sheriff. Seems you cops still need someone to find your murderer."
Sheriff Johnson fumed. "Now listen. I don't remember sending you an invitation." His pudgy fingers raked at his sparse gray hair.
The deputy grinned nastily, like a big baboon. "We didn't invite you, Donlon."
Sheriff Johnson glared at him. Then turned back to me.
"What in the hell are you doing here, I asked you?" he boomed.
"I figured I'd come down and solve the murder for you," I teased him.
The sheriff pulled at his large bulbous nose. His eyes were dark with anger. He pointed a trembling finger at me.
"I don't want any more lip from you," he shouted.
Just then Sam Grass walked up. His manner was cordial. "I see you gentlemen know each other."
"Hmmph," Sheriff Johnson growled.
Sam faced him. "I hired Steve Donlon, Sheriff. I thought, with more help, we could find the murderer sooner."
Sheriff Johnson shrugged in resignation.
"It's your money," he said, bitterly.
I smiled, enjoying the sheriff's discomfort.
"How about our comparing notes, Sheriff?" I suggested.
Sam laughed. "That's the idea. How about using my trailer? Lorette isn't home, and we can talk without being disturbed."
I nodded in agreement, and the sheriff reluctantly growled his consent. The three of us followed Sam into his trailer.
The sheriff's bark was worse than his bite. He was a very capable cop, far from stupid, but with a vile temper. He lowered his huge bulk onto the couch, and I sat beside him. The deputy sat at the far end of the couch. Sam flopped in the lounge chair.
The sheriff smiled sourly, and glared at me. "I have been working on this case, regardless of what some people think," he stated.
"I'm sure you haven't been idle," Sam purred.
The sheriff spoke smugly, "First of all, your ticket seller, Lucille Rodd, actually is Sheik O'Dea's lawful wife. It seems he never bothered to divorce her before marrying Dimples."
Sam leaned forward eagerly. "I thought there was something between her and Sheik."
Sheriff Johnson snorted. "You sure were secretive about it."
Sam shrugged. "Little things they did just didn't add up. Now, they make more sense."
"In what way?" I inquired.
Sam shrugged and pressed his lips together, as he pondered. "Glances they exchanged. And one night I thought I saw her and Sheik talking behind one of the tents. But knowing Sheik's weakness for the ladies, I didn't think too much about it."
I was puzzled. "I wonder what she was up to."
"That's what I intend to find out," the sheriff rasped. "At first when I questioned her, I didn't know who she was."
He turned to Deputy Nickles. "Go find that Rodd dame and tell her I want to see her right away."
He glanced at Sam for confirmation as he said this.
Sam nodded agreement.
As the deputy left the trailer, Sam looked at me. "The grapevine probably has it by now that you're a private investigator, Steve."
"That fast?"
"You have no idea how fast news travels along the Midway. Too bad we couldn't have delayed it." Sheriff Johnson spoke briskly. "Yeah. Now you can't sneak around. You'll have to get your information the hard way."
I smiled to myself as I thought about how the sheriff and I had been running into each other for the past month, all the while I was looking for a case .I had built up a deep respect for this tough acting old cop. I think I had earned his respect, too.
A knock sounded at the door.
Sam opened the door and Lucille Rood stepped in, with Nickles at her heels.
I stared at the redhead. She was the same woman I had seen earlier at the cookhouse. I could tell that she had been drinking. Her eyes were glassy and red-rimmed and her face was flushed. She swayed slightly as she stared defiantly at Sheriff Johnson.
"What do you want now, copper?" Her words were slurred.
The sheriff flushed at her insolence.
"Sit down before you fall down, Mrs. O'Dea," he said.
His words had the effect on her that a cold shower might have had. Her face paled, and she grabbed at the arm of the lounge chair to steady herself. When Sam took hold of her shoulders and helped her into the chair, her eyes flashed gratitude.
The sheriff leaned forward to gaze at her, intently.
Her hands clutched the arms of the lounge chair so tightly that her knuckles were white, and her voice was barely audible when she spoke. "So you found out. Yes, I was Sheik's wife."
"Why did you come here ... to this particular carnival Mrs. O'Dea?" The sheriff boomed. "Was it for revenge? Did you kill Sheik O'Dea?"
Lucille shrank back against the cushions, her eyes unnaturally bright with fright.
"No! I didn't kill Sheik." Her voice was a loud wail. "I wanted to get even with him, but I didn't kill him. Please believe me!" She searched our faces, panic mirrored on hers.
She's either a very good actress, or she's innocent, I thought.
The sheriff continued to badger her. "Suppose you tell us everything, Lucille. No lies. Remember, I could arrest you now on circumstantial evidence."
Lucille nervously clasped and unclasped her hands. Her voice was low.
"Sheik and I were married fifteen years ago. He was always leaving me, sometimes, for months, then he'd come back." She paused, and her voice broke. "Five years ago he left and didn't come back."
Her voice trailed off, and her eyes brimmed with tears. I felt sorry for Lucille, as well as embarrassed for her. Funny, it always embarrasses me when someone bares his soul.
Sam laughed uneasily as Lucille blinked to keep from weeping.
She spoke hurriedly, as though to get it over with. "Maybe none of you will be able to understand this. I probably should have had more pride, but I lost that a long time ago, where Sheik was concerned." She paused, moistening her dry lips before continuing. "This may sound overly dramatic, but I spent every cent I could literally beg, borrow, or steal to trace Sheik. I invested in the services of a detective agency. A year ago, they traced him. That's when I showed up here."
She turned to Sam. "May I have a drink of water, please?"
Sam walked over to the sink and got the water. As soon as she had the glass in her hands, she gulped the drink down. Her hands shook.
Sheriff Johnson's voice grew loud. It echoed through the trailer. "Why did you keep your identity a secret?"
"I was afraid of Sheik," Lucille mumbled. "He could be very violent in his rages I didn't make any plans before I arrived, but in the back of my mind, I was sure I could get him back."
Sam gave her a comforting pat on the shoulder as she struggled to go on with her story.
"After my first meeting here with Sheik, I knew my plans were hopeless. He was abusive and frantic. In fact, he threatened me with bodily harm if I told anyone who I was, but ... but ... I couldn't . leave. I still hoped...."
Sheriff Johnson leaped to his feet, a triumphant gleam in his eyes as he interrupted her. "You couldn't get him back, so you killed him."
Lucille screamed hysterically. "No! No! I didn't! I swear I didn't! Why don't you talk to that slut who's posing at his wife?"
She dropped her head to her chest, sobbing wildly, her shoulders shaking.
My voice dripped sarcasm. "I always like to watch a cop do his stuff ... they have such finesse!"
"Can't Lucille go back to her trailer now?" Sam asked the sheriff.
I could see by his expression that he felt sorry for the poor broad.
Sheriff Johnson looked at the miserable woman for a long moment. "You can go, Mrs. O'Dea. But stay where I can find you at a moment's notice."
His voice held a definite threat.
Still sobbing, Lucille left the trailer.
"I've got to get back to the station, but I'll be around later," the sheriff said, turning to me. Then he added, "Don't get in too deep, Donlon. You'll only foul things up for everyone concerned."
"I'll try to give you the killer on a silver platter the next time I see you, Sheriff."
"Oh yeah? Well, better make it a platter studded with diamonds. You'll need them to hock after I get through with this case."
Sam and I both laughed as the sheriff and his deputy closed the door behind them. I didn't laugh long. This situation wasn't a laughing matter.
CHAPTER FOUR
Sam mixed drinks for both of us. As I sat watching him and listening to his idle chatter concerning the murder, I was trying to put the jigsaw puzzle pieces of this case together in my mind.
It was like trying to assemble a puzzle with key pieces missing. So far, there had been very little I could get my teeth into. I was slowly but surely getting an insight into the character ... or the lack of one ... of Sheik O'Dea.
Could the few things which had come to light so far possibly lead to establishing the identity of the killer? Or was there some other deep dark secret in Sheik's life, one that had not yet been uncovered? Who had had a strong enough motive to shoot him ... to want him out of the way, permanently?
I even had an uneasy feeling about my own client. Why had Sam Grass engaged me, actually? Was it to cover up his own guilt? He didn't have a real alibi, only that he was supposed to have been asleep at the time of the murder. I was sure that he hadn't come clean with me. I could sense that he was hiding something.
Then there was Lorette, his wife, who had seemed visibly upset during the conversation between Sam and me about the murder. And what about Sheik's wife, Dimples, the stripper, and his open affair with Dolly Vickers? Had one of these girls shot Sheik, in a jealous rage? One thing was certain; Sheik had been a ladies' man, and that usually spells trouble.
Also, what about Lucille Rodd who still had been legally tied to Sheik? I realized that Sheriff Johnson had Lucille at the top of his list of suspects. To me, that was too pat. I couldn't quite believe that she had done it.
All of the carnies hated Sheik. Somewhere among them could there be one who had hated him enough to kill him. But who? That was the needle in the haystack it was up to me to dig out!
"How about another drink?" Sam offered.
I rose. "I'd like one, but I've got work to do. I'm not earning that fifty a day, sitting here slopping up booze."
"Guess you're right," Sam admitted, with an appreciative smile. After all, he was the one who was shelling out the half a C note. "When will I see you?'
"I'll check with you as soon as I come up with something pertinent," I promised, setting my empty glass on the table.
"I hope it's soon," he sighed.
"It will be," I said, with a confidence I didn't feel. Then without further talk, I left the trailer.
I decided to look over Dimples' show truck. After all, Sheik had been murdered there. As I eased the door open, I heard Dolly talking, so I softly closed it behind me and tiptoed forward.
Dolly was kneeling down. She had a piece of paper in one of her hands; with her other hand she was slapping out a mean beat on a bongo drum, reading aloud in a soft seductive whisper, the following words:
"A young girl is dreaming of her lover. Who is far away across the sea. He is kissing her eyelids."
I glanced around in the dim light and noticed Dimples, lying on a couch in the middle of a stage, completely nude. She was listening intently to Dolly's singing:
"He is kissing her eyelids, He kissed her lips, her neck, her breasts."
Dolly stopped reading, and dropping the paper, she beat the bongo drum with both hands, harder and harder, in a kind of frenzy. Beads of sweat were forming on her brow.
I stood, as though hypnotized.
Dimples was busily interpreting Dolly's words, her lips moist and parted, her firm breasts heaving along with her rapid breathing as her hands cupped them in a light circular stroking motion. Then her hands dropped to her hips, continuing their sensuous stroking. She gave a low groan of ecstasy, and her hips gyrated in an unmistakable action.
With a loud moan, Dolly leaped up from beside the bongo drum. She ran over to Dimples, threw herself down beside the naked stripper, and the two female animals locked in a wild embrace.
Careless of who might be watching, each stroked the other's entire body with a hot, feverish tongue, then they locked in a rocking, rapturous motion, for all the world like a man and a woman in the last stages of a furiously satisfactory sex party.
Man, did my eyes bug! I now was bathed in sweat, and my hands were shaking violently. The scene really had disturbed me. I wrenched the truck door open and stumbled outside, then leaned against the side of the vehicle. With trembling hands, I fumbled for a cigarette and got it lit, then inhaled deeply.
Just then Clem walked toward me. He was mumbling to himself. He looked worried. When he spotted me, he frowned.
"What are you doing here, Donlon?" he asked harshly.
This Clem character really irritated me. "I don't think that's any of your business. But since you seem to know who I am and what I'm here for, I'd like a few straight answers from you."
His voice grew even more surly. "I don't know why I should have to answer any of your questions. I already told the sheriff all I know."
I shrugged. "Of course, if you have something to hide ... which is what your refusal suggests."
Clem's face flushed scarlet and he moistened his lips with his tongue. "Okay, I'll answer your crummy questions. What do you want to know?"
""Well, let's start with just what was your relationship with Sheik."
"I hated him."
I leaned forward, locking Clem's gaze with mine. "That isn't very damned explicit. Where were you at the time Sheik was murdered?"
Clem scowled. "I already told the sheriff that! I had a sick boa constrictor, and I was sitting up with it in the wild life tent."
