Crime Circus

CHAPTER III ON THE LOT

“THIS way to the big show! Buy your tickets to the big show! Only five minutes before the show starts!”

The barker’s cry rose strident above a medley of sounds. The mechanical music of a carousel; the puffing motor of the Ferris wheel; the wheezy tones of a calliope — all became a background to the call.

People were moving along the “midway” that formed an avenue to the big tent. The circus was the magnet that was drawing the crowd at present. The other shows, housed in smaller tents, were quiet while the barker sought to bring the throngs into the big top.

The Larch Circus and Greater Shows formed the chief attraction in the town of Marlborough. Yet of the many people who had been drawn, mothlike, by the attraction of the lights, few were actually buying tickets. Most were idlers who had merely come to look on. The actual customers formed a mere trickle past the ticket booths.

Back near the entrance to the circus grounds, two men were alighting from a large sedan that was parked behind a fringe of tents. One was a gray-haired individual, whose face showed a stern dignity. The other was a stubby, silent fellow who wore a chauffeur’s cap. Both were looking toward the circus tent.

“Come along, Lennox,” ordered the gray-haired man. “Be sure to lock the car first.”

“Yes, sir.”

The chauffeur performed the action; then jaunted to catch up with the gray-haired man, who was choosing a course behind the nearest tents.

“There’s the office car,” remarked the older man, as the chauffeur caught up with him. “See it?”

He pointed between two tents. Lennox nodded.

“A little further on,” said the gray-haired man, “and I can cut through to go directly there. I don’t want to be too conspicuous.”

“Of course not, Mr. Wilbart.”

“This is the best time to come,” added Wilbart. “Every one is inside, or busy, so there is less chance of talk. I don’t care to have all the people with this show telling that Jonathan Wilbart came to hold another conference with Tex Larch.”

“I understand, sir.”

“They might think that I was overanxious to buy this show, Lennox,” added Wilbart, pausing as he stepped between two small, darkened tents. “Well — I’ll buy it on my own terms, or not at all. It’s a tawdry outfit, Lennox. It does not compare with the smallest circus in my chain. What do you think, Lennox?”

“I agree with you, Mr. Wilbart.”

“You always do, Lennox,” chuckled Wilbart. “Well — look around the midway until I come back. The ballyhoo will begin on the smaller shows after the circus gets started in the big top.”

STROLLING out into the midway, the gray-haired man shouldered his way past clustered idlers and crossed to a spot where a light truck was parked between two tents.

Attached to the truck was a trailer that looked like a small, shortened bus. This car had a rear door marked “Office.” Two steps led up to the entrance.

Reaching his objective, Jonathan Wilbart ascended the steps and opened the door. The interior of the car formed a larger room than one would have expected from a view of the exterior. It was furnished with seats attached to the wall; at the front end were two desks also fixed in position, beyond them a small, curtained window.

A broad-shouldered man was seated at one of the desks. He heard the door close as Wilbart entered. He swung around and showed a thick-jawed countenance, with pudgy nose and quick eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Wilbart!” he exclaimed.

“Hello, Stuffy,” rejoined Wilbart, advancing to receive the man’s handshake. “Where’s Tex Larch?”

“In New York,” responded “Stuffy.”

“Again?” Wilbart’s tone seemed incredulous. “It seems as though I never manage to find him with the show. Let me see — he was in New York the last two times I came to talk with him.”

“He isn’t exactly in New York tonight,” corrected Stuffy. “He’s on his way here, Mr. Wilbart. Might be in at any time. If you want to wait here—”

“I’ll stay a while,” interposed Wilbart. “What are you doing, Stuffy? Running things while Tex is away?”

“Kind of,” replied Stuffy. “It ain’t exactly my regular job, but I’m sort of a head handy man with the outfit. Here you are.”

He reached in his pocket and pulled out some printed cards. He handed one to Wilbart, who had seated himself. The visitor smiled and nodded as he read it:

“Everybody knows me as Stuffy,” remarked the general agent. “Wouldn’t do to have put my real moniker on a card. Everybody in the show business would have thought it was someone else. They’ve called me Stuffy ever since I was a punk.”

“I envy your past, Stuffy,” commented Wilbart. “I came into the circus business as an owner — only a few years back — and I am scarcely used to the smell of sawdust. The real way to learn a business is to grow up with it; not to buy into it.”

“Maybe so, Mr. Wilbart,” returned Stuffy, as he stepped toward the door of the office. “But I notice that some of the old timers in the game are finding the sledding tough, while your shows are bringing in the dough. It looks to me like the fellow that knows business better than he does a circus is the best guy to run a circus business.”

With this statement, Stuffy opened the door and stepped toward the ground. He motioned to the visitor to remain in the office.

