Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

Pit of Fear by Clayton Matthews

“Dead men rise up never?” That’s what the poem said. But my pal in the casket did just that every day — until the last day...

The man in the casket had none of the waxy pallor of death. There was color in his cheeks, the color of life. But his eyes were closed, the long-fingered hands folded peacefully across his chest. And the fluted, beak-like nostrils showed no signs of breathing.

A man and a woman stood looking down at the casket. They hadn’t seen me come in. It was late, after midnight, and the big carnival tent was empty except for the three of us. They were arguing about something as I stopped behind them. Their voices, even in contention, had a hushed, sepulchral quality in the big tent.

The woman said in a tense whisper, “Gil, I can’t! Carl will have to come out any minute, and he’s always angry if I’m not here.”

“You’d think I was asking you out on a date,” Gil Holt said bitterly, “instead of going to the cook tent for a lousy cup of coffee!”

Linda Mercer said, “But don’t you see, to Carl it’s the same thing!”

“No, I don’t see. All I can see is a beautiful broad married to a man twice her age!”

I cleared my throat loudly, and the pair spun around guiltily.

Gil Holt said, “Patch! We didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I nodded toward the man in the casket. “Carl all right?”

“Sure, he’s fine.” Holt’s glance swung toward the casket, and he took a step back. “Look, he’s watching us!”

The grave, if such it could be called, occupied a position of prominence in the sideshow tent, isolated by several feet from one end of the long platform running down the center. The area around the grave was chained off, a section of striped canvas hung from the chain, dragging the ground like a woman’s long skirt.

Actually the grave was little more than a rectangular pit, dug before the first performance of each new carnival date. The bottom two-thirds of the casket was covered with dirt, packed in tightly and mounded on top. The upper third was clear glass. It was set on a slight slant, giving the spectators on the entrance side of the pit an unobstructed view of the man inside. A heavy chain was wrapped around the lid, held in place by a large padlock.

The eyes of the man in the casket, deep black and strangely compelling, were wide open, staring up at us. His gaze was baleful, faintly menacing. His hands were still crossed over his chest, but now there was a barely perceptible rise and fall of the chest.

I saw Gil Holt shiver. “He always spooks me when I see him looking out of the damn coffin! Like a dead man come to life.”

Linda laughed mockingly. “That’s the name of the exhibit, Gil. ‘Buried Alive!’ ”

I heard the scamper of feet behind me. I glanced around at Juval.

Juval was a dwarf, standing just short of four feet, with stubby, powerful arms and legs. His was a gargoyle’s face, always fixed in a grin. He was a deaf mute. When Carl Mercer was out of the pit, Juval was in almost constant attendance, trotting along after the man. Juval had never learned to read or write. The only way he could communicate was through pantomime, and Mercer was the only person who could interpret his pantomimicry.

Now Juval capered on his short legs, gesticulating. He caught Linda’s attention and gestured toward the pit.

She nodded, saying curtly, “Yes, Juval. It’s time to get him out now.”

Juval bobbed his head and did a jig, leaping high in the air and hitting his heels together. He was carrying a half-empty pop bottle. Every time he had a chance, between his bally appearances for the ten-in-one freak show, he scuttled up to the cook tent for a bottle of cold pop. He set the bottle down now and darted into the shadows at the end of the tent. He was back in a moment with a short-handled spade. Working at amazing speed, he began shoveling the dirt away from the casket.

I watched, fascinated as always. Carl Mercer would die of suffocation within minutes of coming out of the trance unless he was freed from the casket.

I was vague about the particulars. It had something to do with only a few minutes, twenty at the most, of oxygen left at the end of an eight-hour trance. During the trance itself, Mercer’s bodily processes almost ceased, and he consumed only a minimal amount of air. But the instant he came out of the trance, his body functions resumed, and he needed the normal quantity of oxygen.

I knew Mercer worked without a gimmick. The casket was airtight. It wasn’t gaffed; there was no gimmick. This fact confounded most of the carnies. They couldn’t understand why Mercer worked without a gimmick, especially in an act as potentially dangerous as this one. The first day on any new carnival date, I personally supervised while a group of townies, reputable citizens who had no reason to lie, closely examined both Mercer and the casket. There were always local reporters covering it, and it made for good publicity.

