The Headless Lady

Chapter Fourteen Stolen Sword

For the next hour or two Merlini dithered nervously, his usual Oriental calm more than a little upset. He wandered with apparent aimlessness about the lot as if waiting for something to happen; he side-stepped all my attempts at conversation. We side-walled in to the kid show again and caught the final afternoon performance. Merlini glumly eyed the armless knife-thrower, the snake woman, and “The Human Salamander who actually eats, drinks, and swallows living flame.”

Finally, however, I struck a spark that caused him to brighten momentarily.

“You remember the old chestnut about the boy who found the strayed horse by imagining himself to be a horse and asking himself where he would stray to?”

“Yes, of course. The horse chestnut.” Merlini regarded me curiously. “You aren’t suggesting that I imagine I’m a missing body and ask myself where a murderer might hide me?”

“Something like that, yes. Imagine you are the murderer. Personally, I think I might figure that the innards of a phony mummy on exhibition — the mummy of a murderer at that — would be the last place anybody’d look.”

Merlini gave me a sour glance. “That just goes to show what writing for the pulps will do to a man’s imagination. You need a cold compress in place of your hat. This imitation cadaver is pretty well shriveled up. It would have to be an awfully small missing body.”

“I’d cut it up into smaller pieces for easier packing.”

Merlini shivered. “Okay, Butch. If the body’s there, you’ve convicted yourself. Then I’ll imagine I’m Chief Hooper and arrest you.”

He went over to the mummy, lifted it slightly, and gave it a shake.

“No,” he decided. “Light as a feather and nary a rattle. He’s empty enough. I wish you’d take that morbid imagination of yours out for a walk — and lose it.”

Farmer came up just then, and before you could say Hey Rube he and Merlini were involved in a technical discussion of three-card-monte, and were trying their damnedest to fool each other with it. Merlini demonstrated a positively diabolical magician’s version in which a corner of the ace bearing a pip was torn off and left lying face up. Then he threw out the three cards face down and asked me to put my money on the ace. Like a chump I chose the torn card and lost. It proved to be the three-spot, while the ace, its corners all intact, was one of the others!

Then Farmer started what Merlini tells me is known as “cutting up old scores”—talking over old times.

“I was tossing broads on the backstretch at Saratoga,” he said, apparently not realizing that the Romance languages I’d been exposed to were all the orthodox sort. “There was a fly gee in the tip with a big mittful of folding scratch. He thought he could pick me up, so I let him see me take out the crimp. Then I crossed him up by putting it back in the same broad! He was all set to spring when Paper-Collar Ed, who was weeding the sticks, rumbled the gaff trying to duke the cush back to me. Another savage blowed it, sneaked out, and beefed to the fuzz. The mark knew the big fellow, and the coppers had to turn on the heat. Ed and I were squeezed before we could slough the joint, and then the fix curdled. The robe was all set to hand us a ninety-day jolt when—”[3]

I was interested, but I don’t like foreign films without English subtitles dubbed in, so I wandered off and took in the freaks. My association with Merlini had taught me just enough about the principles of misdirection so that I caught one thing some of the other onlookers missed. Swede Johnson, the sword-swallower, handed out a razor-sharp sword for examination. After it had been returned, he laid it aside for a moment while he swallowed and regurgitated a lemon and a live white mouse. Then, when he picked up the sword again, he really took another apparently identical, but much duller, one. When he had finished his act, I saw him duck out under the side wall and head toward the cookhouse in search of something more digestible.

I also caught the Headless Lady again. It was operating now with one of the cooch dancers doubling for the missing girl. After that, as the lecturer was about to blow the performance off with the last presentation, the Oriental Dancing Girl Review, for men only, and just as I had paid out the extra quarter that entitled me to an eyeful, Merlini and Farmer announced their intention of putting on the feedbag. I was still full of hamburgers, but I was afraid that if I didn’t stick to Merlini I might miss something even more interesting than “the little lady’s graceful and astonishing exhibition of muscular control.” I wrote the two bits off as a loss and went with them. Joy Pattison joined the party when we met her in the back yard.

According to custom, the performers and white-collar workers were seated before the long oilcloth-covered tables at one end of the cookhouse, the workingmen at the other. An excited conversational buzzing arose from both groups. The activities of the troopers had let the cat out of the bag. The Major’s murder, Pauline’s fall, and the missing lady were being given a thorough going-over.

