Catch a Falling Clown

16

“You are one bedbug,” I said. “I saw a picture of the real Hitchcock in a movie magazine in a railroad station yesterday. Anyone could have spotted you at any time.”

The man I had known as Alfred Hitchcock hunched his shoulders up. “It was a risk worth taking,” he said. “If worse came to worse, and it has, it really has, I planned to confess that I was a circus buff and that I merely used Hitchcock’s name because of my resemblance to him to gain access to the grounds.”

An argument had started at the end of the bar. Lope and Carlos were part of it. Some of it was in Spanish. I had the feeling it was a debate over who was going to listen to the radio and who was going to listen to Jean Alvero.

“There isn’t any witness,” I said, turning away from the killer. “That was just to bring you out in the open.”

“I thought it might be,” he sighed, “but I couldn’t take a chance. Besides, all is not lost. You are responsible for my brother’s death. I’m the last of the family.”

“And he went like the others,” I said, picking at my teeth with a fingernail. “Mind telling me your name? I can’t keep calling you Mr. Hitchcock.”

“Marish,” he said, bowing slightly. “Miles Marish. My family were the Flying Marishes.”

He paused as if I was supposed to know who the Flying Marishes were.

“The Flying Marishes,” I repeated.

Down the bar, the bartender had intervened in the discussion by turning off the radio.

“The circus killed my family,” he said. “My father and sister fell from the wire in 1937. My brother was disfigured, and I was trampled by an elephant. Under these trousers is a disfigured leg.

“I wanted only to destroy the elephants, all the elephants,” he said. “The people were Thomas’ idea. There were no killings until the circus came to Mirador, where he had been living. It was I who had followed circuses, destroying and describing it to him. The circus is …”

“I know,” I interrupted, “he told me before he took his leap.”

“You are not a sympathetic man,” said Marish, all trace of English accent now gone.

“Some innocent people have been killed,” I answered. “They have my sympathy, along with their families.”

“The aerialist saw me electrocute the elephant. We had to do something. Then the woman …”

“Rennata Tanucci,” I supplied.

“She followed me to Thomas’ and threatened to have that elephant go wild. I hate elephants. She forced us …”

Shoving and the tense ramble of voices came from the end of the bar. The battle was about to begin. The circus had invaded Lope’s retreat, and his honor demanded satisfaction. Elder moved from his table to try to restore order.

“Do we have anything further to discuss?” said Marish evenly.

“One or two more things,” I said. “Can we retire to my office?” I pointed to the back of the saloon, where a painted green light indicated a toilet.

Marish nodded, put his gun in his pocket, and followed me toward the back. We had gone about five feet when Emmett Kelly stepped in front of me.

“Toby, you look …”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Just someone I ate.”

I pushed past him, and he eyed Marish, who gave him his Hitchcock grin. We moved past Elder, who was holding back his roustabout with one hand and talking furiously with Lope. Elder was speaking Spanish rapidly and comfortably. It seemed to calm Lope of the single eye. But I wasn’t calm as I pushed open the door under the green light and stepped in with Marish behind me. He locked the door and faced me.

There wasn’t much room, just a toilet, some toilet paper hung by wire from the wall, a small basin with a dripping faucet and a dirty brown sink. The small mirror over the sink looked as if someone had soaped it for Halloween and no one had bothered to clean it. A newspaper was on the floor. I caught part of the headline and realized that the British were either winning or losing in Burma.

“It was most cooperative of you to come back here,” said Marish pleasantly. Then his voice turned harsh. “I am most distressed about what you did to my brother.”

“Your brother?” I asked, sitting on the sink. He backed away from me with the small gun out and sat on the closed toilet. My brother and I had once had a similar talk when he was about seventeen and I was fourteen. My older brother had given me some advice then, and I had made a wise comment. The result was a five-inch cut on my head. I had more to lose this time.

“Charles Marish, whom you sent to his death last night,” said Marish angrily.

“But he was a killer,” I answered, folding my arms.

“We have been over that,” he said. “I told you why he and I killed those people. You clearly have no sympathy or understanding. You clearly don’t understand the shallow corruption the circus represents, the squalid lives, the cheapness. The world would be better off without circuses.”

“And you’re personally going to destroy them all?”

“I would that it were possible,” he said. “But I will have to be content to carry on for my brother and do what little I can. Now …” He held up the pistol.