“Aren’t you going to help Juval dig him out, Gil?” Linda’s voice was taunting.

Gil Holt said harshly, “I didn’t hire out to use a shovel.”

“Why not? It wouldn’t hurt that golden throat of yours.”

He glared at her without speaking. I studied the pair, sensing something going on between them.

Linda Mercer was slight, lithe as a whippet, with the purity of beauty of a madonna. Green-eyed, with long golden blonde hair, there was nothing madonna-like about her figure. A yellow sweater and a tight grey skirt outlined an exciting body.

Gil Holt was new this season with the carnie. He was the front talker, the barker, for the freak show. Around twenty-five, he was young for the job. He was darkly handsome, with a lean and hungry look about him. But he had a good voice and a gift of gab. He was doing a good job with the ten-in-one, pulling the marks in. The freak show was the carnie’s top grosser.

A clod of dirt slipped from Juval’s shovel, thudding hollowly onto the half-uncovered casket. The dirge-like sound scraped along my nerves like a file. I shivered and quietly drifted outside.

I paused by the bally platform to light a cigar, looking up the midway toward the smear of light in the carnie night that was the cook tent. The rest of the carnie was dark except for a few bulbs on a light stringer down the middle of the midway. The rides slumbered under their night hoods, and the show tents bulked dark and quiet banners rolled up for the night. The concession tents were also closed down.

I’m called Patch by the carnies, straight name Dave Cole. I’m the fixer for Tex Montana’s Wonder Shows. I’m part lawman, part grease artist. I keep peace among the carnies, which is no easy job, and grease the way with the local authorities in each new location to allow the concession joints to run wide open and the girlie shows to parade the girls in the buff.

I started toward the cook tent, thinking about Carl Mercer, the star attraction and operator of the ten-in-one. East year, Mercer’s first with the carnival, I had watched in his house trailer as Mercer hypnotized himself into a trance in preparation for his act.

It had been an eerie few minutes. Mercer had stretched out on his back on the couch, with his hands crossed over his chest. At the foot of the couch had been a metronome fixed in the beam of a flashlight. As I watched, Mercer had slipped silently into a deep coma. Two canvasmen had entered the trailer and carried Mercer, stiff as a board, into the freak show tent and placed him in the casket. Then Linda had locked the chain around the glass lid, and Juval had shoveled dirt onto it.

Although I don’t have the usual carnie skepticism, I found it hard to believe his act wasn’t gimmicked. Magnets in the lid and in the casket itself sealed it airtight when closed, much as a refrigerator door operates. I had seen needles poked into the man’s skin without Mercer flinching. I had seen a mirror held to his mouth without a trace of moisture showing. A search for a pulse revealed none. It always took a doctor to find signs of life.

A movement at the tent entrance caught my eye. It was Gil Holt. His face dark and scowling, he strode past me without a word.

I had wondered about Holt and Linda Mercer. Linda was a desirable woman, married to a much older man, and Gil Holt was a womanizer. I wouldn’t have been too surprised to learn of an affair between them.

But Carl Mercer was a jealous, possessive man, and he wouldn’t hesitate an instant to throw Linda out if he got even a hint of hanky-panky. And Linda had a good thing going. Mercer was quite well off, and I doubted she would risk losing that money by playing around with some guy. Once a renowned escape artist in the mold of Houdini, Mercer had made a fortune, but something had happened, causing him to lose his nerve. Now he was reduced to the carnie level.

A small figure scooted past me toward the cook tent. It was Juval. That meant that Mercer was out of the pit for the night. I knew Juval was headed for the cook tent for a bottle of pop. He slept on a blanket under the ten-in-one bally platform, and at the end of every engagement his little nest was ringed round with empty pop bottles.

I dropped my cigar onto the ground, toed it out in the wood shavings, and headed toward the cook tent myself. It consisted of a long counter with stools and a number of tables with folding chairs.

It was open to the public, of course, but its primary purpose was to feed the carnies, those who didn’t cook their own meals. After closing each night the cook tent served as a gathering place. Even those carnies who cooked in their trailers or tents usually came in for coffee and pie. They gathered to exchange scuttlebutt and to boast or bemoan the night’s grosses.