Merlini said little as he ate, his attention directed at the fragments of talk that floated our way. We were having our coffee when Keith made a belated arrival and announced that the troopers had just started on a search of all the cars and trailers.

“Mac’s sputtering about it some,” he said. “But not too much. He knows he has to play ball, or this show’ll never get off the lot in the morning. Schafer holds the high card there. By the way, Merlini, I hope you and Ross have a full set of ironclad alibis?”

“The Chief still after our heads?”

“Yes. I heard him say that he wouldn’t like any alibi that you turned in. When I said that you and Ross were with me when the lights went out, he told the Captain, ‘So what? The guy’s a magician. He could rig up some sort of hocus-pocus that would douse the lights when he was some place else!”

Merlini frowned. “They’re concentrating on the alibi situation, then?”

“Looks that way,” Keith replied. “And I don’t like it at all. The only person who doesn’t have a single solitary corroborated alibi—” His voice came to a slow stop, and he scowled angrily at his plate.

“Yes?” Merlini asked.

“Well, it’s Joy, isn’t it?” Keith looked across at her. Joy’s fingers playing with her cheap spoon had bent it into a complete circle. “If they try to arrest her I’ll probably go along too, charged with assault and battery. It looks as if someone was fixing it for her to take the rap. I’m going to know who or—”

“No,” Merlini contradicted, “I don’t think suspicion is being directed at her — if it were, we’d probably have found the rubber gloves planted in her trailer instead of where we did. Besides, you know that the person who doesn’t have any alibi at all is usually an innocent bystander, while the murderer always tries to be prepared with one or more nice slick ones.”

Joy asked, “But is the Captain going to figure it that way? Sounds a little advanced for the ordinary copper.”

“I’ve a notion,” Merlini said, “that Schafer isn’t just an ordinary cop; and Hooper, who is, seems to be concentrating on me. Perhaps we’d better run through the alibis once, set them up, and see if we can crack any. Ross, you’ve been taking notes on this affair, I hope. How do they stand?”

The back of an envelope in my pocket carried a chart with just that information on it. I got it out.

“There are three separate items that call for alibis,” I stated. “The Major’s murder in his trailer and the subsequent moving of his body to the scene of the phony accident — time: between 10:30 and 11:30 Monday night. Two: the monkey business with the lights that caused Pauline’s fall and the swiping of the evidence immediately afterward — time 9:30 to 9:45 last night. We can omit for the moment the eavesdropping at the hotel, since we can’t prove that person and the murderer are the same. Three—”

“I’ll take an exception there, Judge,” Merlini said. “We’ll discuss it later. Proceed.”

“Eavesdropper at the hotel?” Keith wanted to know. “What’s this? I hadn’t heard.”

“Someone snooped around our door,” Merlini explained, “and listened to Ross and myself discussing the case after we’d gone to bed last night.”

“Oh,” Keith said with a flat sound. “That’s why you were quizzing me about staying at the Hotel Chesterfield, was it? I see. But if you think that was the murderer, then it lets Joy out, doesn’t it?”

Merlini shook his head. “It’s not that simple. The desk clerk was in bed. Anyone could have walked in from outside, taken a peek at the register to see what room we had, and put his ear to our keyhole.”

Joy looked at the spoon she had now pulled back into something approximating its original shape. “Keith, my boy,” she said quietly, “if you and I went into conference with that Justice of the Peace, as you’ve been suggesting, maybe, next time there’s a murder, I’d have a witness to my innocence; I wouldn’t be sleeping alone.”

“Sounds like a contradiction in terms,” Keith grinned, “but I think I get what you mean.” He took a folded paper from his pocket. “I’ve had this license nearly six months, and because the Major was afraid marriage would interfere with your career, I was beginning to think I’d never get to use it.” He stood up and looked at the rest of us. “Who wants to do the honors? We both need a couple of witnesses for this.”

“But, Keith,” Joy protested, “I’ve got another show yet tonight. We can’t—”

“No, you don’t, baby. No excuses accepted at this date. Do your show, if you like; but there’ll be a wedding between the acts. I’m going to corral a minister and get him here right now.” He leaned across the table, kissed her, and reached for his hat.

