Crime Circus

CHAPTER V THE RED CIRCLE

“Where is Ceylon?”

Princess Marxia turned toward the front of the pit as she heard the question. She stared at Cliff Marsland, the person who had asked it.

“What was that?” demanded the woman, harshly.

“I heard you mention that the python came from Ceylon,” responded Cliff. “I wondered where Ceylon was. Somewhere near India, isn’t it?”

“Do you see that fellow over there?” questioned Marcia, pointing as she placed her elbow on the rail of the pit.

“You mean the tattooed man?” asked Cliff.

“Yeah,” stated Marxia. “Well, that guy’s been everywhere. His tattoo marks prove it. He’s been to Ceylon, along with other places. He can tell you all about it. Go over and talk to him.”

“Thanks.”

Princess Marxia grinned as Cliff strolled toward Luke’s platform. She looked up to observe Madame Solva staring at her. The snake charmer nudged her thumb in the direction that Cliff had taken.

“Another goof,” was Marxia’s comment. “Did you hear him?”

“I heard,” Madame Solva nodded. “What makes all those mugs ask about Ceylon? He ain’t the first that sprung that question. Seems like there’s been a half a dozen.”

“You can’t figure these hicks,” decided Marxia, eying the mind reader shrewdly. “I guess it’s the python that gets ‘em wondering where Ceylon is. Anyway, a lot of ‘em have asked me.”

“Why do you send them to Luke?”

“That guy kids ‘em,” replied Marxia, approvingly. “He’s got a gift of lingo, Luke has. He gets talking about places where he’s been and sells ‘em a tattoo job. You keep watching — you’ll see him do some needlework on that hick before the poor sap gets away.”

CLIFF, meanwhile, had reached Luke’s platform. The tattooed man was seated beside a table that bore his electrical equipment. He was arguing price with a prospective customer. The haggling reached its finish while Cliff looked on. The customer decided that he could do without tattoo marks.

“Well?” quizzed Luke, as he stared toward Cliff. “So you want some designs done?”

“I want to ask you something,” responded Cliff, quietly.

Luke stepped from his chair and dropped over the edge of the platform. He eyed Cliff as if The Shadow’s agent were another customer.

“Well?” questioned Luke.

“Tell me something,” requested Cliff, in an undertone. “Where is Ceylon?”

The effect of the question was electric. Luke made no immediate reply. Instead, he beckoned Cliff up to the platform. He pointed out a chair beside his own. Cliff sat down with the tattooed man.

“Who sent you to this platform?” asked Luke.

“Princess Marxia,” replied Cliff. “I asked her the question first.”

“I see. Well” — Luke raised his voice — “maybe I can talk it over with you while I’m doing your design. Take a look at this arm of mine. How does the blue anchor look to you? Good?”

As Cliff stared at Luke’s arm, the tattooed man turned his own gaze toward the platform on his left. Cleed, the cigarette fiend, was puffing away in his incessant fashion. He was apparently oblivious to the world about him; yet he caught the rise of Luke’s voice. Cleed’s head turned sidewise. His eyes opened.

It was not toward Luke that Cleed looked but toward Cliff Marsland. Squarely against the black curtains of the mind reader’s platform, Cliff’s profile formed a perfect outline. Cleed studied the chiseled profile of The Shadow’s agent. After this inspection, Cleed let his eyes meet Luke’s.

Slowly, the cigarette fiend rubbed his cheek against the canvas of his cot as he delivered a nod. Luke gave a response of silent understanding. Then the tattooed man spoke to Cliff again.

“That’s the one you like, eh?” he questioned. “All right. Pull up your sleeve — the left one. I’ll get to work.”

Cliff looked puzzled as Luke took the design book from his hands and began to prepare an electric needle. Nevertheless, he drew up his sleeve as Luke had ordered. The tattooed man poised the needle over Cliff’s forearm.

“You’re from Beef Malligan?” came Luke’s question, in a whisper.

“Right,” responded Cliff.