"A sick boa constrictor.' Boy! I've heard a lot of alibis in my time, but this really takes the prize."
Clem's mouth tightened in anger. He spat his next words. "Come off it, chum. You know I work with wild life. It's my job to take care of all the animals and the snakes."
I smiled. "Score one for you, Clem. That alibi sort of threw me at first. How come you had to sit up all night with this unusual invalid?"
Again, Clem scowled. "In the first place, that sick boa cost Sheik ten dollars a foot and it's fourteen feet long. Secondly, I get a lowsy forty dollars a week pay and found ... at least, that's what it is when I manage to collect. The boa is part of my job."
"Sam told me you were the one who notified him of Sheiks murder. Did you hear the shot?" As I questioned him, I was mentally adding him to my list of prime suspects.
"Yes, I went to Sam's trailer. Dimples came over to the wild life tent that night. She was hysterical, and she had been drinking. She said Sheik had been murdered, and would I let Sam know. I quieted her down a little, then I went over to Sam's trailer."
"I asked if you heard the shot."
"I heard a noise, but I thought it was a car backfiring."
I looked at him speculatively, wondering if he was telling the truth. "Are you sure about that, Clem? It might be better to be on the up-and-up all the way."
There was thinly-veiled hatred in his eyes as he sputtered an angry answer. "Look, Donlon, I don't give a damn what you think, but don't call me a liar."
I was getting hot under the collar myself. "Take it easy, boy. No one called you a liar. By the way, did you argue with Sheik about your back pay?"
Clem's eyes flashed hatred, open now. "Sure, we argued about it, but I didn't kill him over it."
I decided to throw him a wild one. "How about your affair with Dimples? Did Sheik know that you loved her?"
Clem actually blushed, as he stammered, "Sure-sure, he knew. He also knew that Dimples didn't return my love. It was all one-sided."
We stared at each other in silence, each wrapped in his own thoughts. I lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, then continued, "What did you do when you left Sam's trailer?"
"I called the police, like Sam suggested. Then I went back to the girl-show tent and waited there with Dimples for them to arrive."
"Was anyone else there with you and Dimples?"
"Francis was there when I got back. Later, Sleepy and Hedy came in. I think Red was there, and-oh yes, the bearded lady came in and threw a tizzy. She was gruesome."
"What was her trouble?"
"Her trouble! Are you kidding? She flipped when she saw Sheik lying there, dead. She was nuts about the jerk."
I stared at Clem, amazed. The bearded lady! She would have been the last person I would have picked to add to the list of suspects.
"How did Dimples react to the bearded lady's outburst?"
Clem regarded me with disgust. "Dimples was used to Sheik's affairs. She's naive about men-Sheik kept her that way. He had her conned into thinking that all husbands acted the way he did. For such a tough little cookie, she's awfully stupid where men are concerned."
I switched my line of questioning completely, trying to catch Clem off guard. "Do you have a gun, Clem?"
He shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. "I don't have a gun of my own. There's a shotgun kept here in the wild-life show, but I've never used it."
"Did you kill Sheik?"
Clem laughed, his eyes shining with hate. "I used to dream about killing him. I inflicted every possible torture on him in my mind, that I could think of and then some."
He tossed his head back, and more loud ugly laughter erupted from his throat.
I was more than a little dubious about this punk. He was definitely ready for a head-shrinker. I wondered what Sheriff Johnson had thought about his story. Then I caught myself up abruptly. I hadn't actually gotten an answer to my question. Clem hadn't said anything definite. He stopped laughing and regarded me, a strange look in his eyes.
"You didn't answer my question. Did you kill Shiekr
"No, I didn't kill him." Clem yelled. "Not actually, but I wish to hell I had!"
He smiled dreamily, and his voice trailed off.
I felt peculiar. For an instant, my mind conjured up a vivid picture of the actual crime, with Clem as the murderer. Holding back any response, I concentrated on lighting another cigarette.
Clem was speaking, as though from far away, seemingly unaware of my presence. "Sheik was a no-good, moronic sadist. I detested him-his overbearing way of lording it over me, his cruelty to Dimples, and all of the other women he dominated. The person who killed him deserves a gold medaL"
"Since you hated him so much, why didn't you leave?"
"He wouldn't pay me. He kept putting me off with excuses. Then there was Dimples. I love her."
"Seems to me you had plenty of motives, Clem. If I were you I would watch myself. Sheriff Johnson is getting desperate. He needs a scapegoat real bad."
Clem sputtered angrily. "Listen Donlon, you or no other fuzz is going to railroad me. Ask the bearded lady, Mimi Chanture, and her boss. Celeste Amand. Ask them about Sheik. They can tell you plenty, if they will."
"With these words he spun around, and walked hurriedily down the Midway.
I stood, staring after him.
What could Mimi Chanture and Celeste Amand know? I had better go find them and see what they had to say. Funny Sheriff Johnson hadn't mentioned them. I mulled this latest piece of information over in my mind as I walked toward the huge side-show tent.
Reaching it, I walked through the opening, glancing at the various raised platforms which were several feet apart. I could identify the individual performers by the placards on the platforms. At the far end of the tent which was curtained and roped off, a sign indicated that that part was reserved for Hedy La'Tuse, the hermaphrodite.
Two people were there. A woman, seated on a straight-backed chair, was holding a mirror in one hand and an electric razor in the other. She was shaving. Sleepy, the midget, was tumbling and doing somersaults. The woman was speaking.
"You know, Sleepy. I can't make up my mind whether to let my whiskers grow and wear stud attire, or to keep on shaving and wear dresses."
Sleepy laughed, loudly. "Hedy, do you think that's a problem? I know a lot of people who would welcome such a challenge. Just imagine, you can follow the dictates of your heart-male or female."
Hedy giggled. "Really, Sleepy, what a sense of humor! Imagine thinking of that."
I coughed, loudly.
Sleepy whirled, facing me, a big grin on his wrinkled face. "Well! Is the private dick slumming?"
"Hi, Sleepy. I was looking for Celeste Amand and Mimi Chanture."
Sleepy pointed one pudgy finger toward the rear of the huge tent. "You'll find an open flap in the back. Go through it, and follow your nose."
I smiled. "Thanks, Sleepy. While I'm here, suppose you tell me what you know about Sheik's murder."
Hedy eyed me, curiously.
Sleepy screwed up his face. "I don't know much. I could take Sheik, or leave him. I didn't particularly like him. But I didn't hate him like some did."
"Can't you be more specific, Sleepy? How about mentioning a few names?"
"Snoop them out for yourself. I'm no squealer," Sleepy said, nastily.
"All right. Don't explode!"
I gazed at Hedy. She was staring at both of us, intently.
"How did you like Sheik, Hedy?" I asked her. "Or didn't you?"
She toyed with the razor, now in her lap. Her lips were set in a grim line.
"I admired Sheik as a fellow trooper. He knew show biz. And he had a way with women." She paused and raised her eyebrows suggestively. Then she continued ," He'd made a play for me, mostly because I was different. I intrigued him. I wasn't playing. I figured he already had all the playmates he could handle."
"Wait till I get my violin; I'll play Hearts and Flowers," Sleepy mocked.
"I'll go find Mimi and Celeste. Maybe they can tell me something," I said.
Sleepy watched me, calculatingly.
"Yeah. You do that," he said.
"I'm sure Mimi and Celeste will welcome you with open arms," Hedy said sarcastically.
"Could be," I responded. Then I turned and walked slowly to the rear of the tent. I looked back at the odd pair before I stepped outside.
Neither spoke. They had fallen into a mood of silence, the way they had been when I had entered their tent. I quickly relegated them to the back of my mind. Actually, I didn't think either of them had anything to do with Sheik's murder.
CHAPTER FIVE
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."
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!
CHAPTER SIX
I strolled down the Midway. It was ablaze with lights now. A glittering neon tent city with huge iron and steel rides, all promising a thrill a minute. A hundred sounds filled my ears. The clamor of music from the calliope jarred the air. Its raucous blare mingled with the gay voices and the laughter of the swelling crowd. Various concessionaires, ballyhooing their wares in a race for the elusive buck, added to the din. Simultaneously blasting drums from shows at the rear of the Midway collided with the hoarse cries of the barkers, promising marvels of unsurpassed beauty or wierdness of face and of body.
Another sense, constantly titillated, was that of smell. Savory aromas of hot popcorn, of cotton candy, of roasting peanuts, of hamburgers, of sizzling hot dogs, along with the nose-tickling odor of frying onions. Something about the smell of frying onions always gets me, even when I'm not one bit hungry.
I stopped to watch a young fellow try to win a feathered Kewpie Doll for his girl friend, by throwing baseballs at wooden milk bottles, a ton-and-a-half housewife try to fool the guess-your-age-and-weight man, a drunk at a jewelry display demand a full tray of rings instead of just the one he had won by spinning the arrow, and an exasperated mother try to explain to a small boy at the fish pond concession that he had won a prize, not the wooden fish he had picked up and was clutching to his little chest.
My gaze then fell on an old gypsy crone, rigged up in her several brilliant, varicolored satin skirts (used for everything from wiping noses to washing and drying pots and pans), her long dangling earrings, made up of real gold prices, and her loose-fitting overblouse, opened to her waist. At the moment, she was vigorously scratching her ample backside, her eager old eyes scanning the Midway for a likely prospect.
I watched an elderly gentlemen amble toward the waiting web. As the old lady advanced on him, her actions were a complete course in cajolery. She got a death grip on his arm as she peered into his face, talking a mile a minute. I couldn't distinguish the exact words; I was too far away to hear, but it was evident the man was very much embarrassed. He finally managed to break away from his captress, and he almost ran down the Midway.
The old gypsy woman was furious. At first she just mumbled to herself, then she spat in contempt, doubled her fist in a threatening gesture and screamed insults at the man's retreating back.
A young gypsy girl joined the old lady. She was beautiful in a dark Latin way. I walked over so I could stand closer to them.
The old lady said, "Why didn't you come out sooner, Nonce? I lost a mark. A fine gentleman with a fat wallet. You could have gotten ten from him. For you, he would have spent money."
The girl hissed, "Shut up, you old bag of bones, there will be other marks. You're a silly old woman."
"You're an ungrateful daughter!" the old lady shrieked. "Get to work, and make some money!"
As I passed them, they exchanged a volley of excited foreign words. The old woman slapped the girl a stinging blow across the face, then backed into the tent. The girl, as though nothing had happened, nonchalantly approached me, a come-hither look in her dark flashing eyes.
"Got a 'match, mister?" She held a cigarette in her long slender fingers.
I lit her cigarette for her.
She gazed at me in amazement, then laughed. Her laughter was like a tinkling bell.
"You're the private fuzz that's been snooping around." Even her mocking words couldn't detract from her lovely accent.
"You have a delightful accent. To which tribe of gypsies do you belong?" I asked, ignoring her remark.
"We belong to the Tziganes, if it's any of your business," she replied, hotly, her eyes flashing.
Then with a whirl of hEr full satin skirts, she stepped away from me to latch onto the arm of a passing young sailor. Amid giggles and whispers, she led him into the tent.
For several hours, I roamed the Midway. I watched a stout woman beat the scalejoint for a kewpie Doll. From a discreet distance, I watched Red Swank's joints. His three stands constantly were busy. In front of each of them stood a mark, hemmed in by shills. I chuckled to myself as I watched an agent lean over, buzz in a mark's ear, and slap him on the back. The mark took out his wallet and handed the agent another bill.
I noticed one of the policemen standing a little to one side, curiosity on his face, scrutinizing the scene.
Turning around, I spotted Sheriff Johnson walking toward me. He looked like a grouchy bear. "Evenin'," he snorted.
"I see you're in your customary jovial mood," I remarked.
"Never mind the wise cracks. Did you find out anything I ought to know about?"
"I've been an eager beaver," I told him. "I questioned Clem and a few of the others. Clem strikes me as a likely suspect. What do you think?"
"Clem hated Sheik enough to do it, but I don't think he's our man," the sheriff opined. "Still, I'm keeping an open mind. My boys are watching his every move. Who are the others you've questioned?"
