Black Cat Weekly #90

Chapter 6

by“Glad you’re here, Sergeant,” Detective Collins said to me as I got out of the car. “I’ve just finished questioning the clowns.” He shrugged. “They’re not as funny as you’d think.”

I looked around the fairground and the large tent surrounded by trailers and ticket booths, then up to the large sign with faded white lettering, boasting of the “AMAZING” Cirque du Nuit.

“Who’s the victim?”

“The Ringmaster and owner, Ernesto Gonzalez. Found stabbed in his trailer with the safe open and the last two weeks’ gate receipts gone.”

“So, robbery as probable motive,” I said. “Caught trying to get into the safe.”

“What difference does that make, Sergeant?”

“It means the murder weapon was something immediately at hand. The murderer would have had on them, or already there in the trailer.”

“Well,” I said, “let’s get this show on the road.”

Collins took me to the murder scene, crowded with techs dusting for prints and snapping pictures. The body of a middle-aged man wearing a red coat, black equestrian-style trousers, and shiny black shoes with white spats lay on the floor, face up. The knife protruding from his chest didn’t go with the rest of his ensemble, though the fresh blood on his white shirt did.

Once the techs were done snapping away, I leaned in and studied the body. The knife handle tilted to one side. I gloved up, shooed a few flies away, and examined the entry wound. It was wider than the blade, and the knife guard had left no impression around the wound. After the techs assured me they’d taken plenty of pictures, I pulled out the knife and placed it into a clear evidence bag.

“I’ve narrowed it down to four people without a solid alibi, Sergeant,” Collins said as I stood. “The strong man, the sword swallower, the knife thrower, and the magician. They’re waiting in the dressing tent.”

As we walked to the smaller tent behind the big top, we passed a very large horse in a small corral. He looked at me and whickered.

“What’s with the horse?” I asked. “This one looks big enough to haul half the circus.”

“The Cirque du Nuit is an old-style one-ring circus,” Collins said. “At the end of the show, the horse canters around the ring while volunteers from the audience put on a safety harness and try to jump onto its back.”

“Pass,” I said. I shooed a buzzing fly that apparently liked my aftershave.

“If that thing ever stepped on my foot, I’d need triple E shoes.”

My suspects were sitting by their makeup stations, the tools of their trade arrayed on side tables. The strong man stood as I entered. He was a bear of a man, a foot taller than me and with muscles to match.

I pulled out the evidence bag and held it up to show the knife.

“Anyone recognize this?”

“Da,” the strong man said. “Is mine.” He pointed to an empty leather sheath on his dressing table. “I leave him here before my show. When I return, he is gone.” He bared his teeth in what I thought was meant as a smile. “If I use him on Ernesto, I not leave behind. Is good knife.”

“You don’t seem too sad he’s dead,” I said.

“He not pay us for whole last month.”

I nodded and turned to the knife thrower. I picked up one of his blades with a gloved hand and noticed that though it had a needle-sharp point, the edges were dull. The knives didn’t have a hilt.

“How can you cut anything with this?” I asked.

“I don’t,” he said. “If the edges were sharp, I’d cut my hand when I threw it.”

“Interesting.” I looked at the magician. “What’s with all the swords?” Five shiny sabers sat on the table beside his makeup station.

“I use them in my act,” he said. He waved one hand grandly. “Picture this—a young woman climbs into a basket, then I thrust the swords into it from different angles. So!” He mimed thrusting swords. “But, when I open the basket, a clown hops out! Brilliant, yes?”

I picked up a sword at random. It was well polished and seemed solid when I tried to bend it.. “What’s your secret? Collapsible swords?”

“Majesto the Magician never uses fake swords!” he huffed, grabbing a sword.

Collins and I jumped back. Without a second’s hesitation, he jammed the blade against the tabletop. It swayed back and forth, disturbing a handful of flies on his table.

“Show me your sword,” I said to the swallower.

“Sure.” He passed it to me.

It was the real thing, a fencing sword, with a narrow blade. It was as solid as the magician’s, but with dull edges like the knife thrower’s.

I pondered my suspects when another fly landed in my left ear. I slapped it away.

“What’s with all the flies?” I asked no one in particular.

“Nanette,” the sword swallower answered.

“Nanette?”

“Our horse,” the magician said. “Big horse, big…”

I snorted. “Yeah, I get it. And that draws the flies.”

Then I smiled. Case closed. I knew who had done it.

It was easy to eliminate three of the suspects. The strong man wouldn’t have left his knife behind, plus with his strength, he could have killed the ringmaster more easily with his bare hands. Also, the hilt of his knife would have made a mark around the wound. The knife-thrower’s blades lacked a hilt, but the edges were too dull to easily thrust deep into a man’s chest. The sword-swallower’s blade was more round than flat. From the entry wound, it couldn’t have been the murder weapon.

That left the magician. Only his swords could have made the wound. Confirmation came when the Sergeant noticed flies around one of his swords. Since flies are attracted to chemical signals invisible to human senses, he realized they were picking up on a residue of blood left on one blade. It lingered, even after the blade had been wiped clean of visible signs—as later lab tests would prove.

I headed for my car after the magician was taken away. He had confessed immediately when confronted.

Detective Collins trailed me back toward my car.

“How did you know?” he demanded.

“My partner helped.”

“Your partner?”

“Big girl.” I unlocked my car door, grabbed my lunch bag, and pulled out an apple. “Name’s Nanette.”