“No,” Merlini objected, “what you’ll get is trouble.

The Captain has sentries posted and, when they nab you trying to leave the lot, the scene of the wedding will have to be transferred to Chief Hooper’s clink … I’d appreciate it if you two kids could restrain yourselves until later. Sit down and help me with these alibis. Weddings are supposed to come after the murderer is unmasked anyway. Go on, Ross.”

Joy signaled Keith to follow directions. He said, “Well, I’ll postpone the match temporarily, but you’ll have to work fast.” He circumnavigated the table and took a seat beside Joy.

I picked up where I had been interrupted. “Three: innocent parties would do well to provide themselves with an alibi for the time of approximately 7:00 o’clock this morning. The Headless Lady, according to witnesses, drove off the lot in Waterboro shortly after 6:45. I’d say that it should have taken her about fifteen minutes to reach the spot where we found the trailer. That all right by you, Merlini?”

He nodded. “Yes, that sounds reasonable enough.”

“The score, then,” I went on, “stands as follows: Joy Pattison, as has been mentioned, leads the field, from the cop’s angle, with no runs, no hits, no alibis. Difficulty: no witnesses to corroborate her statements as to where she was at the crucial times. Keith Atterbury places second with one alibi. He was talking to us in the Major’s trailer when the lights went out, so, unless we assume some mechanical contraption—”

“He doesn’t know one end of a screw driver from another,” Joy said with emphasis. “I doubt if he knows how to wind a clock. I put a patent bottle opener in his stocking last Christmas along with some Scotch. He’d still be thirsty if he hadn’t had help.”

“The deposition of the character witness will be filed,” Merlini said. “Next.”

“Irma King,” I replied. “She scores twice if we accept Ed’s testimony at face value. She’s in the clear on Pauline’s fall and on the stolen evidence. But she has a definite black mark chalked up against her by Pauline’s assertion that she entered the Major’s trailer at just the wrong time. Tex Mayo does better. Three solid-gold alibis. He was working in the concert before a tentful of witnesses when the Major got his; he was in the back yard when the lights went out; and he was busy carrying Pauline out to her trailer when the evidence vanished. Garner ties with him for fourth place, since he also was performing on three occasions. None of the other clowns can swear he was in the sleeping car with them when it made the trip over this morning; that’s his only blank. Irma, Tex, and Garner also seem to have another alibi because, barring clairvoyance, they could hardly have been aware last night, when Pauline fell, that any investigation was going on or that any evidence worth swiping had been discovered. Mac says Pauline told no one what had been going on in the trailer, and it’s not exactly the sort of thing he’d broadcast. As for Mac’s alibis, he’s the worst suspect of the lot. Four good alibis without a miss. Calamity was with him on the front door when the Major went West, and en route with him in the ticket wagon this morning. In the matter of the lights and the evidence, he was conversing with Sheriff Weatherby. Of course, if the fix was in—”

Farmer shook his head. “Maybe,” he said doubtfully. “Fixing a murder rap has been done often enough, but it takes lots of folding scratch. It looks as if you’ll have your dukes full cracking any of those alibis, Merlini.”

“Offhand, I can see three of them that aren’t much good,” Merlini said. “That isn’t the lot, is it, Ross?”

“No. There’s Towne, and I think some of my money goes on him. Where has he been when things happened? Nobody’s thought to ask him for alibis.”

“I have,” Keith put in. “I’ve been doing a little detective work. He doesn’t have any. He says he was watching the concert Monday night when the Major was killed — no corroboration offered. He says he was sitting on the blues watching the show when the lights failed last night — still no witnesses that he can produce.”

“And he was in the hotel,” I added, “when we got up this morning, but that was later than seven by a good bit. With the desk clerk oversleeping as he did, Towne could have gone out earlier and returned. His only gold star is that, so far, he has no apparent motive, whereas all the others have.” I paused a moment, then finished, “I’ve got one other name on the list and I think the rest of my bet goes there. A person with absolutely no alibis at all!”

Merlini looked at me oddly. “Oh, so! A premium in the cracker jack box! Now who—”

It wasn’t until considerably later in the evening that Merlini got the answer to that question. The lack of rapid-fire action during the past couple of hours was only the lull that preceded the storm. The barometer now began a rapid descent as the sword-swallower, who had gone out a few minutes before, hurried back in. Mac was with him. Swede’s Scandinavian stolidness had vanished; his excited jabbering was strangely accompanied by a flock of Latin gestures. Mac’s face held a look that was worried even for him.