"I've questioned Sleepy Austin, Hedy LaTose, Francis Moore, Celeste Amand, and Mimi Chanture. Speaking of Mimi, I got a confession of sorts from her. Talk about screwball characters, most of these creeps almost drive me clear off my rocker!"
The sheriff's cheeks puffed out, his face got red, and he looked as though he were about to explode.
"For Pete's sake!" he sputtered, angrily. "Why didn't you tell me this first instead of gabbing about everything else?"
"Careful, Johnson," I cautioned. "Remember your blood pressure. Personally, I don't believe her. In her twisted way, she idolized Sheik. I think her grief has caused her to flip."
He gave me an icy stare. "Flipped, indeed; I'm going over to see that bearded female right now!"
With that, he whirled and rushed down the Midway.
I figured I might as well ask a few more questions of Dimples and Dolly. As I thought about the last time I had attempted to talk to them, I flushed. It now was ten o'clock. They already had performed two shows; probably it would be an hour before another show would go on. That should give me plenty of time to question them.
As I neared the girl-show, I looked at the banners with the blown-up girly pictures of female pulchritude. Two old codgers stood there, gazing hungrily at the pictures, their eyes glassy with lust.
I walked around the side of the tent to the back, to Dimples' trailer. The outside door was open, and all the lights were on. I rapped lightly on the side of the trailer.
Dimples' husky voice responded, "Come on in."
I stepped up into the trailer, and my eyes fastened on Dimples. She was sitting on the edge of the sofa, facing ms. This babe was a sight to behold. Her feet were encased in high-heeled, rhinestone-studded slippers. Sheer nylon harem pants outlined her shapely legs. The pants were held up by a star-shaped g-string. Her firm breasts were cradled in black velvet cups with rhinestone stars at their centers. A thin glittering cord outlined them. She dangled a cigarette in one hand, obviously enjoying my mesmerized appraisal.
"Sit down, Mr. Donlon. Did you come to give me more sympathy?" Her voice was full of sarcasm.
I tried to appear impersonal, keeping my voice brisk and business-like. "I understand it was you who found your husband's body. I have a few more questions to ask you."
"Ask and be damned," she said flippantly.
I ignored her rudeness. "How did you happen to find your husband's body?"
"It was getting late, and I wasn't sleepy. Dolly had passed out, so I decided to go to the G-top and find Sheik. I cut through the girl-show top ... and then I found him."
I could hear drawers banging shut in the rear of the trailer, and thought Dolly probably was in the back. I hesitated.
"What did you do then?" I asked.
"Well, I'd been drinking. I felt ill. At first, I was stunned, then I guess I became hysterical. I ran over to the wild-life show and got Clem. Then I sent him to tell Sam ... I started back to the girl-show and met Francis. We had been drinking together earlier, and we helped each other into the top."
"Didn't your husband objetc to you drinking with other carnies in your trailer? I understand Hank was there, too."
"Francis and Hank are buddies of mine and Dolly's. Besides, Sheik knew about it."
Before I could reply, the bedroom door slid open and Dolly stood there. She was ravishing. She fanned her long lashes at me and gave me a seductive smile.
"Well, if it isn't handsome, himself," she purred.
She made a provocative picture, standing there. Instead of a bra, she wore two beautiful colored butterflies. A larger butterfly, in a matching G-string, completed her attire. Her hips swayed maddeningly. My mind went momentarily blank as I stared at her lovely body.
I finally forced my brain to resume fuctioning.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions too, Dolly," I said. "It would be much easier though if you Would put on a robe."
I flushed with embarrassment, making this stuffy request. Actually, I wanted to rip the butterflies off to start a collection, but business is business!
Dolly gave my chin a quick pinch, her eyes sparkling.
"You're cute! I'll be right back!" She glided into the bedroom, with her motor running.
I took my handkerchief from my pocket and wiped at my damp forehead. Dimples tossed me a tantalizing grin. I wondered vaguely if I would ever be the same, after I completed this case. I never had met people such as these before. I caught myself toying with the idea of giving up the detective business, of going into show business for the rest of my life.
Dolly returned to the living room. She had put on a thin, filmy robe, no more concealing than were, the butterflies, still clearly visible. She wasn't one to be denied. She sat down next to me, flirting like mad.
I tried to ignore her, and faced Dimples. "Surely, you must have heard about Lucille Rodd being Sheik's legal wife."
Dimples scowled. A fog of depression seemed to envelope her. She sat perfectly still, apparently thinking over my words. Dolly took advantage of my silence by moving closer to me. She pinched my leg and gave me a radiant smile.
I moved away from her, forcing an answering grin. This kid is a black widow spider, I thought, just as hard to get away from and just as deadly.
Suddenly Dimples spoke, angrily. "If that hag thinks she can step in and take everything away from me, she's crazy. Law or no law, she'll have a hell of a fight on her hands."
"If she tangles with Dimples, she'll find out she's connected with a buzz saw," Dolly interjected.
This girl might have something there, I thought.
"By the way, Dimples, do you own a gun?" I had forgotten to ask that before.
"No, Sheik said my temper was too violent. He wouldn't trust me with a gun."
I turned to face the other girl.
"Do you have a gun, Dolly?" I inquired. She could slay the average male without one.
Dolly winked at me, then dropped her gaze for an instant. "I've never had use for one, big boy."
I could believe her.
Once again, I addressed Dimples. "How did you and Sheik get along, actually? You don't seem to be in mourning for him."
Her gaze narrowed. "I had begun to hate the sight of him, so why should I be in mourning? I didn't leave him because it wouldn't be good business. I worked hard, in more ways than one. Everything we own, we got through my efforts."
"Tell me the truth, Dimples. Did you kill your husband?"
She laughed bitterly, and her answer was just as bitter. "No, damn it, I only wish I had had the guts."
I whirled to face Dolly.
"Did you put a bullet in him?" I asked, sharply.
She gave me an arch look. Everything was a big joke to her. "Of course not. I wouldn't shoot a wooden duck. He did a few nice things for me. Did you see his red convertible? He had Dimples' name on one door and mine on the other. Wasn't that sweet of him?"
"Yeah. He was a real sport," I said, acidly.
"You don't want to pay too much attention to what Dolly says. She's a little shook up," Dimples confided.
"Isn't she cute?" Dolly mocked.
I was becoming exasperated. Both of these broads sounded plenty shook up.
"You both probably want to start getting ready for the next show, so I'd better leave now," I said, rising.
"I've got to leave this very minute," Dolly said, getting up hurriedly.
She wrapped her robe more tightly about her and strode out. Lucky she didn't have far to go on there might have been a rape in broad daylight and with hundreds of people watching.
As soon as the door had slammed behind Dolly, Dimples leaped at me.
"Forget Sheik for a few minutes," she whisper-ed, hotly. "Think about me!"
So help me, I thought, these babes must take turns!
Dimples didn't even wait for the couch. She pushed me into a deep chair and straddled me. She pulled at a little catch and her nylon pants pulled apart. Man, a zipper for convenience yet!
What she wanted already was in plain evidence and she lost no time in getting my zipper out of the way. Then she spread her legs and came down easily but firmly, her clear intent to get it all.
Brother, I moaned, what can a poor guy do?
Nothing. She did it all. M-mm-m, and could this little doll do it! I gave myself up to a hot lush interval that I hoped would last and last.
Amazingly, it went on for quite a spell. She had a little trick ... a real dilly ... of pausing almost at the peak, then starting again, more slowly, in a masterful demonstration of pure, drawn-out sensuality.
I sure hoped she hadn't killed Sheik. For the sake of whatever lucky men she might meet in her harum-scarum existence, I hoped this would never have to be locked up.
When I finally managed to tear myself away and get out on the midway, I saw Sam standing a few feet away, looking around at the crowd. He seemed deep in thought.
I walked over to him and grabbed his arm.
"Nice crowd, isn't it?" I commented.
He jumped. "Gee, you startled me. Yeah, it's very good for as long as we've been here. I noticed Sheriff Johnson on the Midway, earlier. Anything new?"
"I spoke to Mimi Chanture this afternoon, and she gave me a crazy confession. I told the sheriff about it and he hot-footed it down to the side-show to throw her in irons. Personally, I don't believe a word of her so-called confession."
Sam's eyes bugged at the very word 'confession'. He was almost incoherent with excitement "You mean she actually admitted to the killing?"
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Steady, pal. I don't think she's guilty, so don't blow a fuse."
"Not guilty? Then why the confession?"
"Like I told the sheriff, I think she's on the verge of a nervous breakdown, that she's suffering from guilt by association."
"I thought, for a minute, that my troubles might be over." Sam's face was furrowed with worry lines.
"Take it easy, Sam," I said. "I don't think it will take much longer."
Sam laughed nervously. "I hope you're right. Here comes Sheriff Johnson."
When the sheriff reached us, he started right in to cue us on what had taken place.
"Mimi Chanture is a screwball. I talked to her, but she didn't kill Sheik," he said. "She almost drove me as crazy as she is."
I interrupted him. "She was stoned when I questioned her, but I got all of the sordid details of her love affair with Sheik."
Sheriff Johnson's eyes narrowed, reflectively.
"I wonder why she didn't give me that phony confession the first time I talked to her," he said, tartly.
"Was she drunk?"
"No. Cold sober."
"That explains it then," I said.
Sam looked worried. "Don't you have any idea yet who did it, Sheriff?"
Johnson stared at Sam with weary eyes. "Look, friend, we're doing everything in our power to pin this thing down. Don't worry, whoever the killer is, we'll catch him.
Him? I wondered.
I didn't quite share the sheriff's confidence. In fact, I still was pretty much in the dark. So far, no one had made a slip.
"How about the ride-help, Johson? Did you question them? I didn't get around to them, yet."
"Well, I've already questioned them, and the only one who might be lying is Clem," Johnson told me.
"How about Lucille Rodd?" I queried. He gave me a shrewd look. "I was referring to the men."
We stopped talking as the loud-speaker began blasting out the announcement that the free-act would be starting in a few minutes. We were standing a few feet from the high pole, and as the crowd started toward us, Sam said, "Let's move in closer before they get here so we can catch the act."
"You two go ahead," Johnson said. "I've got some instructions for my men. Then I've got to get back to my office."
"Good night, Sheriff," I said.
"Good night, see you in the morning," Johnson answered.
With that, the sheriff walked toward the front of the Midway and Sam and I moved in closer to the high pole.
The lights on the Midway dimmed as the powerful searchlights were turned on. We stood with the gaping crowd and watched Pierre. He wasn't bad; I had seen worse. I wondered again what he had to tell me. Well, I soon would know. But first, I had to somehow give Sam the slip.
"I think I'll hit the sack, Sam. I'm bushed. I'll see you in the morning," I said. A direct approach was the quickest way to shake him.
"All right, Steve. I've got to see Red before we close."
After hasty good-nights we walked in opposite directions.
As I made my way up the Midway, I noticed that the crowd was thinning out. I gave a quick look around before I left the Midway. Then I picked my way cautiously back among the trailers and trucks until I located the one belonging to Pierre.
The lights were on when I reached it, so I knocked loudly.
There wasn't any response, and I cursed under my breath. Was Pierre deliberately standing me up? I knocked louder, loud enough to wake up the dead. Still he didn't answer the door.
I lighted a cigarette and decided to hang around a while. Five cigarettes later, I gave up because it didn't look as though the guy was ever going to show.
I could see him in the morning; I just had to get some sleep. I ground a butt angrily into the ground with my shoe. Then I started back toward the lighted Midway. I walked slowly, looking to see if he were anywhere around, but I couldn't spot him. As I made my way across the street to the motel, I hoped that Helen, my secretary, had remembered to send me a clean suit and a change of underwear.
I opened my door and turned on the lights.
My secretary was a doll! Draped over a chair, was a clean suit. A neatly-tied parcel lay on the bed. I was too played out to shower ... what I needed was rest. I would shower and shave when I woke up. My brain was so weary, my thinking capacity was almost zero. So I got into bed and as soon as my head hit the pillow, I succumbed to the complete oblivion that reached out to claim me.