“I thought so,” whispered the tattooed man. “Well, this is part of the racket. Hold your arm steady. I won’t take long.”

THE needle began its jabs. Each puncture of the implement left a tiny dot of red. Cliff watched the procedure while he listened to Luke’s next statements. The buzz of the electric machine covered Luke’s subdued voice.

“This puts you in the outfit,” informed the tattooed man. “You’re just a home-town guy from here in Marlborough. Got the bug to join up with the circus. See?”

Cliff nodded. The needle was moving along the arc of an imaginary circle, forming the beginning of a red ring on Cliff’s forearm.

“Hoof it down by the big top,” resumed Luke. “Ask for Hank. Tell him you want to join up. Just another roughneck for the crew. Let your sleeve slide up while you’re talking. Then Hank will know you’re with it. Savvy?”

“I get it,” responded Cliff.

“Don’t go shoving this mark around under people’s noses,” warned Luke, as he continued with the needle. “Just keep flashing it, here on the lot, whenever you run into a new gazebo. Let the guy lamp it if he’s looking for it. Get the idea?”

“Right.”

“Then you won’t need a visiting card. Get me? You’ll know the crew and they’ll know you. If any trouble starts, roll your sleeves up. Then’s the time to make sure we all know each other. But in the meantime, just pass along any word when you get it and be on the job when you’re needed. That’s the why for this red circle.”

The buzz stopped as Luke finished speaking. On Cliff’s arm was an indelible circle of red. Luke made a gesture. Cliff pulled down his sleeve. The tattooed man arose from his chair.

“Come around tomorrow if you want any more work done,” informed Luke, again using his louder tone. “We ain’t moving for a couple of days yet. If there’s any local boys want some good work reasonable, tell them to come up here.”

“Sure thing,” responded Cliff.

Cliff slid down from the platform and sauntered to the entrance of the Ten-in-One. The show had finished; Captain Guffy had returned to the platform to begin another bally. With him were The Solvas, and Princess Marxia, and other performers whom Cliff had not seen during his interrupted trip.

REACHING the midway, Cliff paced toward the circus tent. He glanced at the huge painted banners outside of the Ten-in-One as he walked along. Luke, Cleed, Princess Marxia, Baby Liz — all were portrayed in mammoth exaggeration upon the gaudy, painted sheets of canvas.

Cliff passed concession tents where “percentage” wheels and other games were drawing customers. He watched patrons make unsuccessful attempts to knock down ten-pins with swinging bowling balls. He saw a big farmer swinging a sledge hammer against the springboard base of a “high striker.”

Cliff smiled. It was a far cry from the badlands of New York. There was something wholesome in this outdoor atmosphere. Cliff could feel the lure of the show business. He realized that there were rackets among the concessions; that con men might be among the crowds, looking for dupes. But it all seemed mild compared with the environment that Cliff had left.

This feeling persisted in Cliff’s mind as The Shadow’s agent swung from the beaten path of the midway and headed off toward parked trucks at the side of the circus tent. Then, in a twinkling, Cliff was carried back to the realm of the underworld when a burly figure blocked his course and a snarling voice demanded:

“Where you goin’ mug?”

Cliff eyed his challenger. The burly man had stepped from behind a truck. He was evidently with the circus. But his speech and his manner were those of a gangster. Cliff sensed that the fellow must be one of the gorillas whom Beef Malligan had exported from Manhattan.

“I’m looking for a guy named Hank,” retorted Cliff. “They said I’d find him down here by the big top.”

“Yeah? Well move along. I’ll take you to him.”

The challenger let Cliff go first. That was another indication of the fellow’s origin. The typical circus roughneck would have led the way. This rowdy was following.

A hard-faced, sweatered man was standing by the entrance of a lighted tent. The circus grounds were wired with electricity from the Marlborough plant; a cord, hooked to the tent pole, showed the features of this individual. Like the roughneck who was following Cliff, the standing man looked like one of Beef Malligan’s old mob.

“There’s Hank,” came a growl from in back of Cliff.