I flipped my hand in greeting to Kay Foster at the cash register in front and went along the counter, picked up a slab of apple pie and a cup of coffee and found an empty table in the back.

I saw Gil Holt sitting alone at a table in front. When I’d finished my pie and lit a fresh cigar, I glanced his way again and saw with some astonishment that Linda Mercer had joined him. They were talking heatedly in low voices.

I glanced around as Kay approached my table with a cup of coffee. Kay was dark, pretty and discontented with carnie life. We had a thing going. I had once been a practicing attorney, and Kay was always at me to return to private practice. I kept procrastinating. I liked the free and easy life of a carnival Patch.

“Hi, Dave. Got everything buttoned up for the night?”

“Just about, babe.”

She sat down and said in a low voice, “What’s with those two?”

“Gil and Linda? Could be they— Oh, oh!”

I broke off as I spotted Carl Mercer entering the tent and striding to the table where his wife sat with Holt. Juval trotted along behind him, the inevitable pop bottle in his hand.

Mercer paused beside Linda’s chair. He didn’t bother to keep his voice down, every word carrying easily. “I thought you understood our relationship, Holt. In any case I will clarify it now.”

“But I—” Holt started to say.

“You work for me as front talker,” Mercer swept on. “And that is the extent to which you are involved with my wife and me. Do I make myself clear?”

“No, you don’t,” Holt blustered. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

Mercer’s gaze was level. “I think you do. I think you know very well. There is a line which you do not step over. If you do, I will find myself another front talker.”

Holt’s show of indignation crumpled under Mercer’s penetrating stare, and he looked down at his coffee cup.

Mercer held out his hand. He said imperiously, “Come, my dear.”

Linda got up without looking at Holt and went out with her husband, Juval dancing at their heels. Holt sat staring down into his cup. Then he looked up, gaze sweeping the tent as if daring anyone to even look crosseyed. He got to his feet and stomped out.

“You think somethin’s going on between those two, Dave?” Kay asked. “Gil Holt and Linda, I mean?”

“I’ve been thinking about that. Linda’s an idiot, if she’s fooling around. But then—”

“But then something’s always going on with carnies. Right, Dave?”

I changed the subject. “How about a movie, Kay? There’s a good one showing in town.”

“You’re sure you can leave the carnie for that long?” Then she relented, reaching over to touch my hand. “That sounds fine, darling. Soon as I close up the register.”

The crowd was gathering around the ten-in-one the next night as I walked up. Gil Holt was beginning his last bally pitch of the night. Juval was on the platform, banging on an iron wheel with a hammer and, capering on his short legs. Gil Holt, sporty in a bright shirt and dove-colored slacks, marched up and down, chanting into a small microphone cupped in his hand.

“Hi, lookee! Everybody down this way, folks! This is where the freaks are! The strange, the unusual, the weird, the unbelievable! Gather down in close for a free show!”

Holt motioned, and a parade of freaks filed up the short steps and lined up on the bally platform. Ikey, the Tattooed Man, wearing only a loin cloth, every inch of his exposed body, excepting his face, covered with tattoos. Flowers, ships, miniature landscapes, panels of comic strip characters. He flexed a bicep, and a naked woman performed a rippling dance.

Next the Crucified Man, who had small holes bored through his hands. With a hose he shot jets of water through the holes, while the growing crowd stretched, craning necks, and oohed and aahed. Next came Fumo, a tall man in a flaming-red Satan suit complete with horns, carrying two blazing torches. He tilted his head far back, rammed a torch down his throat until it seemed to go out, then removed it and leaned toward the audience, breathing flames like a dragon of olden times.

Gil Holt gestured grandly. “That’s enough! After all, we’re here to make money. We can’t show all our wonders for free, now can we?” He chuckled companionably. “What you see before your very eyes, ladies and gentlemen, is only a small sample of what goes on inside the tent.”

He wheeled and pointed a dramatic finger at the big center banner stretched across the entrance of the tent. The banner depicted the buried casket with Carl Mercer in it, eyes closed, hands folded across his chest. Across the top of the banner were huge letters: BURIED ALIVE!