CHAPTER SEVEN
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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
As we walked up to the G-top entrance, the officer on duty smothered a yawn, then forced a lazy "Good morning," to the sheriff and to me.
"Long night, eh lad?" Johnson said to him.
The officer yawned again.
"It's a living, Sheriff," he replied wearily.
When we entered the tent, Deputy Nickles and two officers were seated at the poker table and had a pile of papers spread out in front of them. Another policeman was stationed at the rear of the tent.
There was a charged atmosphere hovering over the tent. The carnies seemed to be avoiding conversation among themselves. Some of them just sat, staring at nothing in particular, others paced up and down, eyeing each other with suspicion.
All eyes turned toward us, filled with open hostility, as though we, personally, were responsible for the murders.
We went over to the table. Sheriff Johnson picked up the pile of papers and riffled through them.
"We got anything, Deputy?" he asked.
"I'm afraid not, Sheriff, unless . ." the deputy replied, with a sour look.
He motioned for the sheriff to bend over, then he whispered in his ear. "Besides the electrician, two other bozos had wire-cutters on them."
The sheriff's voice was very low. "Was Red Swank one of the bozos who had wire-cutters?"
"Yeah, Sheriff, but how did you know?" the deputy asked, in a surprised tone.
As I lit a cigarette, I was all ears. The sheriff moved away from the table, the papers in his hand.
His voice filled the tent as he growled, "I'm going to let you people open tonight. I promised Sam Grass the show could go on. He, in turn, has made himself personally responsible for all of you. He has agreed to see that none of you leaves the premises. However, just to be even more sure, four officers will continue on duty, too, until the murderer is caught. You can all leave now. To the innocent, I can only apologize for this imposition."
As the carnies filed out, I studied their faces. A mixture of feelings was plainly evident: exasperation, anger, suspicion, insolence, and predominant, a feeling of mass belligerence.
As Red Swank filed by with the rest, the sheriff grabbed his arm, restraining him.
"I have several more questions to ask you," he said.
Red scowled savagely, and a muscle in his cheek jerked.
The sheriff walked over to the table and motioned Red to join him. He aimed a finger at me.
"Come on, Donlona sit in on this," he offered. I walked over and sat down, regarding Red quizzically.
The sheriff tossed the papers on the table, then turned to the deputy and smiled. "You can knock off, Nickles."
He nodded toward the two policemen, standing by the table. "You boys can leave, too. Stop by the station and send out your relief."
Then he tilted back in his chair, and the look he sent Red was as sharp as a scalpel.
"You had a pair of wire-cutters on you when my men searched you, didn't you?" he said, accusingly.
Red gave a surly grunt.
"Sure, I had wire-cutters on me. Since when is that a crime?" he answered, vehemently.
Sheriff Johnson leaned toward him. "Don't be evasive, Red. You know the importance of those wire-cutters, just the same as I do."
His gaze narrowed. "Do you always carry wire-cutters?"
I had to give the old boy credit. He was like a bulldog when he clamped onto an idea that he guessed could mean something.
"No, I don't always carry them, but tonight one of my joint's light stringers burnt in half," Red replied, heatedly. "Blackie, the electrician, wasn't around so I got my wire-cutters and fixed it myself."
"Sort of convenient, your having trouble with your lights tonight of all nights, wasn't it?" the sheriff asked, mildly.
It was clear he was trying to goad Red into what might be a revealing outburst.
Red audibly expelled a deep breath. "Convenient be damned! I don't like your nasty insinuations. I didn't kill anyone, and I sure as hell don't relish this browbeating you're giving me!"
The sheriff reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the newspaper we had found in Pierre's trailer. He folded it over to the suicide article and handed it to Red. He was pressing every advantage in as short a time as possible.
"Would you like to explain this item, please?" He emphasized the please.
Red hesitated, then grabbed the paper from the sheriff's hand. He obviously was disturbed. As he looked over the paper, all color seemed to drain from his face. He gulped, then caught his breath, fighting desperately to regain control of his emotions.
The sheriff's inquisitive eyes were exuberant. I, too, was encouraged by Red's reaction.
Red stared at me, then at the sheriff, panic showing in his eyes.
"Laura Swank was my first wife," he said. "She was very young and very gullible, and a little on the neurotic side, prone to fits of depression. I was just getting started, financially, and I had to leave her alone a lot. Sheik got to her. She was a pretty little thing. It wasn't enough that he carried on an affair with her-the bastard turned her out on heroin, and she got hooked. After that she was a confirmed junkie, so he finally ditched her. There was nothing left then but the junk. She loved the rat, and she couldn't face life without him, so she committed suicide by taking an overjolt. But things like this don't matter to guys like Sheik."
"So you killed Sheik for revenge, then Pierre, because he knew too much! That's what happened, isn't it, Red?"
"No, you thick-headed flatfoot!" Red yelled in angry defiance. "You're way off the track. I'm not a killer. Don't try to pin any of those crimes on me! I'm not about to cop a plea."
The sheriff took a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, ripped it open angrily, fumbled for a cigarette, and lit it, his hand trembling. He inhaled deeply, giving me a questioning look.
Then he took up where he had left off with Red Swank. "You're a damned liar. I think you did it."
Red's features froze in a sullen mask. "I had nothing to do with it. If you're looking for a scapegoat, look somewhere else."
"Just the same, I'm placing you under arrest on suspicion of murder."
"I have nothing to hide. Go ahead, make a fool of yourself whi'e the real murderer gets away." Red tried to sound brave, but he turned pale.
"Want to tag along?" Johnson asked me.
"Sure, why not? The more the merrier."
It wasn't my first ride in a police car, and it was fairly clear that Red wasn't being initiated, either. I sat in front with the deputy. Sheriff Johnson ordered Red to get in back and to sit on a bench.
The Sheriff said nothing at all during the ride. The silence grew oppressive. I re-created the two murders in my mind. Was Red Swank guilty? He did have a motive, and good reason to hate Sheik O'Dea, but why kill Pierre?
Was Pierre blackmailing him? And who else could have a motive strong enough to impel him to kill? Dimples O'Dea, Clem, Francis, Celeste, Hedy, Sleepy, Hank, the bearded lady? Who-who? My mind switched abruptly from suspect to suspect like a bee buzzing from flower to flower for the elusive honey.
The sign on the door read, Sheriffs Office. We pushed it open and entered, after a twenty-minute ride. The office was located on the west side of the Pottsville Police Headquarters Building, and the lock-up ran the length of the east side of the building. We walked through the front office where the clerical work was handled, then into Johnson's inner office.
Deputy Nickles joined our parade, bringing up the rear.
Johnson closed the door, telling Nickles to summon a stenographer. He asked Swank to take the chair beside his desk.
I leaned against the wall, waiting patiently for him to go to work.
Nickles returned with the stenographer, and she sat at the other side of the sheriff's desk. I expected Red Swank to ask permission to call a lawyer, or to ask someone to make the call for him. But he just sat there, his eyes, inquisitive, not uttering a word.
As the sheriff started to question Red Swank, Nickles moved off to one side of Swank's chair.
"Where were you when Sheik O'Dea was shot?
Red gave him a glance of pure hatred, and his response was sullen. "I told you that when Sheik was killed, copper."
The sheriff said, with sarcasm, "Humor me, Red. Tell me again."
"In my house trailer," Red answered.
"Where were you tonight, when Pierre was killed?"
"In front of my concession."
"How did you get along with Pierre?"
"I talked to him, once in a while. I didn't particularly like him, but I sure didn't dislike him enough to kill him."
The sheriff stood up, and walked over to the window. He stood staring outside, with his fingers interlaced behind his back.
He whirled about, facing Red, and aimed a finger at him. "Why did you shoot Sheik?"
Red exclaimed wearily, "Do I have to tell you again? I didn't kill Sheik!"
The sheriff walked back behind his desk and sat down. He gave me a sly wink, then faced Red, intent on breaking him down.
"Did you talk to Pierre today?" he asked.
"No."
"You saw him today though, didn't you?"
"Yes. He was walking down the Midway."
"Did you kill Sheik O'Dea?" The sheriff was a firm believer in repetition.
No." Red obviously was just as firm a believer in his own kind of repetition.
Johnson switched abruptly to pseudo heartiness. "Come on now, Red, you admitted that you knew Sheik O'Dea years ago when you both were working another show. You have admitted that he was directly responsible for the suicide death of your first wife. You must have bitterly hated him all this time. Now why don't you tell us the truth? It's pretty hard to believe you're innocent, considering all the circumstances. You can understand that, can't you?"
His attitude, his tone were cajoling.
Red sat stony-faced, grimly silent.
Sheriff Johnson leaped from his chair abruptly, ran around his desk, poked his finger under Red's nose, and yelled, "You killed him, didn't you?"
"No I didn't, I tell you. No, no, no, no."
"This guy has to be lying, Johnson. Nobody else had anywhere near as strong a motive," the deputy broke in.
I thought someone should see that the sheriff was nominated an Academy Award. His acting deserved an Oscar; he could have given any star in Hollywood some stiff competition.
He paced up and down in front of Red's chair, studying the poor trapped kook with narrowed eyes.
Red squirmed uncomfortably, his fingers beating a light, nervous tattoo on the arm of the chair.
The sheriff finally stopped facing and stood in front of Red.
"Well, what about it, Red? Are you going to come clean now?" he asked patiently.
"I didn't kill anybody."
The sheriff shoved his face clear up to Red's. "Who committed the killings if you didn't?"
"I don't know," Red answered, curtly. "That's your job, not mine."
The sheriff pursued his questioning with more vigor. "Come on now, you must know something. Did anyone else have any reason to kill Sheik O'Dea or Pierre?"
"I don't know. How should I know?"
"Look, Red, if you do know something, don't keep saying you don't. Tell us. Surely, you must have heard some talk on the Midway. Now what did you hear?"
"I didn't hear anything."
"What about that paper that Pierre had hidden. It was all about your wife's suicide. You knew he had it. He told you. You killed him because he knew you were a murderer, and because he was trying to shake you down. Didn't you?"
"I didn't kill anyone. I didn't even know about the paper. Maybe Pierre was saving the paper to blackmail me with, but he hadn't approached me about it."
The sheriff frowned, then he snapped his fingers.
"But you did know about the paper!" he shouted. "So you killed Pierre, as sure as I'm standing here."
He stepped back from Red's chair, lit a cigarette, and whirled, facing his victim. "Just why did you kill him, Red? Was it hate, fear ... what?"
His line of questioning was begining to sound like a broken record.
"I didn't!" Red shouted back.
The sheriff removed his coat. His shirt was plastered to his back with sweat. He took out a big bandana and mopped at his forehead. His shirt sleeves, under the armpits, were circles with perspiration.
"Go get me some ice water ... lots of it!" he ordered Nickles.
As the deputy went to get the ice water, he asked me, "You want some, Donlon?"
"No, thanks," I said, dryly. "I don't want to rust my pipes."
The sheriff eyed Red with distaste. His eyes were thoughtful as he paced up and down, waiting until the deputy came back with a pitcher of ice water and a glass. He placed the pitcher and the glass on the desk and poured the water, handing the glass to Johnson. The sheriff put the glass to his lips, finishing the water in one thristy gulp.
He then turned to Red with a half humorous grimace, but there was determination in his voice. "Quit stalling, Red. Why did you kill Sheik O'Dea?"
Red's eyes held a glazed, strained look as he said helplessly, "I'm going to tell you, Sheriff, why I didn't kill Sheik O'Dea. I'll admit that, if Sheik hadn't sneaked away at the time of my wife's death, I would have killed him. However, he did, and I did not see him for several years."
He paused and made a choking sound, while nervously rubbing his forehead with his fingertips. He spoke again in a low voice, apparently oblivious to everything about him.
"I know my story sounds phony, but during the time I didn't see Sheik, I had ample opportunity to think, and for the pain to lessen. I reconciled myself to just hating him. Not the wild murderous hatred I had felt at the time of my wife's suicide, but one buried deep, like the contempt one has for parasites, thieves, and murderers, that you don't know or are not personally involved with. Then I met my present wife, Irene, and in our love for each other, I learned to forget. My hatred dimmed to a mere dislike and repugnance."