“I’ll be back in ten minutes,” informed Stuffy. “Just going out to pass the word to the shows. They can start their ‘bally’ now that the big top is working.”

STUFFY closed the door as he reached the ground. The show had started in the circus tent; only a few late customers were passing through the turnstiles.

A big, glowering man was standing on the platform in front of the side show, ready to start a ballyhoo. Others were waiting expectantly in high ticket booths outside of other tents.

Stuffy started for the midway. He stopped as a rangy man blocked his path.

“Where are you going, Stuffy?”

“Hello, Tex.” Stuffy stopped as he recognized his chief. It was “Tex” Larch, back from New York. “Say — don’t go in the office for a minute. I want to tell you something.”

Tex stared from beneath the broad brim of a felt sombrero. His gaze was quizzical. Cold gray eyes flashed from a weatherbeaten countenance.

“Wait ‘til I start the talkers, Tex,” pleaded Stuffy. “They’re sitting tight until I flash the word for the bally.”

With these words, Stuffy hurried out to the midway and waved his arms toward the man on the platform in front of the sideshow. Immediately, the big fellow began a sonorous spiel, while idlers gathered to form a crowd. Other talkers followed along the line. The midway became a babble of barkers.

“Cap Guffy was waiting like a hawk,” chuckled Stuffy, as he rejoined Tex. “Did you see him there, outside the Ten-in-One? Say — he can’t wait for the show to start in the big top. I never saw a guy like him—”

“All right, Stuffy,” interrupted Tex, standing with a suitcase in his hand. “Forget about Cap Guffy. What’s the matter in the office? Some rube sheriff putting up a squawk? I paid a fixer to square things in this town—”

“The sheriff ain’t in there, Tex.” It was Stuffy’s turn to interrupt. “Everything’s jake. Wheels running like clockwork along the midway.”

“Well who’s in there then?”

“Jonathan Wilbart. That’s who.”

TEX’S stare became a glower. It was plain that he was not pleased by the information. Stuffy watched a grim twist appear on the circus owner’s lips.

“I told him you was in New York,” began the general agent. “Then I said you’d be back tonight. Wilbart said he’d wait.”

“You’re a fine palooka,” sneered Tex. “I told you to keep your mouth shut about where I’d gone.”

“I ain’t told anybody on the lot, Tex. But I thought you wouldn’t mind Wilbart knowing—”

“Wilbart! He’s the biggest heel in the business. He don’t belong in the show game. I missed him the last two times he was here. But there’s no chance to dodge him this trip. What does he want? Trying to buy my show again?”

“He didn’t say.”

“That’s what he’s after. He’s a fox, that guy is. It’s just like him to blow in while playing a bloomer. That’s the first thing he’ll talk about — the bum business that this show is doing.”

Stuffy waited while his boss stared speculatively toward the door of the office. Then Tex Larch shrugged his shoulders and handed his suitcase to the handy man.

“Lug this kiester over to my tent, Stuffy,” ordered Tex. “I’m going in to see what Wilbart wants.”

Stuffy nodded as he took the suitcase. He headed off among the tents while Tex ascended the steps and pushed back the door of the wheeled office.

The fragrance of expensive tobacco brought a sniff from Tex. Wilbart, seated at the side of the office car, looked up to see the owner of the Larch Circus.

“Hello, Tex,” greeted the visitor, dryly. “I’ve been waiting to see you. Stuffy told me you would be in from New York.”

“Stuffy’s a good talker,” returned Tex, removing his big hat and tossing it on one of the desks. “Maybe I ought to use him on a bally platform.”

Wilbart smiled at the suggestion that Stuffy had talked too much. He watched Tex go to a desk and look over mail that was lying there. He waited for some remark. None came; so Wilbart made one of his own.

“How is business this week?” he questioned.

“Take a look for yourself,” rejoined Tex. “The door slides to the right. You can see the whole midway.”

“I mean business in the big top.”

“I don’t know. I just got in from New York. Maybe you can figure it better than I can; you were here while the crowd was going into the big top, weren’t you?”

Wilbart smiled but made no comment. Tex turned from the desk and faced his visitor. Wilbart returned his stare.

The two men formed a contrast as their eyes exchanged a steady gaze. Tex Larch looked the part of an outdoor showman. His face, toil-worn and deep-lined, seemed to tell the story of a rigorous career. Jonathan Wilbart, dignified even to his mode of puffing his cigar, gave the impression of a successful business magnate.

It was Tex who broke the silence. He studied his visitor coldly; and his eyes flashed with an iron glint as he spoke:

“The show’s not for sale, Wilbart.”

THE visitor chuckled. He seemed to enjoy the blunt manner in which the circus owner had come directly to the subject. Wilbart pulled a cigar from his pocket and offered it to Tex. The circus owner grunted; then accepted the perfecto and bit off the end of the cigar.