“This is our main attraction, ladies and gentlemen,” Holt said smoothly. “You have to see it to believe it! This man was breathing, eating, living, only short hours ago. Now he is, for all practical purposes, dead. He is not breathing, his heart is not beating. Yet, less than one hour from now, he will return to the land of the living! You have to see it with your own eyes to believe it. So step right up and buy your tickets! No waiting, ho delay, the show never stops. It’s going on inside right this very minute!”

With a flourish of his hand Gil Holt sent the performers hurrying from the platform and into the tent. Juval gave the wheel a final clang and scampered down the steps. I saw him duck under the bally platform. I knew he wouldn’t come out again until time to get Mercer out. I fired a cigar and watched for a few minutes as people lined up at the ticket-box. They would have a full tent.

I strolled on up the midway, checking on other shows and the rides. A minor crisis held me up at the merry-go-round where a child had fallen off a horse. He wasn’t hurt badly, but I had to see that he got medical attention and examined by a doctor. His parents were grateful he wasn’t hurt, but I knew from past, sad experience that they could change their minds later and launch a massive law suit.

Consequently it was quite late when I approached the freak tent again. The front was dark, the banners rolled up for the night. It was long past time for Mercer to be out. I started to walk on.

Something made me hesitate, then turn into the tent. It was deserted. I let my glance sweep the empty tent and started to turn back out. Then I stopped short. There was something wrong.

A second glance told me what it was. There was no mound of dirt, no casket in sight. I hurried over to the pit.

Mercer was still sealed in the casket. His eyes were wide and staring sightlessly, his face frozen in a horrible grimace of death. One of his hands was up by his face. The nails were torn and bleeding.

I could readily see what had happened. He had come out of the trance; there had been no one around to get him out, and he had scrabbled and torn at the coffin lid until the air was all gone, and he had died of asphyxiation.

But where was Juval?

I hurried out of the tent — there was nothing anyone could do now for Carl Mercer — and to the bally platform. I raised the canvas. Juval was sprawled on his back on the blanket, his mouth open and snoring. I shook him, but he was out cold. I leaned down and sniffed. There was no odor of alcohol. It made no sense, no sense at all. There were several empty pop bottles near him. I collected the whole lot and stashed them out of sight in the ticket box.

Two hours later, we were all in the tent, gathered around the open pit. Several of the carnies had dug down, opened the casket and removed Mercer’s body. The police had come and gone, taking the body with them.

Just before the police came, Juval had stumbled into the tent. He had rushed to Mercer, a muted cry of anguish coming from him. Then he had scurried to the pit, looked down at the empty casket, and gazed around at the accusing faces, his small black eyes pleading dumbly for an explanation.

The police had interrogated everyone without getting any pertinent answers. They had tried to interrogate Juval, without any success whatsoever. They had held out little hope they would arrive at any solution, leaving the impression they didn’t really care very much. After all this was a carnival; everyone knew carnival people were strange, addicted to weird doings, and here today, gone tomorrow. I was certain they would eventually label it accidental death.

As they took Mercer’s body out, Juval had tried to go along, and had to be forcibly restrained.

Now Juval stood at the edge of the pit, gazing down into it, his tiny figure hunched in voiceless grief, as though he expected the nightly miracle to recur and Mercer would rise once again from the dead.

I had questioned Gil Holt and Linda without learning anything. Gil Holt seemed smug, self-satisfied. I had a strong hunch that he was somehow responsible. But I had no proof and saw no chance of getting any. My thought was that he had slipped something into one of Juval’s pop bottles, probably sleeping pills. I had told my suspicions to the officer in charge of the investigation, without naming names. He had ordered all the bottles collected and taken downtown for an examination. Yet I was doubtful of any fruitful results. If Holt had doped Juval’s drink, he could easily have disposed of the bottle afterward. He’d have been stupid not to.

The tent began to empty. I waited until the carnies were gone. It was quite late now. I stood for a moment in indecision, looking at Juval’s hunched figure. I finally went out and left him alone with his grief.