His eyes had misted over. For a moment, I believed him.
The sheriff was losing his patience. "Rubbish! I never cared for bedtime stories, even when I was a kid."
He chewed his lower Up in irritation, then turned to me. "What do you think, Steve?"
"Hell! I don't know, Sheriff. He could be our man, but if he didn't commit the murders, who did?"
As though he had forgotten about Swank, the Sheriff swung about, facing him, and asked, "Where's your .32, Red? Do you still stick to the story that it was stolen?"
"Yes, it was stolen. That's the truth!"
"Sounds phony as hell!" The sheriff scoffed.
"Phony or not, that's my story. I'm not going to talk any more until I see a lawyer. I didn't kill anyone, and you can't prove I did so I refuse to answer any more questions."
"Are you telling the truth, Swank?" I asked.
Red glanced in my direction. "Yes, I am. And if you have any sense, you'll go get the real killer instead of staying here listening to this jackass questioning me."
Johnson's face reddened at the insult. "Lock the character up," he commanded his deputy.
Nickels obliged. He ushered Red to a cell.
After they had gone, I asked, "What now, sheriff?"
Johnson considered my question, then expelled a loud sigh. "I think we've got our man. But I'm going to do some more checking, just in case. I know I lost my temper, but the guy didn't break down, and he could be telling the truth. I'm going to requestion all the show people again. In the meantime, if it's Red, we've got him under lock and key."
When Nickles returned, the sheriff told him to drive me home. He said he had a lot of unfinished work to do in the office, and that he would meet him on the show lot, later.
When I got back to the motel and opened the door, I found the lights on. That was odd for I didn't remember leaving them on. And that was when I spotted Lorette sitting on the sofa with her legs drawn up. She gave me a slow smile.
"Oh, Steve, I thought you would never get back. Did they arrest my brother?"
It took me a moment to get over the surprise of finding her in my motel room. Then I answered her.
"The Sheriff is holding him on suspicion of murder," I said . "But what are you doing here? And where's Sam?"
She twisted a small handkerchief in her hand. "I told him I was coming over to find out what happened to Red. We called the sheriff's office but we couldn't get any information."
She looked and sounded extremely worried.
"It looks bad for Red unless we can come up with a more likely suspect," I explained as I sank down on the sofa beside her.
She moved, stretching her legs from under her and met my eyes with a direct, quizzical expression. "There's really not much of anything we can do to help, is there?"
She moved closer to me. Her perfume was making me dizzy.
I draped one arm around her shoulder, thinking that if she wanted to play, she had found the right playmate. The blouse she wore was cut so low, I wouldn't have been surprised to see her breasts pop right out.She lit two cigarettes, handing me one. The touch of her fingers was like an electric schock.
She restlessly squashed her cigarette out on the floor after only a couple of puffs, then she pressed closer to me. Her arms went around my chest, pulling me toward her, and our lips met. It was a heat wave, and I forgot everything, but how my temperature was rising. As her moist parted lips pressed mine, her tongue explored feverishly. Her perfume made my senses whirl. I could feel every nerve in my body glow hot, like the turned-high coils in an electric oven. I crushed her tighter. She groaned, sinking her teeth in my lower lip.
"Easy, baby. I might need that later," I said.
I got free of her lips and started kissing her throat. She was as fierce as a tigress. She strained as close as it was possible to get, clawing and biting. I was certain to have battle scars, but anything to accommodate a client's wife.
We clinched again, our lips meeting in searing passion.
"Now!" I demanded, trying to bend her backwards, down on the sofa.
She wrenched away from me, panting, trembling all over.
"If you want it as bad as I do, wrestle me for it," she said, stripping off her clothes.
Sam must be a better man than I gave him credit for, to be able to handle this little animal at all, I though as I made a grab for her.
She was too fast, too elusive. She peeled off one item of clothing after another, tossing each one at me.
I chased her around the motel room until she was naked. I was getting desperate when I finally cornered her in the bathroom.
By then, she was through playing games. With utter abandonment, she leaped on me and I tripped backwards, falling to the floor.
She still was with me. Oh well, I thought, the floor is a good a place as any.
She stayed on top. I could feel her legs spread, then the softness, the heat move to right where I wanted it.
As she opened up and guided me in, I moaned in sheer sensuous glory. Man, was I ready!
She sat the pace and it couldn't have been better. Shock wave followed shock wave, each a hotter, wilder thrill than the one before.
I could feel the rug burn against my back, but I was too gone to care. When the big heat wave came, searing our whimpering selves together, I forgot everything but luscious, lustful pleasure.
CHAPTER NINE
When I awakened, it was late in the afternoon. I ached all over. I felt as though I had taken part in combat maneuvers. I must be getting old!
Heaving myself up to a sitting position, I stretched lazily. I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, trying to come fully awake.
As I dressed, I could think of nothing but the two murders. Was Red really the guilty one? Doubts assailed me. I realized that, up until now, everything pointed to him. This being the case, what was the matter with me? Was I suffering from detective jitters? Was I just plain nuts ... or merely stupid?
I decided to go over to the cookhouse for some coffee. I grabbed my hat, picked up my smokes, and hurried out.
I walked briskly down the Midway to the cookhouse and plunked myself down at the counter.
Whitey's hell-cat wife, Ruby, walked over and stood staring at me.
"Cup of Java," I said, without giving her a smile. I didn't cotton to the sharp-tongued shrew.
She walked away without speaking, drew a cup of steaming Java, and slammed it down in front of me. Evidently, the feeling was mutual.
I took a big gulp of the coffee. It burned all the way down to the pit of my stomach, making me choke and cough. Self-consciously, I glanced around to see if anyone had noticed. That was when I saw Blackie and Cryin' Bert, sitting opposite me. Apparently, they hadn't seen me. They were engaged in boisterous conversation.
"How was Sheik's funeral?" Bert asked, in a loud, raucous voice, as though he were ballyhooing a side-show. "Not many there, I heard."
Blackie shrugged, indifferently. "I went because, rotten though Sheik was, he still was a fellow trooper. There were only two cars. Dimples and Dolly rode with Clem and Francis, and I rode with Lucille Rood. Boy, what a farce that funeral was: Dimples and Dolly both looked so sad ... as though they had just won a million bucks on a sweepstakes ticket!"
He took a sip of coffee, then added, with great intensity, "The only real emotion I could see was when the eyes of Dimples and of Lucille met, across the grave. I thought for a minute that they were going to tackle each other right there, from the expressions on their faces."
Bert sounded amused. "Sorry I missed it, but one of my big prize bitches whelped. She had nine puppies. She and the pups are far more important to me than Sheik was."
"I just thought of something," Blackie said, with a grin. "You know the public should give a vote of thanks to carnivals. Just think, if Sheik hadn't been in show business, and had lived in a small town for instance, he would've had half the female population compromised."
"I always thought that the government should award plaques or should devote a week in honor of the carnies. Just look at all the screwballs, the cripples, and the freaks that carnivals support! They'd be in institutions, or they'd be charity cases, if it weren't for carnivals," Cryin' Bert said.
Blackie agreed enthusiastically, warming to the subject. "You're right, Bert. They could at least have one week a year. Look at all the other outlandish things they promote, such as: "Check your butcher's meat hooks on the scales week, and 'National beatnik week!" He exaggerated this with a gesture.
"Yeah, they celebrate all kinds of things. Like, 'Be kind to your mother-in-law' and 'Salute to the overworked, pistol-toting Western television stars'. Why not carnivals?"
"And don't forget 'Be kind to idiots' week. That one you both can celebrate," Ruby mocked.
Ruby and I both laughed, and they glared over at us. They didn't appreciate either Ruby's humor or my reaction to it. With a last dirty look, they shut up and left the cookhouse.
Just then, Sleepy hopped up on the stool next to me.
"How's Red doing, Donlon?" he inquired. "Have they booked him for murder yet?"
"They're holding him on suspicion of murder," I replied. "There's quite a difference."
"Mom Carter told me if I saw you, to tell you to drop over for a chat."
I stood up and dropped two dimes on the counter.
"Give Sleepy a cup of Java on me," I told Ruby.
Sleepy thanked me, and I got up and headed for Nellie's trailer. I had almost reached my destination, when I ran into Sam. He looked beat.
"Oh there you are, Steve. Terrible about Red, wasn't it?" He didn't give me a chance to anwer but continued in a depressed tone of voice. "I sent a lawyer down to see him. I just can't believe he's guilty ... not my own brother-in-law. Lorette feels terrible!"
I gave him a sharp glance, wondering if he suspected that something had happened between Lorette and me.
"I know," I said. "She told me when she dropped by at my motel."
He nodded absently, at this statement.
"She told me they were holding him on suspicion of murder. Do you really think he's guilty?"
A sense of relief almost overwhelmed me. Evidently, Sam didn't suspect his wife and me of tearing off a piece.
"The sheriff has to find definite evidence before he actually can arrest Red. So there's still hope Sam, and Johnson hasn't crossed anyone off his list of suspects yet. Not as far as I can ascertain anyway."
"Where are you going now?" Sam asked, off-handledly.
"Sleepy told me that Nellie Carter wanted to see me. I'm on my way over to her place now."
"Mom Carter is something of a mystery. She opened up with us last spring. I was a little hesitant about hiring a woman who was all by herself, but I considered her age, and I felt it would be all right. I haven't been sorry. She has endeared herself to me and to all of the other show folk. It was evident she wasn't a carnie but she learned fast, and as I have said, we have all grown very fond of her."
I pondered over his statement for a moment. He had given me food for thought.
"That is peculiar," I mused. "Why should a woman her age get the idea to join up with a carnival? There ought to be a lot of other things she could do what would be a lot less strenuous."
"It beats me," Sam said, then he added, "I'd better get back to the trailer. I don't like leaving Lorette alone too long. She's been drinking a lot since they took Red to jail."
"Guess she's taking it hard. I don't blame her. It's rough having your brother suspected of murder."
After Sam walked away, I stood thinking. He had opened up a whole new avenue of thought for me, in fact, more than one. I had known a lot of women, selfish, grasping females like Lorette, thinking always only of their own pleasure. I couldn't see Lorette in the role of a grieving sister. Maybe I was too cynical.
My mind returned to Nellie Carter, and as I wandered aimlessly between the trailers and the trucks, I wasn't watching where I was going. I ran right into the portable fence that surrounded Cryin' Bert's trailer.
Cryin' Bert had a regular menagerie of police dogs that I had seen only from a good safe distance before. I jumped back, startled, cursing. The fence had hit me ... or I had hit it. Bert had it bugged with electricity.
The scene before me was bewildering, to say the least.
Enormous police dogs bayed at me from the roof; more dogs leaped at the fence, snarling at me, their teeth bared, barking loudly. Two more dogs ran back and forth atop the car which still was hooked up to the trailer.
A door at the back end of the trailer swung open, and three more growling dogs joined the others at the fence, running up and down the length of it. One dog fell off the car top onto another dog and pandemonium broke loose in the form of a terrific dog fight. I stood, frozen to the spot, hypnotized by the scene.
The trailer door flew open, and Bert rushed out. He was clad only in his shorts, and a battered felt hat. A big fat cigar stuck out of the corner of his mouth. He grabbed the hat off his head, cursing loudly, and started hitting at the dogs right and left, giving them loud commands. After a few hectic minutes, he had order restored. Then he rushed over to the fence, his face a study in livid rage.
"Why in the hell people can't stay away from this fence beats me. I've wired it, and I've hung up signs. The dogs alone should discourage people," he ranted. "Ignorance, I guess!"
He spat, disdainfully. Before I could retort, he whirled about and stomped back into his trailer. He slammed the door so hard the whole trailer shook.
I walked toward Nellie's trailer. What a character Cryin' Bert was! Imagine traveling with all those dogs!
Nellie was standing in her trailer door, looking out. Her face was ashen, and she had dark circles beneath her eyes. There was a desperate urgency in her voice.
"Come in, Mr. Donlon," she invited. She gestured with her head toward a chair. She seated herself on the sofa, her face grim.
