Crime Circus

CHAPTER IV THE PASSWORD

WHILE Jonathan Wilbart was taking a last glimpse of the circus which he hoped to buy, another man was gaining his first view of the Larch Circus and Greater Shows. This was Cliff Marsland, newly arrived in the town of Marlborough. The Shadow’s agent was passing beneath the canvas arch that marked the entrance to the midway.

Hands in coat pockets, Cliff was thumbing the paper slips that Beef Malligan had given him. Cliff had reached Marlborough later than he expected. He knew that it was too late to see the circus. The passes to the smaller shows could be used tonight, however.

“Step in folks! See the strangest freak in captivity! Jubo, the wild man from Java! Jubo, with his friends the reptiles! One dime, folks! Ten cents!”

Cliff stopped beside a small tent where the barker was ensconced in a high ticket booth. A light showed through the canvas; long, raucous growls were coming from within. Curious passers were idling by the entrance; ticket sales, however, were lacking.

“Jubo the wild man! Jubo and his hideous reptiles!” The blatant cry persisted from the ticket booth. “See Jubo, folks. He plays with snakes! He talks with snakes! He lives with snakes!”

Two men were standing close by Cliff. They looked like circus roughnecks. Listening Cliff overheard their muttered conversation.

“Are you goin’ to shill for Jubo the Geek?” questioned one.

“Yeah,” responded the other.

“Let’s start in,” suggested the first.

“Wait a couple of minutes,” rejoined the second. “Give the talker a chance to get ‘em started.”

“That guy? Say — he’s the cheesiest talker on the lot an’ that’s sayin’ plenty. If we don’t shill pretty quick, there won’t be nobody left to follow us.”

“You don’t need a good talker on a geek show. See ‘em gatherin’ around? Those hicks are listenin’ to the squawker. It’ll draw ‘em.”

Cliff decided that the ‘squawker’ must be the device that was producing the fierce, prolonged growls from within the tent. His conjecture was proven by the next statements that he overheard.

“They keep on fallin’ for the squawker,” laughed one of the roughnecks. “It’s a great gimmick. A guy sittin’ out of sight at the front of the pit, pullin’ on a tarred rope hitched to a keg. You wouldn’t think it would make them heavy growls, would you?”

“Who’s runnin’ the squawker here in the geek show?”

“Some punk that was hangin’ around the lot. The talker slipped the kid four bits for the evenin’.”

“He’ll be lucky if he takes that much in at the gate. C’mon. Let’s shill.”

THE roughnecks started for the ticket booth. Cliff pulled his passes from his pocket and found one that was marked ‘Jubo.’ He followed the other two men and stopped while they reached their hands up to the counter to make a pretence of paying a dime.

“Shill,” Cliff heard them say. The ticket seller nodded and motioned toward the tent. He resumed his talking to the crowd as Cliff approached and delivered the pass.

The growl of the squawker became louder as Cliff entered the little tent. As the roughnecks had remarked, it came from the front of a pit. The rope-puller was hidden from view by canvas curtains. The pit was also surrounded by old, grayish canvas. Cliff leaned on a wooden rail to survey its occupants.

Jubo the Geek, as the roughnecks had termed him, was seated on a torn canvas that lay on the ground. He was a wild-looking monstrosity, clad in black tights. His face and hands were a deep brown; Cliff fancied that it was stain, not a natural color.

A mop of crinkly hair showed on the wild man’s head. His eyes stared vacantly at the handful of people who watched him and his lips kept spreading to display an idiotic grin. Half a dozen snakes were squirming lazily about the pit. Cliff recognized them as large, but harmless “bull” snakes.

The geek, in the midst of his facial contortions, broke suddenly into an apish chatter and pounced upon one of the reptiles. The snake’s wriggling indicated that it was anxious to get away from its captor.

Jubo babbled as he twisted the snake about his arms and neck; then, like a child tired of a toy, he threw the reptile to the ground and leaped to grab another of his squirming pets.

Cliff watched the inane proceedings for five minutes. A few customers had filed into the tent; it was plain that Jubo the Geek intended to do no talking other than his inarticulate gibberish. Cliff strolled from the tent.

A ballyhoo was ending at the big sideshow. Cliff joined the throng, just as a cortege of freaks stepped from the platform and went back into the tent. Over the entrance, Cliff saw the statement:

A lumbering man was still standing on the platform; his yachtsman’s cap indicated that he must be Captain Guffy. Guffy appeared to be the talker as well as the manager, for he was winding up a fervent spiel that referred to the collection of human curios inside the tent.

THE crowd was pressing close. Captain Guffy gave a sweeping gesture. Two ticket sellers took up his cry from their booths. Cliff saw the men who had shilled at Jubo’s show as they went up and pretended to buy the first tickets.

They were followed by others — also shills — and the regular customers began a march as Captain Guffy stepped impressively from the platform.

Cliff pulled out a pass marked ‘Circus Sideshow.’ He delivered it to a ticket seller and moved inward with the throng. He decided that Captain Guffy’s ballyhoo must have been a good one, for this show was drawing in a crowd.

The interior of the Ten-in-One was divided lengthwise by a wooden rail. Beyond the barrier were the freaks, all but their heads obscured from view by canvas that hung from the railing. Captain Guffy was approaching one end of the tent; the crowd was following. Gawky customers thronged about as the manager began his lecture.

Baby Liz was the first freak. Guffy described her as the “fattest of all fat women” and went into particulars regarding her age and weight. Baby Liz smiled complacently from above a triple chin and nodded in response to Guffy’s statements.

When the ‘Captain’ moved along to the next platform, Baby Liz began to talk in a high-pitched voice, offering picture post cards of herself at a dime apiece.