The Shadow’s agent nodded. He decided to forget the fellow who was trailing him. He approached the man by the tent flap and looked him in the eye.

“Is your name Hank?” he questioned.

“Yeah,” was the reply. “Who are you?”

“They call me Cliff. I’m from here in Marlborough. Thought I’d like to join up with the circus. Any kind of a job will do. Pulling stakes — pitching tents—”

Other men had appeared while Cliff was talking. Two of them looked like mobsters; the others were apparently bona fide circus roughnecks. Cliff paid no attention to their arrival. As he spoke of doing heavy work, he made a natural gesture of drawing up his sleeves. He flashed the red circle that Luke had tattooed on his arm.

HANK spotted it. He nodded. Methodically, he began to roll his own sleeve. The rising sweater enabled Cliff to glimpse a red circle.

The man who had followed Cliff was stepping into the light. His sleeves were already up. He shifted his arm with the palm outward, so Cliff could catch the quick sight of another circled token.

“Guess we can use you, bud,” growled Hank. “The old man don’t kick if we take on a few extra roughnecks — providin’ they’re husky. Come along up to the office. I’ll fix it for you.”

They passed another hard-faced fellow as they neared the fringe of the light. Cliff saw Hank make a gesture toward his sleeve. The man flashed a red circle. Cliff did the same. Then came a stretch of darkness. Hank was leading the way to the office.

Cliff smiled. He had become the follower.

Yet there was grimness in Cliff’s expression. Already, he was learning the inside of the game. Planted with the circus, traveling with the midway, were agents of crime. Tattooed circles of red were the recognition marks that kept this compact band together. Cliff knew of the comradeship that ruled circus folk; he realized that these rogues were using it as a cover for their crooked purposes.

He also knew that Croaker Zinn must be the head of this secret crew. He had not noticed Croaker on the circus lot; probably the mobleader was keeping out of sight. Hank, Cliff decided, was just one of the gang who had stepped to a position of small authority with the circus. He was the fellow who took on the mobsmen who came from Beef Malligan.

When they reached the office, Hank entered without ceremony, beckoning to Cliff to follow him. Stuffy Dowson was just inside the door. Hank greeted him by his nickname; then spoke to Tex Larch who was sitting by a desk.

“What is it, Hank?” questioned the circus owner, wheeling in his pivoted chair.

“I’m hirin’ another roughneck,” informed Hank. “Brought him up here with me, Mr. Larch. This is the fellow.”

Tex Larch eyed Cliff.

“He looks all right,” commented the circus owner. “Sure you need him, Hank?”

“We can use him. Looks like a couple of roughnecks are gettin’ ready to blow. We may need more before we leave this burg.”

“All right, Hank.”

Tex wheeled back to the desk. Hank nudged his thumb toward the door. Nothing further was necessary. Cliff Marsland had become a roughneck with the Larch Circus and Greater Shows.

Outside the office, Cliff and Hank bumped into Captain Guffy coming over from the Ten-in-One. As they sidestepped Guffy, Cliff paused to let a girl walk by. She, too, was bound for the office. Her attractive face and her red hair brought a recollection to Cliff. He fancied that he had seen the girl before.

“Who was the girl?” Cliff questioned Hank, as they were walking toward the circus tent.

“Lucille Lavan,” informed the mobster. “The skirt that does the high wire act in the big top.”

Cliff nodded. He had seen Lucille’s picture on the billboards, coming into town. That was why he had recalled her face. Then his thoughts of the girl dwindled. Cliff’s brain pondered on a more immediate subject.

Cliff had reached his goal. He was a member of the crooked band traveling with Tex Larch’s circus. Tonight, he would find opportunity to slip down to the town of Marlborough and send a wire to New York.

For Cliff Marsland sensed that crime was already brewing. Wise to the ways of crooks, he could tell that the atmosphere was already charged with some lawless game. More than that, Cliff could see the menace of the future.

Word to The Shadow! That was Cliff’s next step. From the inside of the racket, The Shadow’s agent was prepared to notify his mysterious chief that he had found a hot-bed of crime!