“Did you try to kill Emmett Kelly, or was that your brother?” I asked.

“One of our few failures,” he sighed, reminding me of the man he had impersonated.

“Why Hitchcock?” I asked quickly.

“I became an actor after the elephant accident,” he explained. “I worked in England as an extra on Jamaica Inn. A few people actually mistook me for Hitchcock on occasion. In fact, I doubled for Charles Laughton on the film. I’m afraid I shall now have to kill you.”

“Afraid?” I pushed away from the sink. The rear of my pants was wet.

“I will enjoy it,” he said.

“I think I’ll just have to deprive you of that pleasure,” I said.

He shook his head. I looked into the corner over that shaking head and fixed on the transom. Curiosity took him, but he didn’t turn.

“I’m looking at a shotgun,” I said. “Through the transom. Sheriff’s been listening to all this. His office is right next door. This toilet and the sheriff’s share a transom. Flush the toilet in there, Sheriff.”

A toilet flushed almost instantly, and Marish looked up at the transom. I went for his gun as he glanced up, and hell broke loose. I slammed his hand away and the bullet hit the wall, followed by an explosion and the shattering of the mirror as I banged into the wall below the transom. Shards of glass flew, and I covered my head.

“You crazy bastard,” I shouted at Nelson, sinking to the floor and moving my arm away from my eyes. I could see that my pants were torn by the flying glass, but I was doing fine compared to Marish, who had a deep gash on his cheek from the shotgun blast. He was looking around for something with madness in his eyes. He panted the frightened pant of a fat man. I helped him look. We were probably looking for his gun, and I wanted to find it first.

“Don’t move in there,” came Nelson’s voice. “Or I’ll fire the second barrel.”

“Nelson, no!” I yelled, spotting the gun and going for it. Marish let out a gasp and went through the door. I got to my feet, picking up a cut on my palm. I staggered out of the destroyed toilet and looked down the bar. Everyone was looking at Marish and me. Some had their mouths open. All had heard the explosion, and no one could miss the two shredded humans who had come through the door.

“Stop him,” I shouted after Marish, who was almost at the front door. He was leaving a trail of blood. No trail was needed, but my own knees weren’t doing well enough to carry me forward.

Marish put one hand on the door. Behind me from the toilet I could hear Nelson’s voice yelling, “What the hell is going on in there?”

The radio was now giving a calm male message in slow Spanish that made it clear radios were unaware of human activity. I didn’t know if Marish would get away or where he would go. I didn’t have to find out.

Emmett Kelly moved to the door and put a hand on Marish’s shoulder.

“Hold it,” he said. Marish turned, his wild bloody face showing all his hatred for the circus. The look took Kelly by surprise. He was used to a lot, but not that look of hatred.

Marish couldn’t resist. He threw a wild fat right at Kelly, who ducked and came back with a push to Marish’s chest. The fat man tumbled back over the Hijo drunk and went down in a lump.

I limped forward as Alex and Nelson came through the front door of Hijo’s with shotguns ready.

People began to scramble for corners and scream.

“Hold it,” I yelled. “Don’t shoot.”

Nelson’s eyes were wild and frightened, but they were probably no different from those of anyone else in the room, except he had the shotgun.

“It’s over, Sheriff,” said Alex evenly.

Nelson looked over at Marish and aimed his barrel at the fallen form. “Right,” said Nelson. “It’s over.”

It was at that point that my knees said the hell with it, and I crumpled to the floor, hoping for an inkwell.

When I opened my eyes after dreaming that Koko and I could fly over Cincinnati, I found the face of Doc Ogle.

“Full of holes,” came a voice behind him.

“Me?” I asked with a croak, trying to sit up.

“You and the whole damn story,” came Nelson’s voice. I looked past Doc Ogle, who had trouble straightening up. Nelson and Alex were there. I was back in the sheriff’s office on the bench.

“This man could use a hospital,” said the doc, packing something in his black bag. “Lacerations, concussion, goddamn crazy handprint on his back.”

In the cell beyond the first, I could see Marish, sitting with his head down. He turned his face toward me, and I didn’t like what I saw. The stitches didn’t bother me, but that look did. I turned away.

“I will explain it another time for you,” came Gunther’s voice. I turned my head in the other direction and saw Gunther, Jeremy, and Shelly.

“Don’t bother,” sighed Nelson. “I’ve got enough. I heard enough. Alex and I heard enough.”