Cliff lingered; then moved along to the platform where Guffy was discoursing on his “Happy Family.” He had reference to a large cage which contained a jabbering monkey, a sad-eyed poodle, a Maltese cat, a white rabbit and a squawking parrot. The fact that these creatures behaved in friendly fashion seemed sufficient to make them a curiosity.

While Guffy was talking, the monkey made a bound toward the cat. The parrot squawked and Guffy grabbed a stick to deliver a savage poke into the cage. The monkey jumped back to a corner and the cat settled down to another nap. Evidently the family kept happy under proper supervision.

On the next platform, Cliff observed a most curious individual. A pasty-faced man was reclining on an army cot. His eyes were half closed; when they opened at Guffy’s urging, the man gazed indolently at the spectators.

He reached to his lips and weakly removed a cigarette stump that clung there. He let it drop into a metal wastebasket beside the cot; then made a feeble gesture.

Captain Guffy plucked a fresh cigarette from a large box and placed it between the reclining man’s lips. An attendant sprang forward with a light. Eyes closing, the pasty-faced occupant of the couch began to puff new clouds of smoke.

“This is Cleed,” announced Captain Guffy, in a sorrowful tone. “Behold him, ladies and gentlemen: Cleed, the Cigarette Fiend. His story is a tragic one. He is a freak with a strange history. The child of a wealthy family, he began the use of tobacco at the age of five years.

“Nicotine took complete hold of his system. He is saturated with it, folks. His growth was not affected; nor was his constitution weakened. But his senses dulled. His craving for tobacco became a mania. Look at him; you see him as he is. In every waking moment, he demands a puff of the weed. Only when stupor seizes him does he cease from his perpetual smoking.”

As Guffy completed his blatant lecture, Cleed finished another cigarette. The glowing stump dropped from his hand. The attendant hastened to place a fresh cigarette between the pasty lips. Cleed puffed as though his life depended upon a new supply of smoke.

“Hokum,” growled someone in the crowd, as Guffy moved on to the next platform. “That story don’t go with me.”

“Maybe the fellow’s a dope fiend,” suggested another spectator. “It looks like something was wrong with him.”

“He’s been smoking steady ever since we came into the tent,” remarked a third spectator. “Looks like he can’t get along without puffing a cigarette.”

“Quiet, please!” came Guffy’s call. “Here we have Luke, the Tattooed Man. He is a living picture gallery, covered with works of art from head to foot—”

Cliff studied the tattooed man while Captain Guffy continued to spiel his story. No grumblers classed Luke as a fake. The man fitted the description that Guffy had given him: he was a living picture gallery.

Removing his shirt, Luke revealed a broad back that was covered with samples of tattooed art — huge designs in blue and red. Facing the spectators, he displayed a gold-toothed grin; then exhibited arms and legs to show smaller designs in permanent ink.

COMPLETING his lecture with the statement that Luke was a specialist in tattooing, Guffy proceeded to the next platform. Luke, still smiling, looked for customers among the crowd. Two men began to bargain with him. Cliff listened to their conversation; then strolled to the next platform in the line.

Here, Captain Guffy introduced a man who wore a tawdry dress suit. This was Professor Solva. The professor drew back a curtain; a tall, thin woman appeared to take a bow. She was introduced as Madame Solva.

The pair put on a mind reading act that lasted for several minutes. While they were selling horoscopes to the crowd, Guffy approached a pit. Cliff joined the early arrivals and saw a woman seated on a chair, a snake coiled about her arm.

“Princess Marxia,” introduced Guffy. “Queen of the Reptile World. No poisoned fangs can harm her. Man-killing snakes obey her word. Step this way, folks. Princess Marxia is about to begin her astounding performance.”

The snake charmer was a hard-faced woman. Her eyes carried a glare that seemed as venomous as the beady optics of the snake that writhed from her arm. After allowing several snakes to crawl about her head and shoulders, she cast the reptiles aside and lifted a box that lay in a corner of the pit.

The sharp crackle of a rattler came in immediate response. Princess Marxia stepped back and pointed to the coiled snake that had been beneath the box. She did her own talking to the crowd.

“The rattlesnake,” explained Marxia, in a harsh voice, “carries deadly poison in its fangs. The noise that you hear is its warning. It is a sign of death to any one who comes too close.”

With that, the woman approached the snake step by step. The rattler steadied its beady gaze; yet it did not strike. The charmer apparently knew the danger point; yet she deliberately persisted in her effort to arouse the reptile’s ire.

“The rattlesnake strikes quick,” came Marxia’s harsh announcement, “but those who know its ways can escape when it strikes. Watch me.”

The woman swung quickly toward the snake. A hiss came from the reptile. Its head shot forward with a swift stroke; but Marxia was speedier in her twist. While the crowd murmured in amazement, the snake charmer swung clear of the rattler’s vicious stroke.

Stepping away from the corner where the angry snake remained, Marxia opened another box. She reached in and began to draw out the form of a huge black reptile. The creature responded slowly; then its large head came into view. The snake began to coil lazily about the woman’s body.

“This is the terrible python,” declaimed Marxia. “Its coils can crush the body of a tiger. Human beings are helpless in its grip; but I have power over the python. It will obey me — this big snake from Ceylon.”

Cliff Marsland stared. The python was slowly uncoiling. Princess Marxia was forcing its twisted shape back into the box. The customers were moving toward the next exhibit, in response to Guffy’s call. Cliff, however, remained. He had heard the word for which he was waiting.

Ceylon!

That was the password that Beef Malligan had ordered Cliff to heed. It had come from the lips of Princess Marxia, the so-called snake charmer. All others had moved along. Cliff stayed. He knew that from Princess Marxia he would gain the order that he had come here to receive.