Juval’s vigil beside the open pit continued the next day. All efforts to lead him away had failed. The freak show people brought him food and water; he had refused everything but a little water.

But what outraged the freaks was Linda Mercer’s and Gil Holt’s decision pot only to open the show that evening, but to capitalize on Mercer’s death and Juval’s vigil.

When I stopped before the tent for the evening’s first bally, something new had been added to the front. All Gil Holt had to do to drum up a crowd was point to the new, narrow banner strips pasted across the big center BURIED ALIVE! banner. The first strip said, “See the pit where the BURIED ALIVE man actually died!” The second said, “See his beloved dwarf continue his sorrowful vigil!”

The crowd’s morbid curiosity did the rest. Evidently word had spread among the townies about the strange death of a carnie freak. They fought to get in line at the ticket box. The tent was filled to capacity within minutes.

I followed the stragglers into the tent. The freaks were all on the center platform, but they were getting little attention. The bulk of the crowd was clotted around the pit, threatening to snap the chain. They gazed in hushed awe at Juval, who stood without moving, head bowed, staring down at the open, empty coffin. He gave no indication that he was even aware of the crowd.

I saw Gil Holt standing off to one side, watching with a smug expression. Rage boiled up in me. I stalked over to him. “Around a carnie, you learn to expect almost anything, but this stunt is the rottenest thing I’ve ever seen!”

Gil Holt smirked. “We’re pulling in the loot, ain’t we?”

“Holt, as soon as these people get out of here, I want you to close this show down until Mercer’s decently buried!”

“You want? Just who are you to be ordering me around?” His eyes narrowed to slits. “Linda turned the show over to me, and tonight’s going to be the biggest this nut collection’s ever had. And you tell me to slough it? Fat chance, shoo-fly!”

I took a deep breath, calming down. “Okay, Holt, but I have some business with Mrs. Mercer after closing tonight. It’s about Mercer’s new will. You’d better be there, too.”

Gil Holt stared. “New will?”

“That’s right. I helped him draw up a new one, and he left it with me. I just read it again. Tell Mrs. Mercer to be in her trailer at twelve.”

They were both waiting for me in the Mercer trailer when I arrived just after midnight.

Without preliminaries, Linda said, “What’s this Gil tells me about a new will?”

“That’s right, Mrs. Mercer. Your husband came to me a few days ago and made out a new will. This isn’t an official reading, the will is locked in the office wagon safe. But I thought I should fill you in on a few things...”

Linda cut in, “Just get on with it, Patch!”

“All right.” I was enjoying myself greatly. “The terms are simple. All of Mercer’s estate, with the exception of one dollar to you, Mrs. Mercer, is left in trust to Juval. Although I protested against it, he made me administrator of that trust.”

Linda went pale. “Juval! All Carl’s money goes to that—”

I continued, “Your husband provided a substantial income for you, Mrs. Mercer — with a stipulation. This income will be, paid from the trust only so long as you take good care of Juval. Should you fail to do so, in my judgement, your income will immediately cease. But you see, Mrs. Mercer, your husband did provide for you.”

Her lip curled. “Some providing, being stuck with him!”

“There is one other clause of interest. Should Juval predecease you, the trust is terminated and the remainder of the, estate then goes to you. I tried to talk him out of inserting that clause.”

Gil Holt had been listening closely. Now he said, “He did all this only a few days ago?”

I glanced at him and said with calculated malice, “That’s right. I tried to persuade him to reveal the contents of the will to both of you. Had he done so, he could very well be alive right now.”

Gil Holt bristled. “Are you accusing me of something?”

Linda gestured sharply. “Shut up, Gil.”

“But baby, I—”

She turned on him viciously. “I said shut up!”

They sat glaring at each other, and I grinned openly. I might not be able to prove Holt responsible for Mercer’s death, but at least he wouldn’t profit from it now, and I had set these two at each other’s throats.

I stood up. “I guess I’ll leave you two alone now.”

Juval’s vigil continued for the next two days, and the ten-in-one continued to do a thriving business. I kept a close watch on the freak show. I was amused to see Linda hovering in clucking solicitude around the dwarf. She kept the crowd back from the chain, and once I saw her urging food on Juval, who refused once again.