“I want to buy your show, Tex,” stated Wilbart, quietly. “I know that you don’t want to sell. You told me that before. But people have the privilege of changing their minds, even when they are in the circus business.”

“Change yours then.”

“I own five shows, Tex. I can use yours. You should be glad to receive an offer, with the poor business that you are doing.”

“The show’s doing all right.”

“You are exaggerating, Tex.”

“Maybe you’ve been checking up. All right, Wilbart, have it your own way. We’ve had some bloomers on this tour. A lot of them. This week is a bloomer. But there’s some red ones coming.”

“I wish you luck, Tex. It’s preferable to make money on the lot than to run into New York looking for new angels.”

Tex scowled. The remark had hit home. Wilbart had made the logical assumption regarding his trip to New York. Several seconds passed before he countered:

“So you think I’m on the rocks, eh? This show looks like a bum bet, does it? Well, if that’s the way it is, why do you want to buy the outfit? You’ve got five shows of your own. Why look for another headache?”

“The headache is yours, Tex,” remarked Wilbart. “I am trying to ease it for you. I do not intend to keep this show running after I buy it.”

“You want to scrap it, eh?”

“Precisely. You only own the circus. The other shows are independent, although they are presumably under your management. I can absorb your equipment into my own shows.”

“What about the star attractions?”

“You’ve hit it, Tex,” smiled Wilbart. “They are what I am after. I want the two main acts. To obtain them, I am willing to buy the entire show.”

“I thought so.” Tex chewed savagely at the end of his cigar. “You won’t be satisfied, Wilbart, until you’ve crowded all the real showmen out of the circus business. There were a lot of good small shows working until you came into the game with your idea of a new combine.”

“There were small shows starving,” commented Wilbart. “I took them over and put them on a paying basis. Acts like Eric Wernoff and Lucille Lavan would bring money to one of my shows. But they aren’t drawing for you.”

“I admitted that this week is a bloomer.”

“My shows stay away from towns like Marlborough.”

“Why waste time, Wilbart?” questioned Tex, in a challenging tone. “Eric Wernoff, the Animal King, stays with the Larch Circus. So does Lucille Lavan, Queen of the High Wire. That’s final!”

“Even if you have to go to New York,” smirked Wilbart, “when you need money to move the show.”

“So that’s what you think, eh?” demanded Tex, suddenly. “Well, take another guess. I’m raising dough — you’re right about that — but the reason is that I’m expanding. I’ve got this outfit motorized. That was my first step. My next is to buy Cap Guffy’s Ten-in-One and some of the other shows on the midway. The Larch Circus and Greater Shows will be all one by the end of this season!”

Jonathan Wilbart rose, smiling quietly. It was plain that he did not believe Tex Larch’s statement. He made no comment, however, to indicate that disbelief.

“I shall visit you again, Larch,” he remarked. “I think that you may decide to change your mind. Particularly” — Wilbart’s smile broadened — “after your show arrives in Hamilcar. That town is the worst bloomer on the map. You will have to dig deep in the savings fund — if you have one — to move out of Hamilcar.”

TEX LARCH stood glowering while his visitor stepped from the office. Jonathan Wilbart closed the door behind him; still smiling, he strolled across the midway. Lennox joined him near a small tent. The chauffeur followed his master toward the car.

“Any luck, sir?” inquired Lennox.

“No,” responded Wilbart. “Tex Larch refuses to sell. Evidently he has found an angel in New York.”

“He was in New York the last two times we were here, sir.”

“I know it.” Wilbart smiled. “Well, he may have to make some more trips there before he is finished. How did business look, Lennox?”

“Very poor at the big top, sir.”

“Did you watch the turnstiles closely?”

“Yes, sir. There were plenty of ‘shills’ going through. But they didn’t bring many followers.”

The two men reached the parked sedan. Lennox unlocked the car and Jonathan Wilbart entered. Then Lennox took the wheel and the sedan pulled away.

Wilbart looked toward the rear seat; his gaze followed through the back window for a last glimpse of brilliant circus grounds.

“I would like to know the game that Tex Larch is playing,” was the magnate’s final comment to Lennox. “That show of his is not breaking even. There is something in back of his persistent refusals to sell.”

The car turned a curve in the road. The lights disappeared from view. Jonathan Wilbart settled in his seat with a grunt that Lennox understood. The utterance was more than an expression of disappointment. It was an indication of future action.

Lennox knew the persistence of his employer. The chauffeur was convinced that his purpose would not end. Sooner or later — Lennox was positive — the Larch Circus and Greater Shows would be under the banner of Jonathan Wilbart’s combine.