“You’ll be a hero, Nelson,” I said, sitting up. “Caught a killer single-handed in a bloody gun battle. May even make the San Diego papers.”

“May at that,” said Nelson, pursing his lips.

“We’ll be happy to stay around and tell our part of this,” I volunteered. Jeremy walked over to me and gave me an arm. Hell, he picked me up.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Nelson, clearly preferring his own tale of his gun battle and whatever fantasy of heroism he was working on. “Just you and your friends pack up and get out. We don’t need you in Mirador, and we don’t need the damn circus either.”

“We’re going,” I said. Shelly led the way out, and Jeremy supported me.

“Maybe we’ll see you again sometime,” said Alex, leaning against the wall.

I tried to read through his words and couldn’t.

“Maybe,” said the Spirit of Seventy Wounds, and off we went into the afternoon, closing the door of the Mirador police station behind us.

The circus people were leaning against or loitering near half a dozen cars and trucks in what looked like a vigil. Peg and Elder spotted me first and moved in my direction. The Tanuccis were with them, and Emmett Kelly stood to the side with Agnes Sudds.

“Are you all right?” said Peg.

“Terrific,” I said.

“You look awful.”

“Maybe I don’t feel so terrific,” I admitted. “In fact, I think I’d just like to close my eyes and wake up in my bed back in Hollywood.”

“Alone?” came Agnes’ voice from behind.

“I’ll be happy to wake up,” I said, feeling something dark come over me.

Emmett Kelly took a step toward me with his hand out and his mouth open. That was my last memory of him, silent and looking a little sad.

I was aware of movement, I think, and Shelly’s voice talking about saberteeth. I was aware of snakes of green and Saint Patrick with an electric staff. I was aware of a body full of aches and the memory of a look of hate. And then I was aware of nothing.

The next time I woke up, I was just where I wanted to be, lying in my own room in Mrs. Plaut’s boardinghouse on Heliotrope in Hollywood. My bed was there, the sofa with doilies I wasn’t allowed to touch, and my wooden table and small refrigerator. I wanted to get up and have a bowl of Wheaties, but a hand reached out and pushed me back. It was a small hand.

“You must rest without disturbance,” said Gunther. We were the only two in the room. “The doctor has come here to look at you and declared you recoverable. The suggestion came that you be moved to a hospital, but I thought you would prefer …”

“I would prefer,” I said, sitting up. I was under one of Mrs. Plaut’s homemade quilts, dressed in a T-shirt and underwear and feeling an overall ache that made a lie of aches.

“A thousand natural shocks,” said Gunther sympathetically, watching me sit up.

“Something like that,” I said.

“It is that which flesh is heir to, Toby,” he said, handing me a cup of tea he retrieved from the table. “It is a bit cool but perhaps better for you for that.”

While I drank, Mrs. Plaut burst in. Mrs. Plaut was not a knocker. Even if she knocked, she would never hear the responding “Come in” or “Stay out,” and there were no locks on the doors of Mrs. Plaut’s rooms.

“Mr. Peters,” she said, crossing her thin arms. She was a tiny pink woman somewhere between seventy-five and a thousand, with the strength of a determined terrier. “You haven’t been killing people again, have you?”

“Not intentionally,” I said, sipping tea. “And not on the premises.”

“No more bodies here,” she said, stepping in to straighten a chair.

“I promised,” I said.

Satisfied, she dropped a bundle of handwritten sheets on my table. “Chapters,” she announced. “Papa and the well and Uncle Damper’s Eskimo wife.”

Mrs. Plaut was under the impression that I was, alternately, an exterminator and a screenwriter. I had never been able to determine how she came to this conclusion or when she made the transition from one to the other. I think she didn’t much care as long as I continued to make corrections of her family history, which was now well over 3,000 pages long. I was in for a night with Uncle Damper’s Eskimo wife.

Mrs. Plaut exited, and Gunther took my cup when I finished.

“There was something different about this one, Gunther,” I said. “I can’t grab it.”

“The circus,” said Gunther, cleaning my cup in the small sink on the far side of the room. “It has traditionally been a source of amusement for the young, a hint of danger, but when one penetrates its …” He searched for an English word and couldn’t find the right one.

“Whatever,” I said and put my head back for a few days of rest.

Koko wanted to play. I told him to go away. I had had enough of clowns and dreams.