J. sat down and suggested, "Suppose you tell me what's on your mind, Nellie?"
She nervously clasped and unclasped her hands in her lap. Her full lips quivered, twisting in an embittered grimace.
"I didn't sleep all night," she said. "I laid awake trying to make a decision. It should have been obvious to me from the start ... there was only one possible decision."
She paused, giving me a furtive glance.
To say I was puzzled would be putting it mildly. I felt stupid; she had me at a disadvantage. "Madam, would you please tell me what you're talking about?"
She took a kerchief from her dress pocket and twisted it nervously between her fingers. "My name isn't Carter-it's Nellie Swank."
"Then you're Red's mother?"
This unexpected information had me flabbergasted for a second.
She inclined her head, and stared at the floor. Her voice sounded a little choked. "Yes, I'm Red's mother."
"But I don't understand. Why did you keep it a secret?"
"It's a long story, Mr. Donlon, but I want to tell you about it." Her voice broke, and a bitter sob escaped her. She stared at me with tear-filled eyes, her words almost incoherent.
"Red didn't kill anyone. I killed Sheik O'Dea," she said, harshly.
I gasped at her in open-mouthed astonishment. "I don't believe you. I think you're trying to take the blame to protect him."
"No, that isn't it. I planned the murder."
Suddenly it hit me: If Nellie was Red's mother, she also was Lorette's mother. But what kind of a deal was that ... daughter and son not acknowledging their own mother?"
"Want to tell me about it, Nellie?" I said, gently.
Her face was white with pain as she answered, "I had two daughters. My oldest girl ran away with Sheik O'Dea when she was sixteen."
She paused, and her voice was like the whimper of a frightened animal when she continued. "She was my husband's favorite. It ... it killed him."
I remained quiet, waiting to hear the rest of her story. My mind was a turmoil. Could she be telling the truth? I would defer judgment until I had heard her entire story.
She pushed her rumpled hair from her eyes, and her voice grew very low. "Laura, my oldest daughter died in a hospital ward from drug addiction ... actually a suicide ... when she was eighteen."
She stopped talking again, and blew her nose, visibly striving for composure.
I waited patiently for her to resume her strange, sad story. Finally, recovered and babbled on, her frustration and hatred pouring out. "Sheik did it. He killed her! The day I buried Laura was one of the saddest days of my life. That day I lost both of my daughters. My other daughter left home. She said she never wanted to see me again-that she had no mother. A week later, my husband died. That day I swore to track down Sheik O'Dea and-and kill him."
I stared at her in silence. What could I say? I was more interested in what she had to say.
"Red wrote me a letter. He told me that Sheik was here and that Lorette was involved with him. He said that Lorette still blamed me, not Sheik, for Laura's death. Why, Mr. Donlon, why should she blame me?" Her words were an anguished plea.
"I don't know, Nellie. Who knows why some people think like they do?" I said, with compassion.
"I had to bide my time. I couldn't kill him right away. But the thought of causing his death kept me going. I tried to talk to Lorette several times, but she wouldn't talk to me. In all these months, she hasn't spoken to me."
Nellie's voice trembled. With a harsh sob she buried her face in her hands. Violent sobs shook her whole body.
I stood up and awkwardly patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Nellie, but I had better find one of the police officers. You'll have to go to the sheriff's office, and tell him what you have just confessed to me."
She raised her head, and stared at me. "Will you come down to his office with me, Mr. Donlon?"
"I'd like to, Nellie, but I have to let Sam know. He'll have to get another ticket-seller for tonight."
Nellie appeared slightly bewildered.
"Poor Sam!" she said, "I wish he didn't have to know."
"This will be a great shock to him," I said.
We left her trailer and walked briskly down the Midway. It was hectic with its usual bustle and hurry of preparation for opening. Carnies on all sides stared at us curiously, waving at Nellie and giving me disgruntled looks.
A police officer was standing beside the merry-go-round. We walked over to stand beside him.
"Officer," I said, "take this lady to Sheriff Johnson's office. She has just confessed to the murder of Sheik O'Dea. Tell the sheriff I'll see him later."
The officer took the distracted woman gently by the arm. I felt like hell as I stood watching them drive away in the squad car. It was incredible! A woman like Nellie, capable of murder.
I walked slowly over to Sam's trailer and rapped on the door. When he opened it and saw me, he told me to come in. As he held the door open for me, I stared at him. He looked upset.
Lorette was standing in front of the sink, a glass in her hand. She evidently had been drinking heavily. Her pretty face was flushed, and she was wearing a filmy pink negligee, as transparent as cellophane. I tried not to look at her, but it was damned hard not to.
"You're just in time to join me in a little drink." Her words were slurred, and she was unsteady on her feet.
I wondered if I had blundered in on a family argument, but looking at Lorette, I didn't much care.
She started to pour a drink for me, but missed the glass, spilling it all over the sink. She giggled, foolishly.
Sam leaped at her, grabbing the bottle of whiskey from her hand. He spoke angrily.
"I'll fix the drinks, Lorette. You go get some clothes on." He gave her a light push as he spoke.
She slapped him a stinging blow on his cheek, then sailed into the bedroom, closing the door with a bang.
Sam winced and gave his nervous laugh. I was embarrassed and avoided his eyes. As he handed me a drink and sat down on the sofa, he said, "It's ironic how 'lushing it' can change a nice girl into a hell cat."
I didn't comment. After all, what could one man say to another in such a situation?
I nursed my drink. "I had a specific reason for dropping in to see you, Sam."
He tossed me a questioning look. "Does it have anything to do with your talk with Nellie?"
"She confessed to the murder of Sheik, Sam."
"Old Nellie murdered Sheik! I don't believe it!"
Just then a loud crash came from the bedroom.
Sam jumped to his feet. "Excuse me. I'll see what happened." He opened the sliding door and entered the other room. The door closed behind him, and I heard the two of them exchanging low whispers, but I couldn't distinguish any of the words.
Soon he slid the door open and re-entered the room. "Lorette tripped," he told me.
After he was seated again, he asked, "Do you think Nellie's guilty, Steve?"
"It's got me, Sam. She told a pretty straight story. She joined your outfit for the specific purpose of kiUing Sheik."
A gasp of surprise escaped him, and he spoke excitedly, "You mean she actually told you that?"
"Yes Sam, and a lot more."
A knock sounded at the door and Sam rose to open it. Hank stood there.
"Oh, it's you, Hank. I guess you want the ride tickets?" Sam said.
"That's right, boss."
"One second, Hank." Sam went over to the table, picked up a stack of rolled tickets and some change boxes, carried them over to the door, and gave them to Hank. "Nellie won't be here tonight, Hank. Tell Lucille I said for her to sell tickets for the tilt as well as for the ferris-wheel. Just use the tilt ticket box."
After Hank departed, Sam took up our interrupted conversation. "You were telling me what Nellie said."
Looking directly at him, I said, rapidly, "In the first place, Sam, Nellie's last name isn't Carter; it's Swank."
I got an instantaneous reaction.
Sam had just taken a gulp of his drink. He choked, spraying both of us with whiskey.
"Swank! You mean she is related to Lorette and Red?" He paused, then exclaimed, "I don't understand."
The bedroom door opened and Lorette staggered into the room. She stood staring wide-eyed at us, then she smiled, her mouth bitter.
"First my brother, then my mother," She began to laugh, hysterically.
Sam grabbed her and put his arms around her shoulders. His face appeared puzzled. "Why didn't you tell me, Lorette?"
Lorette hiccoughed, giving him a disdainful glance. "I don't care to discuss it, Sam."
There was an atmosphere of tension between them as they stared at each other.
I got up. "I've got to run down to the sheriff's office, Sam. I'll see you later."
I gave them both one last look before I opened the door and stepped outside. I felt sorry for Sam, but I felt much more sorry for Lorette.
As I drove to the sheriff's office, my mind was on murder more than on driving. Lorette surely had acted strangely. I wondered if she knew more about the murders than she had admitted. Something about her bothered me. I couldn't latch on to it. Whatever it was, it seemed as elusive as a tenant avoiding an irate landlord.
I pulled up in front of the police station, and got out of my car. I started up the steps. The door opened, and Red Swank came out. He gave me a sardonic grin. He looked as though he had gone through a wringer.
"The sheriff released you, I see."
His smile was without mirth. "Yeah. I should be dancing for joy. They got off my back so they could pin the murder on my old lady."
"You're a little unfair, Red," I said, sharply. "After all, your mother did confess."
Red gave a nasty laugh. "Don't worry. The sheriff informed me I still was a possible suspect in the Pierre LaTrent murder. However, I didn't kill him and my old lady says she didn't either."
Red whistled at a cab that was cruising past, and I opened the door to the sheriff's office and went inside. My mind was doing a tailspin. Some detective I was! I hadn't even questioned Nellie regarding the murder of Pierre. I had been so shook up over her confession that she had killed Sheik, I had completely forgotten the other killing. I could only hope the sheriff never caught wind of this omission. If he did, I never would live it down.
I shuddered as I thought of the months of ribbing I could be letting myself in for. I walked through the front office, down the long corridor to the sheriff's office and rapped at the door.
It was opened by Deputy Nickles.
"Come in, Steve!" Sheriff Johnson boomed.
He sprawled in his swivel chair behind his desk, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. His necktie was loosened, his hair was touseled.
"You look like a picture of the morning after the night before," I remarked, only half kidding.
"You don't get much sleep on this job. Bright Eyes," he retorted sourly.
"Through questioning Nellie?"
"All taken care of. Signed, sealed, and delivered to a jail cell."
I went over and took the chair next to Johnson's desk. "Got the whole story, I suppose."
"Ran the gauntlet ... complete signed statement, fingerprints, even tears."
"And your satisfied she's guilty?"
He gave me a shrewd glance. "I'll feel better and a lot more certain when I get those divers busy in the morning ... if they find the gun, that is. She said she drove out Old Mill Road and tossed it in the river."
I thought, Oh man. I even forgot to ask what she had done with the gun. Clearly, this wasn't my day.
"How about Pierre? Do you think she killed him, too?"
Johnson tapped his fingernails nervously on the desk top, before answering.
"She says she didn't kill Pierre. You know, for some reason, the whole story she gave sounded a little too glib ... as though she had rehearsed it. I believe what she said about joining the carnival to get at Sheik and to kill him, and she sure as hell had a motive. But there's something about her story, especially about the perpetration of the crime, that doesn't ring quite true."
"I'm inclined to agree with you, Sheriff."
"Fine. Agree with me ... is that all you can do? Don't you have any ideas of your own?"
"I don't know. Pierre's murder doesn't make sense at all ... that's what has me stymied. If Nellie killed Sheik, who killed Pierre ... and why? My idea all along has been that one murderer committed both cimes. Her confession disrupts my whole line of deduction."
"I've been thinking the same thing. Tough, isn't it?" Johnson agreed.
I sat, flipping my fingertips at an imaginary speck on my trouser leg. "How about sending out for some Java, old buddy? I'll pop if someone goes after it."
"Nic...." That's as far as he got.
"I know. Go get some coffee," Deputy Nickles said, resignedly.
Johnson snapped, "Idiot." Then he turned to me. "How do you take your coffee, Steve?" he ask-ed.
"Black, hot, and plenty of it!" I pulled a dollar bill from my pocket and handed it to Nickles. His face still was flushed brick-red when he left the office.
Johnson eyed me, inquisitively. "Now that I've released Red Swank, he'll be closely watched of course, but you know the old saw: 'give a man enough rope...."'
"I met him on the way in. He was just leaving. Seemed very bitter about his mother's arrest."
The sheriff's face registered annoyance as he replied, "I wasn't too enthusiastic about holding her, myself. But we don't make murderers. We just track them down."
"I visited Sam and Lorette before I came here. She really was crocked. Sam hadn't even know that Nellie is Lorette's mother," I told him.
Curiosity tinged Johnson's voice. "That's strange. How did he take the news?"
"He was shocked. And that's putting it mildly."
Nickles returned with the coffee. For a few minutes, as we drank it, we were silent, each lost in his own thoughts.