Swede lapsed with every few words into his native Swedish, so Mac made the announcement.

“One of Swede’s swords has disappeared!”

“When?” Merlini asked instantly, his voice startled.

“Yoost now,” Swede answered. “It was there when Ay come to eat. Ay go back. It’s gone!”

“And it’s not one of those dull shivs he sticks down his gullet,” Mac added. “It’s one of the nice razor-sharp ones he hands out for examination.”

“Did you report it to Schafer?” Merlini asked.

“Yeah. He doesn’t like it either.”

“It’s not a comforting occurrence,” Merlini admitted. “Those guards of yours that are casing Pauline’s trailer — are they all wide awake?”

“Yes. I added a couple more for good measure. That’s the idea I had, too.”

“Hmm. I wish I knew if it was the right one!” Merlini glanced at Joy. “If you’re doing that ankle-drop tonight, I think I’ll personally give your rigging a once-over just before you go on. And all of you better steer clear of dark corners for the time being. Mac, that telegram you have there. For me?”

“Oh,” Mac said, “yeah. Boy brought it just now.”

As Merlini ripped it open, a bugle call sounded outside.

Joy said, “Damn! First call for spec. I’d better get going.” She rose and waited a moment as if hoping that Merlini would read his wire aloud; but, when he made no move to do so, she started out. Keith, obviously on the horns of a dilemma, hesitated a moment, and then hurried after her.

“Wait, Joy,” he said. “You’re going to be supplied with a witness for the duration.”

Merlini addressed Mac. “Where’s Towne? Seen him?”

“No. Not lately.”

“Round him up for me, will you?”

Mac eyed the yellow telegram form. “Got something on him?” he asked hopefully.

“Yes, I have. I’m going to town on Towne.”

Mac, brightening a bit at this, hurried out. Swede, still scowling, followed.

Merlini gave me the wire. “We ought to hear something really interesting now — from our detective writer. And we’ll hope what he gives us isn’t fiction, for a change.”

The telegram had been handed in at Mamaroneck, New York, at 5:10 p.m. It was addressed to Merlini, care of the Hannum Circus, Norwalk, N.Y. It read: Fact that I am traveling on circus news to me. Thought all the time I was here. Suggest you cash no checks for my alter ego. It was signed: Stuart Towne. None genuine without signature.

“So,” I said, blinking a bit, “that’s why our Mr. Towne doesn’t know proofreaders’ symbols when he sees ’em. And he’s not an ex-convict after all. How’d you know where to locate the real article?”

“I didn’t. I wired his publishers. Told them a man representing himself to be one of their authors was circulating in this vicinity, and that I had doubts. They passed it along to him.”

“You suspected he wasn’t the ex-professional thief because he didn’t know any of the pickpocket lingo? And you checked up with the proofreader’s symbols and the hobo signs?”

“Yes. That and some other things. Remember that the Captain said ‘Towne’ had a pistol permit? The real Towne couldn’t have one — at least none that was legitimately obtained — because he has a felony conviction chalked up against him. And, since the Captain is satisfied, the photo on the permit must match our ‘Towne.’ And apparently the name that goes with it, though not Towne, doesn’t bother the Captain. He knows who ‘Towne’ really is, and his lack of excitement over the knowledge intrigues me no end.”

“I suppose it must,” a quiet voice behind us said. “Towne” stood there, a sober expression on his dark face. He took the red wrapper from a stick of gum which he popped into his mouth. “You’re doing all right,” he added. “I hunt you up because I’ve got a confession to make and I discover you’re already hep. Takes some of the wind out of my sails.”

“Mac find out?” Merlini asked.

“Mac? No, haven’t seen him. This is my. own idea. Mind telling me where the impersonation fell down?”

“Lack of proper background,” Merlini said. “You should have brushed up on the subjects of proofreader’s symbols, hobo signs, and pickpocket argot. You—”

“Proofreader’s signs? Is that what the rest of those hen tracks were in the note you gave me this morning?” Towne frowned. “I guess that point goes to you. I knew the tramp symbols, but I didn’t want to admit it at the time. Besides, I didn’t see why Stuart Towne should know them — I still don’t. Nor the gun talk either. Why would he be up on that? Most detective-story authors still use the old-fashioned lingo, and about all they know of that is the word ‘dip.’”