I lingered behind as the crowd thinned out somewhat, and Gil Holt came into the tent. He plowed past without seeing me and stopped beside Linda. I was close enough to eavesdrop.

“What’s with you and the runt, baby?” His laughter was thin. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had adopted him!”

“Your job’s the front end, Gil. You handle that and let me take care of things inside.” Her manner was cold, scornful. “You’re, having a big week. Think of the gross and be happy.”

She turned her back and began talking to Juval in a low voice, pointing to her mouth and wriggling her fingers in front of his face. My God, I thought, she’s trying to communicate with him!

Holt watched for a moment, then seized her arm and turned her to face him.

“Damn you, after what I did for you! Now it looks like it’s all for nothing!” he cried.

“You did nothing for me!” She wrenched her arm out of his grip and slapped him hard. “Now leave me alone!”

Holt’s face went white, and I thought he was going to hit her. Then his glance flicked around the tent, and he saw me. Without another word he stormed past me and out of the tent.

I grinned and flipped my hand at Linda and went out. Gil Holt was standing beside the ticket box, smoking furiously. He gave me a look of pure hatred.

I made my rounds until the midway began to close down, then stopped in at the cook tent to pass some, time with Kay. I had already decided to return to the ten-in-one after it closed and make a determined effort to lure Juval away from the pit and get some food into him. It was after midnight when I strolled back to the freak show. I toed out my cigar and went inside.

There was very little light in the tent, but enough to show me Juval, still in the same position where I’d last seen him. I walked over, clearing my throat to alert him. I stopped beside him, started to touch his shoulder, then stared down into the pit in shock.

The casket was no longer empty! The lid was down, covered with dirt except for the upper glass, and there was someone in it. For an instant my senses reeled. Had Carl Mercer returned from the dead? It was an eerie feeling.

I stepped closer, peering down, and saw that the figure in the coffin was Gil Holt. His eyes stared emptily, lips drawn back from his teeth. One hand was up before his face, the nails broken and caked with blood where he had clawed at the lid.

He had died horribly, as horribly as had Mercer. What had happened here? Obviously Juval was responsible, but how? He was very strong for his size. Still...

I squatted on my heels before him. His features had smoothed out now, most of the grief gone. I mouthed the words carefully, “What happened, Juval? Can you tell me?”

He understood me. Bobbing his head eagerly, he pantomimed what had taken place, tumbling about, twisting his supple body into strange positions.

Finally I thought I had the story straight. At least, his version of it. He had been standing in the same spot when Gil. Holt crept up behind him and tried to throw him bodily into the casket. But it had ended up the other way, with Holt in the coffin. Then Juval pantomimed closing the lid and shoveling dirt over it. Finally he gave a graphic depiction of the agonies Holt suffered before he died.

I sighed and got to my feet. I took Juval’s hand to lead him out of the tent. I expected resistance, but he went along quietly, without even looking back. At the bally platform he reached under for an empty pop bottle, pantomimed drinking from it, then flopped down on the blanket and pretended to fall asleep.

I nodded my understanding. It was as I had suspected all along. His pop had been doped with sleeping pills and he had slept past the time to get Mercer out. Why hadn’t he tried to communicate this before? But the more important question was, had he suspected, or known, all along that Gil Holt was responsible? Or had he deliberately provoked the attack so he could get his revenge? Or had Holt tried to kill him out of frustration over the changed will and Linda’s sudden rejection, hoping that he would still get Linda and Mercer’s money with Juval eliminated?

Since Juval couldn’t answer the questions, I would probably never know the answers. In a way it didn’t matter. It seemed to me things had come full circle.

I gripped Juval’s shoulder, smiling at him. He beamed, head bobbing, then lay back down. He fell into a sleep of utter exhaustion, even before I dropped the canvas back into place.

The final question remained: what should I tell the local police?

I had no wish to see Juval arrested for murder, and I was sure the other carnies would feel the same way. Likely the investigation would be as casual as before. Our present engagement would end in two more days, and the carnival would be moving on. The police would be happy to have us out of their jurisdiction.

Thinking out what, and how much, I would tell them, I headed toward the office wagon to make the call.