"I'm trying to keep this latest development ... the arrest of Nellie ... from the papers until we have more conclusive evidence. I hope I can succeed," Johnson said, finally.
"I know what you mean," I replied.
He rubbed his hand across his forehead in a weary gesture, and sighed deeply.
"I'll really be glad when this business is over with," he stated, fervently.
"Me, too," I said.
"I guess I'm just overly tired," Johnson observed, irritably. "I think I'll go home and catch a few hours sleep. My wife says she sees more of the butcher than she does of me."
He rose, yawning and stretching. "You going back to the show lot?"
I stood up, giving him a tired smile. "I think I'll stop off there before retiring."
"Good night, Sheriff, Donlon," Nickles said.
"Good night, Nickles. Thanks for getting us the coffee," I said, as I started to leave.
"Call me at home if they find the murder weapon before I get back. I want to know, immediately," Johnson ordered as he grabbed for his hat on the desk, then followed at my heels.
"Yes sir," Nickles said.
Johnson and I walked silently, side by side, down the long corridor, through the front office, and out the front door. We parted with a brief nod. We got in our respective cars and drove away. Expertly, I guided my convertible through the heavy night traffic.
At random, my mind sifted, the various suspects. It was worse than looking for the mythical needle in the haystack, trying to train all my thoughts on one logical person. I still was mentally sorting and discarding, when I pulled the convertible to a smooth stop in front of the motel.
I glanced across the road at the carnival. The last few stragglers were leaving. I walked over to the cookhouse and flopped down on the bench.
Whitey gave me an impish grin as he walked over to me. "How's tricks, Donlon?"
"Okay, Whitey. Slip me some Java."
I looked around. Dimples was sitting across from me. Our eyes met. She smiled.
I smiled back, thinking what a knockout she would be in bed ... or even the floor, right this minute.
Whitey slapped the coffee down in front of me.
"Cripes, what a night! The marks were out in droves. Another murder, and I could retire, that is if my barking dogs hold out!"
He glanced down at his feet, a half-rueful, half-comical smile on his face.
"Nothing like a good, gory murder to bring out the sweet, gentle public," I agreed, sardonically.
He gave me a ghoulish smile, running his tongue over his broken yellow teeth.
"Guess I'll have to run down to the liquor store. I need something stronger than coffee," I said, pushing the cup aside.
Whitey smacked his lips. "I know what you mean. I always keep a little snake bite remedy in my trailer."
Dimples got to her feet and gave me a suggestive look. "How about joining me for a drink at my trailer, handsome?"
I was off the stool in a hurry. "No sooner said than done, baby."
Whitey's obvious leer followed me as I walked around the other side of the counter and took Dimples by the arm.
Dimples' trailer was in its customary state of upheaval. The chimp, whining like a baby, ran over to his mistress, clasping his hairy arms around her shapely leg. She bent to plant a kiss on the lifted puckered face.
Oh, to be a chimp, I thought. But maybe being a man wouldn't be so bad either. I pushed some laundry and an assortment of junk off the sofa and sat down.
Dimples disengaged herself from the chimp's hairy embrace. She undulated over to the sink and retrieved a couple of glasses from the clutter of dishes. They looked fairly clean, but she ran water over them, reached into the cabinet, and took down a bottle of whiskey. The supply of giggle water here seemed endless. She started to fill one glass, looking at me. "Say when."
"Hold it," I said, when the glass was almost half full.
She poured the same amount in her own glass, walked over to where I sat and plumped down beside me ... close.
I settled back, studying her beneath lowered lids. She toyed with her glass, her full red lips parted in a tantalizing smile.
"Don't you like me a little bit, Steve?" she coaxed.
"A bushel and a peck," I teased, then I asked. "Where's Dolly?"
"Dolly's at Celeste's trailer. They're having what Dolly calls a beatnik orgy. Your guess is as good as mine as to what she means."
"Afraid to be alone with me, honey?" She moved closer.
"I'll show you how afraid I am, baby," I whispered as I put my glass down, reached over, and pulled her into my arms.
Our lips met in a bruising kiss. She strained closer yet, her hot, pointed breasts almost flattening against me. She gave a soft, sensous moan as her tongue flicked in and out of my mouth.
We were lying half on, half off the sofa, so close together we could have been one body. I knew she couldn't be too comfortable in that position because I sure wasn't, so I whispered a suggestion in her ear.
She wiggled around without taking her mouth from mine or missing one maneuver of our teasing tongues. She brought her legs up, and we molded together like a compact car.
Her thin dress and her slip were up around her neck. I fumbled at her brassiere. It was all I had to do. She wasn't wearing panties. I wondered if she even owned a pair.
Even against my shirt, her nakedness was wonderful. Feverishly, I unbuckled my belt and unzipped my trousers, shoving them down ... along with my shorts ... to my knees. I pushed my shirt and underwear up so I could feel more of that moist satiny skin.
She didn't wait for me. Expertly, she grabbed and guided what she wanted to where she wanted it. Man, I was in total agreement.
Sensuously, slowly, she began to move, her ankles crossing at the nape of my neck, her hot body greedy for all I could give her. It went on and on and on. Each time we were near the exploding point, she would stop abruptly.
"Net yet," were the husky words she kept whispering in my ear.
I was almost ready to throw in the towel when she whispered frantically, "Curse me, Steve. Call me a bad name!"
"Are you kidding?" At a time like this?"
"Don't argue! Just do it ... quick!" she panted.
I shrugged. I sure didn't dig this chick, but each to his own pleasure.
"You bitch, you bastard!" I managed, feeling completely out of character ... I'm a lover with women, not a fighter ... but from the increased squirming, the faster pumping, and the loud moans of ecstasy my verbal abuse evoked, I must have scored.
When I thought it was over, I realized I had once again under-estimated Dimples. This broad was just getting started. She rolled out from under me, then before I could get up, she pounded on me and started showering me with kisses ... all over. She started at my chest and worked from there.
I closed my eyes and sailed with the tide. When this damn case was over, I would need monkey glands, pep pills, and pernod. But who cared?
"You're not tired, are you, big boy?" she whispered.
"No, just catching my breath," I said, gamely.
I wondered vaguely what the chink at the laundry would think when he saw lipstick on my briefs.
The trailer door banged open, and Clem stood in the doorway.
Dimples stood up, pulling her rumpled clothes down into place.
"What the hell do you mean by coming in here this way, Clem?" She flared.
Clem was enraged. "You keep out of this, Dimples. I've got business with this bastard. I've wanted to do this ever since we met."
He drew a long knife out of his pocket, snarling like an enraged beast.
I braced myself for the attack. I always had been strong, and the limp in my leg didn't hamper me in a fight.
Clem leaped at me, the knife poised in midair.
We wrestled like two maddened grizzlies.
I grasped the hand holding the knife, giving it all the pressure I could muster. I forced it open. The knife fell to the floor with a dull thud. I gave the ugly weapon a kick. My right fist shot out in a swinging arc. My knuckles made contact with Clem's jaw, in a smashing impact.
Clem fell forward. He went down, and out.
Dimples stood near the door, a strange smile curving her lips, her eyes gleaming with eager anticipation.
Clem, breathing laboriously, forced his body upward. His glazed eyes stared fixedly at my face.
"Oh no you don't!" I said. "I've had enough of you for one night."
I kicked upward, planting the toe of one of my size tens under his chin.
He fell backward with a groan, and lay still.
I opened the door, and placing my hands under his armpits lugged him over to the doorway, and rolled him out. I slammed the door shut and turned around, facing Dimples.
She squealed, "Oh, Steve, you were wonderful." She threw her arms around my neck, kissing me.
I gave her a playful tap on her back. "How about another drink?" I asked.
"Coming right up, big boy," she said. She poured me a stiff one. She handed it to me, and putting two cigarettes between her lips, lighted them, giving one of them to me.
I took a long pull at my drink, then a drag at the cigarette.
"I feel better-I needed that," I said, as I got my breath back.
Dimples sat down next to me, feeling the muscles in my arm. "You got something there, big boy."
"I've still got something here too, baby," I said with a grin.
The door was flung open, and I leaped to my feet thinking it was Clem again. I relaxed as Dolly sacheted through the door. I gaped at her. She was togged out in scarlet skin-tight leotards, and a matching turtle-neck sweater. Her arms were raised to her head, her hands holding a portable record player on her head. It was blaring out some strange, icky poetry by an equally strange, icky poet.
"Isn't it b-e-a-u-t-i-f-u-I?"
Dimples laughed, staring at Dolly.
I'm afraid the laugh I gave was a little hollow.
Dolly reeled toward us, doing the Twist.
Dimples sounded snippy as she said, "I suppose what you're really here for is a drink."
Dolly put the record player down on the table, turning it off. "Oh, the pain of having to associate with squares! Oh, such is my dismal destiny!"
Dolly looked over the table, and pointed at the chimp. The animal was sitting in the corner, with the whiskey bottle tilted to its lips. As we looked, he drained the bottle.
Dolly waved her fingers at us gaily, and opened the door. "I've got to go now. I've seen this chimp drunk before."
As the door closed behind her, I turned to Dimples. "What does she mean?"
Before Dimples could answer, the chimp weaved to his feet, the bottle still in his clutches. He jumped up and down, a horrible noise erupting from his throat. His beady eyes fastened on me, and he hurled the empty bottle at me.
I did some fast fancy side-stepping. "What gives? Is he dangerous?"
"You had better get out of here, Steve. The last time he got at the whiskey bottle, Sheik went to the hospital for two days. The chimp is jealous of me, you know."
While she was talking, the chimp picked up a heavy skillet from the stove, and in one leap, landed on top of the table.
I made a wild dash for the door and pushed it open. As I started to leap outside, the skillet sailed past my head, missing me by inches. Then something landed on my back. It was the chimp, and he sank his full set of choppers right into my rear end. He was pulling at my pants, biting like mad.
I yelled in pain, hurriedly unzipped my pants, and leaped out of them. As I took off on high, I saw the chimp out of the corner of my eye, tearing my pants to shreds.
I took about three steps-then stopped, realizing I was in my briefs. I picked up a piece of canvas that was lying on the ground and wrapped it around me. I only hoped no one saw me in this condition.
I rubbed the wound where the chimp had bitten me, then leaned against one of the girl-show tent poles. I lit a cigarette and started to laugh. I laughed until tears rolled down my cheeks. I had heard about men jumping out of bedroom windows because of a husband's unexpected return, but never had I heard of anyone high-tailing it out because of a drunken, jealous chimp.
The boys never would believe this. I would be willing to bet that I was the only private eye in the business who had a full set of chimp teeth marks where you sit. I laughed until I was weak.
Finally, I calmed down and started walking toward the front of the Midway. I hoped I could get back to my motel without being seen. My get-up would be hard to explain. I was walking in front of one of Red Swank's joints when I paused to listen..
I could hear voices. Lorette and Red were talking. I stood perfectly still.
"You're a selfish bitch, Lorette!" Red raved. "If you weren't Sam's wife, one of the carnies would have blown the whistle on you long before this. Everyone knows you were fooling around with Sheik."
"How dare you speak like that to your own sister?"
"Don't give me that high-and-mighty routine, Lorette. Remember me, I know you. And I happen to be the only one who knows that Sheik was tired of you. He wasn't having any more, was he, Lorette? He hurt your vanity. You thought you would be different from all the others. That you were too smart for him, you poor fool!" He gave a dirty laugh.
Lorette's voice was high-pitched now. "You're guessing, Red. You don't knoiv anything."
"Oh, don't I? You contemptible tramp, break-'ing Mother's heart, all because of a silly idea of yours, that you wouldn't let go of! So your husband hires a lawyer for her. That squares everything, doesn't it? That salves your lowsy, so-called conscience!"
Lorette gave a hysterical laugh. I could tell by a sharp smacking sound that Red had slapped her.
I just had time to duck behind the tent as she came running out, heading for her trailer.
I stood hidden, waiting for Red to leave. I didn't have to wait long before he came out of the tent and walked toward his house trailer.