“You’re not only not Towne, you don’t seem to have read many of his books either.”

“No, I haven’t. Just the last one, The Empty Coffin thing. Read it a few nights ago before I started passing them out. But he doesn’t—”

“Not so much in that one, no,” Merlini said. “He’s using a new locale. But in most of his others there’s plenty of underworld dope, and it’s all the quill — the real thing. If you had read the book reviews or the jacket blurb on his first book, you’d have known that.”

Towne gulped and swallowed his gum. “I’ll be damned! I’m ashamed of myself. My only excuse is that the impersonation was damned impromptu. Oughta read more, I suppose. You see, when I decided to be an author, I hardly expected to run smack into a couple of mystery-story addicts. Should have pretended I was e. e. cummings, or do you read him, too? I’ve known I was on damned thin ice ever since you arrived, and the first crack out of the box you started talking about The Phantom Bullet, which I haven’t read.”

“Neither have I,” Merlini said. “There isn’t any such book, or at least no such title on the Towne list. But you still bother me, Mr. X; you’re not the ex-convict and yet you say you do know the gun talk and the tramp signs, though you hadn’t realized that, you should have admitted it. Could I see that pistol permit you showed the Captain?”

“Uh huh,” Towne assented. “High time I ran up my true colors. The pistol permit will do for identification as well as anything.” He took it from an inner breast pocket and tossed it on the table before us.

As he talked, I had been rapidly trying to fit together a deduction or two in the classic Holmes manner and construct a theory as to his identity, or at least his occupation. I had a couple of guesses all formulated, but it’s just as well I didn’t have a chance to go on record with them. The name on the pistol permit was one that, in all the excitement, I had nearly forgotten.

“Stuart Towne” was our old friend Martin O’Halloran, the private dick who had been tailing Pauline and who had subsequently followed us last Friday evening.

“This is a nice tidy development,” Merlini said in a relieved tone. “The O’Halloran loose end has been buzzing about annoyingly in my subconscious. I’m happy to see it gathering itself up. I wired Inspector Gavigan of the New York Homicide Department asking him to send me a dossier on you. No answer as yet. The Inspector’s probably up to his neck in a hatchet murder or something of the sort.”

“He’s plenty busy,” O’Halloran said. “Haven’t you two seen any papers lately?”

“Circus people don’t read newspapers. Except when they’re in winter quarters, they don’t have time. That’s been our trouble the last few days. Have we missed anything?”

“You certainly have. But I’d better start at the beginning. The reason I was tailing Miss Hannum Friday—”. Detective O’Halloran’s revelations suffered a sudden postponement. At that moment Captain Schafer strode into the tent, moving with that determined steam-roller way he had. His face was grim. Patrolman Crossen, who was with him, was also grim, and in addition somewhat white about the gills.

Schafer’s voice was hard. “Tonight seems to be bank night,” he said. “We just finished searching all the cars on the lot. In the last one — we found things.”

The statement was directed at Merlini, and he stopped there as if waiting for comment.

Merlini said, “Yes? You found something?”

Schafer’s square jaw protruded slightly. “I’ll say we did. You’d better come look.”

A distinctly uneasy feeling settled around me as we followed him out. It was caused by the fact that the Captain and Patrolman Crossen had dropped into step, one on either side of Merlini, and by the fact that they both had their hands on their guns.

We walked the length of the lot past car after car and stopped outside the side-show top at Merlini’s car itself. The trunk compartment at the rear was open. Chief Hooper and several other cops stood beside it holding flashlights.

“Don’t tell me,” Hooper said, “that you’ve got a nice pat answer for this.”

He stopped and suddenly jerked away the canvas that covered the shape on the ground.

I saw Merlini’s jaw tighten. Slowly he said, “No, Sheriff. I’m afraid I hadn’t counted on this.”

The girl’s body was dressed in blue slacks and a bright yellow sweater. Laid out beside it, I saw a blood-stained rug, a cowboy hat, and a bright two-edged sword with an ornamental hilt.

The body had no head.