I went slowly down the Midway, my thoughts in a turmoil. The bite I had received hurt so damned much, I could hardly think. But I would have given almost anything to hear that entire conversation. I went over what I had heard, in my mind. What had Red been driving at, if it wasn't the supposition that Lorette, herself, had killed Sheik? It seemed to fit together like a stacked deck of cards.
The Midway now was entirely deserted. With the exception of a couple of them, even the trailers were dark. I was all keyed up, and my rear end throbbed, hurting. Not only did I feel the need of a few good stiff drinks, but I needed something else even more. Oh, not what you think! A good antiseptic to put on that chimp's bite.
After stopping off at my motel and putting on another pair of pants, I decided to stop by at my secretary's apartment. She always was ready to oblige me, and I knew that she could be counted on to do a bit of expert nursing.
Helen was just the person I needed to see. Although I didn't know exactly how I could explain away my unusual wound, I went over several explanations in my mind that just might sound plausible to her.
CHAPTER TEN
After I purchased a fifth of whiskey and a small bottle of iodine in an all-night drug store, I drove over to Helen's apartment, but she wasn't at home. I remembered then that this was the night for her bowling league, and that she always stayed all night with a girl friend after bowling because it usually was late when they wound up.
I sat in my car, opened the bottle, imbibed a few stiff drinks, then put the bottle in the glove compartment. The whiskey had fixed me so I didn't feel the pain of the bite so badly, and also had fired my brain. All at once, I lost the urge to loaf. I had to tackle Lorette, and this was as good a time as any to do so.
I would bluff my way with her, pretend to know more than I did.
She was a pretty cagey customer. She hadn't shown the slightest evidence of guilt, so far. Had I not eavesdropped on the conversation between Red and her, she would have been my nominee as the least likely suspect. Funny how people can fool you, especially a pretty female. They have one strike against you, just with a come-hither look.
As soon as I reached the carny grounds and got out of my car, Sleepy rushed over to me.
"I've got to talk to you in private," he said.
"What's wrong with our talking right here? No one can hear us."
"I know, but someone might see us. What I have to say is strictly private."
"Get in my car then. I'll drive to my motel. It will be private there."
I thought we might share a few drinks, so I took the bottle along. As soon as we got in the door, I poured two big ones. We sat and sipped them, without chasers.
Sleepy's eyes were troubled.
"Well, what's so important that you demand complete privacy?" I asked.
"Now that we're here, I don't know where to begin," he said.
"Why not start at the beginning, Sleepy?"
"Okay. But I don't know exactly what to say, or how to say it. I've never squealed on anyone before." He paused, squirming around in the chair.
I was becoming impatient. "Speak up, Sleepy. I don't have all night."
"Look Donlon, I've got to tell this in my own way. As I said, I've never ratted on a fellow trooper before, and if it wasn't for Mom Carter, her being such a swell old gal, I wouldn't consider telling you a damn thing!" he almost shouted.
His reluctance to talk was getting under my skin. I felt as unnerved as a patient under the dentist's drill. "If you've got something important to tell me, get it off your chest. Give me the facts."
He spoke abruptly. "Well, for one thing, I know Sheik was blackmailing Lorette."
I swore softly. "Is that all? Is that what this mumbo-jumbo act is all about?"
Sleepy gave a triumphant snort. "Oh, I know a few more things!"
"Such as?" I encouraged.
Sleepy jiggled a cigar nervously around in his mouth. "It's taking a lot of guts on my part, to come here. You see, I could lose my job, and if some of the carnies found out I had diarrhea of the mouth, I could get my brains kicked out. There's Mom, too, and I can't let her die for something she didn't do."
I made a threatening gesture with my fist toward Sleepy. "So help me, Sleepy, if you don't tell me what you're implying, I'll wring your neck."
Sleepy sank back farther into his chair.
"The night Sheik was murdered, I'd been at Dimple's trailer, drinking. I really had a snootful. When I left to go home, I stopped by the girl-show top, and leaned against a stake. I was sick, and I vomited. I must've passed out, right there. I don't know how long I was indisposed, but a pistol shot brought me to in a hurry. I got up on my feet and stagged toward the opening in the top. Then I saw Lorette, but she didn't see me. She came running out of the girl-show top in a hurry, and as she ran, I saw her put something in her purse. It looked like a gun. Lorette was pale as a ghost."
I had leaned forward on the edge of my seat, listening to him. "Well, I'll damned!"
Sleepy slid down from his chair and peered at me, agitation in his voice. "See why I was hesitant about telling you?"
I got up from my chair. "I understand, Sleepy, and I appreciate your telling me."
He tossed me a worried look. "You don't have to tell anyone, especially Sam or Lorette, that I fingered her, do you?"
"Don't worry about that, Sleepy. It'll be our secret."
"That's swell of you, Donlon. I'll run along now, and let you get on with your other business."
"Okay, Sleepy, and thanks for the information."
He left. I tossed off another shot of whiskey, then thought I had better get some strong black coffee before I tackled Lorette.
"Been down to see Mom Carter yet?" Whitey, the counterman, asked after I had ordered the coffee.
"Not yet. I was going to this morning, but I have some business to take care of first."
Whitey gave me a penetrating stare, his face one big question mark. Like a six-year-old's on his first trip to Disneyland.
"You don't have any new leads, do you?" he asked.
"I'm not free to say yet, Whitey."
His disappointment showed. "I just don't believe Mom Carter capable of murder," he said, firmly.
Ruby had been standing at the coffee urn, running hot water through. Now she strolled over. "If Nellie's guilty of murder, I'm a ballet dancer." She gave a disdainful sniff. As far as she was concerned, the matter was closed.
After drinking coffee, I felt better. I headed for Sam's trailer and rapped lightly on the door. Lorette opened it and stood framed in the doorway, making I'll admit, a luscious picture.
Her smile was brilliant as her eyes took the grand tour over every inch of my anatomy. Her voice was a caress. "Oh Steve, it's you. Come in."
I hesitated. "Is Sam here?"
Her eyelashes fanned at me.
"No, he isn't," she cooed. "Are you disappointed?"
I smiled, but grimly. "As a matter-of-fact, I'm glad. I wanted to see you alone."
As I figured she would, she got the wrong impression. She pulled at my arm with the eagerness of a frustrated old maid who had just won a husband in a quiz contest.
I disengaged myself with difficulty. "Cut it, Lorette. Our conversation is going to be strictly business. I didn't come here to get scarfed."
She drew back, one eyebrow arched and mocked, "Business, Steve? I don't understand."
I stood, running my fingers along my hat brim, wondering how to start. I decided to just let her have it.
"Lorette, you killed Sheik and Pierre," I blurted.
A cunning look came into her eyes. "Oh, you've been out in the sun too long, Steve."
"Have I? I doubt it."
"You couldn't possibly believe me capable of murder, could you, Steve?"
"Cut it, Lorette. I know you were the last one to see Sheik alive."
"I was not. You don't have a damn thing on me.
I lit a cigarette, taking a deep drag, thinking, this doll is going to be tough to pin down.
"You can quit lying, Lorette. There was a witness."
She gave a strained laugh and her voice was like a lash. "Don't be ridiculous. Someone else has been lyfng, that's all. I wasn't there."
My thoughts formed themselves into words, almost without my volition. "Brother, you really are a hard-boiled bitch, aren't you?"
It didn't phase her. She stared at me, coldly. "What would be my motive?"
"Your affair with Sheik. The old saw, 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,' and the great lover did throw you over, baby. Not only that, but he tried to blackmail you, and he really had you up the creek without a paddle."
Her reaction was totally unexpected. She reached into her purse, pullet out the .32 and aimed it right at my head. Her eyes blazed.
"Stand back, you half-baked imitation fuzz," She grated. "No one is going to take me to jail, not you or any other lowsy cop. Sure, I killed Shiek and Pierre, both. And don't think I would hesitate about adding you to the list."
A muscle in her cheek twitched nervously. Her eyes were maniacal. I would have to be a damned fool not to be scared.
I decided my best bet would be to try to play it cool. I edged closer to her, very cautiously. "It's all over, Lorette. Give me the rod. You don't want to do any more killing."
As I spoke, as I tried to approach her, my eyes never left the damn gun. That was my mistake.
Her other hand reached behind her, clasping a sharp bread knife. I saw the flash of the blade as it whizzed toward me, cutting the air.
I tried to sidestep, but it was too late. I was knocked down by the impact of the knife as it struck bone. I felt blood oozing, was aware of my own labored breathing. Confused by pain, I tried to get up. Lorette became a still-menacing blur. The last sound I heard was her demoniacal laughter....
Then, a rocket ship was heading straight for the moon, and I was in it. An astronaut in a capsule ... the only thing was that I never did get into orbit. Instead, I turned into a fiery ball soaring into space ... toward a black endless place of no return ... then there was complete oblivion.
As I regained consciousness, the odor of antiseptic filled my nostrils. A doctor was bending over me, dressing my chest wound.
"Hurry it up," I said, thickly. "I've got a murder to wrap up."
"Take it easy, kid," the medic advised. "There's a visitor waiting to see you."
I saw Sheriff Johnson hovering in the doorway. At the doctor's nod, he moved in to stand beside me.
"Good thing you're just too mean to die, Donlon," the sheriff said, with a mischievous twinkle.
"Why, Johnson, I didn't know you cared," I retorted.
"How's your wounds?"
I flushed. I knew what his emphasis on the plural was leading up to.
"Oh, brother. I suppose you found out about where the chimp bit me," I said, resignedly.
Johnson laughed so hard, he shook all over. "It's all over the Midway. I think, if I ever get another carnival case, I'll have treatment for chimp bites included in the officer's handbook. Don't you think that would be a good idea?"
"Oh, you're a real riot, you are. Cut the comedy and cue me in on what's been cooking."
"Lorette is in the cooler for a long, long spell, I would say. We finally broke her down to where she made a full confession. It's a good thing she's out of circulation. That broad is as deadly as a black widow spider."
"Who brought me to the hospital?"
"Deputy Nickles and I drove out to the lot to see you. I was feeling plenty low. The divers hadn't been able to find any trace of the murder weapon. We stopped first at your motel. You weren't there, so we went over to the lot. We were just in time to see Lorette rush out of the trailer. She was laughing like crazy, acting like a real weirdo, and she had a gun in her hand. We latched on to her in a hurry, then we went into the trailer and saw you."
"How come she knifed me when she had the gun?" I wondered aloud.
"Simple. The gun was empty. She was using it to bluff you till she could get her hands on a weapon she really could use."
I shuddered. "Man, what a doll! Why did she draw the curtains for Pierre?"
Johnson tugged at an earlobe. "It seems Pierre was in the habit of prowling the Midway during the wee hours. He would walk close to the trailers and the sleeping trucks, on the alert for anything he could turn into blackmail. He overheard the fight between Sheik and Lorette, and he approached her for money, threatening to tell the police what he knew. At first she didn't think he really would do it, but when she found out that he had sent you a note, she lost her head. She wanted it to look like an accident, but she panicked and pressed down too hard with the wire cutters."
"Sheik really played hell with the Swank family, didn't he?"
"He sure did. I feel sorry for Lorette's mother. Lorette wouldn't see her. That baby really is all mixed up. Oh, by the way, here's a note from Sam."
He handed me an envelope. As I tore it open, he went out the door with a wave of his hand.
The envelope contained my fee, including a nice bonus. I unfolded the note. It was short and to the point.
Steve:
Here's your money, and a bonus. I feel that you really earned it. You had a job to do, and you did it. I can't blame you that Lorette was guilty. Poor Sam, I thought. He lost his money and his baby.
The door opened wider and my secretary, Helen, came in. She had on one of those crazy creations that women call hats.
She looked like a real doll, especially when she rushed over to my bed, squealing, "Oh, Steve, are you all right?"
She opened her mouth again, and I could tell that a flood of questions was about to come pouring out, so I gently pressed a finger against those lush red lips.
"Don't let's waste time talking, kitten. You know mouths were made for kissing, too ... also tongues!"
A nurse stuck her head in the door, and I winked.
"Get lost, baby," I said. "Can't you see we're busy?"
