Murder of the Circus Queen

Chapter 1 IT was Friday, the thirteenth. Against the windows in the private office of the Police Commissioner an April rain pattered rest-lessly. The spring down-pour filled with premature dusk the dark-panelled room in Suite 200, at the north end of the second floor of the old Headquarters Building in Centre Street. On Thatcher Colt's desk a greenshaded lamp spilled a circle of white light. Bent forward in a hunched posture of concentration was the Commissioner, shuffling proof sheets of his annual report to the Mayor. It was about 3.30 o'clock when a knock sounded at the door and Captain— now Inspector— Israel Henry, the officer in charge of the Commissioner's suite, handed me a card, heavily embossed in gilded script, which read: "Colonel Tod Robinson, Owner and Manager, Robinson Brothers' and Dawson and Woodruff's Combined Greatest Shows on Earth." When I laid the flamboyant card before Thatcher Colt his sombre dark eyes sparkled with pleasure. "Tod Robinson!" he exclaimed. "His show opens at the Garden tonight! Send him right in!" With a gusty chuckle the Commissioner shoved aside his proof sheets. I knew, of course, that Colt loved the circus. Except for the Patrolmen's Benevolent Association, his favorite fraternity is the Circus Fans. Whenever possible he attends the New York Chapter's monthly luncheon, served at the Hotel Roosevelt in a private diningroom fitted up like a tent, with posters, mementoes, and curios of sawdust celebrities, grass mats on the floor and table linen of red and white check, reminiscent of the cook-tent. The Commissioner was smiling jovially as through the door from the octagonal reception room came the famous showman. Tall, bronzed, and silver-haired, Colonel Tod Robinson looked the tan-bark veteran, accustomed to floods and fires, mud and mires, panics, blow-downs, the deaths of costly animals, and all manner of familiar catastrophes, commonly called "acts of God." The Colonel was the type of circus owner who could do everything "on the show," from training the elephants to repairing the portable electric lighting plant. Grinning expansively. Robinson shook hands with Colt, sat on the edge of the desk, bit a chunk from a cake of tobacco, and announced: "Chief, I'm in hot water. And I've come to you to help me out." Colt was pouring a palmful of special mixture into the bowl of his Algerian briar. "Glad to help you, Colonel, if I can." "Would you listen to a quick story?" "The floor is all yours." Colonel Robinson began by explaining how he had obtained his engagement at Madison Square Garden. That year the Ringline Brothers and Barnum and Bailey troups, toured Europe. In the big show's absence Colonel Robinson, last of the large independents, saw his golden opportunity. He purchased and trained new animals, built gorgeous gilded waggons, bought new uniforms and costumes, and engaged expensive acts. "But then, Mr. Colt," the circus man continued, "a lot of funny things began to happen to me." "Funny things?" "I mean that some mighty queer monkey business is going on in my little horse opera," Robinson amended. "It is more than any jinx, Mr. Colt— in my opinion, it's become a matter for the police. I'll admit that at first I took it just as a run of tough luck. Before we even started we had three accidents down South― three men killed— and it kept up. No sooner did we pull out from our winter headquarters in Georgia than other things began to happen. Near Richmond we had a train wreck, knocked two display floats into toothpicks, and set fire to a gondola loaded with bleachers and grandstand seats. Next, sickness broke out along the elephant line; a peculiar malady attacked all but three of the bulls. And then on the five-hour trip from Washington to New York our prize lion, 'Spitfire,' died of indigestion. As if that wasn't enough, at the Pennsylvania Railroad Terminal the trained clown mule, a valuable attraction too, broke its leg while being led out of its stall, and had to be shot. And let me tell you, all these accidents mean heavy losses to us." Colt looked only mildly impressed. "You surely don't attribute those misfortunes to any malicious persecution, do you?" he challenged. Colonel Tod Robinson ran a gnarled hand through tousled silver locks, and a gleam of torment flickered in his eyes. "I haven't told you everything," he evaded. "Wait till you hear what's happened since. My star performers have been receiving threatening letters through the mail!" "Threatening what?" "They were served notice not to exhibit their best tricks during the New York engagement— under penalty of death!" The frown cleared from the fine features of Thatcher Colt. Settling back in his chair, serene and relaxed, he murmured: "And I suppose you are advising the newspapers that in spite of these thrilling death threats your star performers are positively going to appear, rain or shine—" "Oh, don't be sarcastic about it, Chief— this is no press agent's frame-up—" "What are the names of the performers who were threatened?" Colt interrupted. Robinson quickly recited a list, which I jotted down: "Flandrin, the young trapeze artist, and his wife, LaTour—" "Is that the great Josie LaTour?" "You bet! Speaking impartially, she's the greatest performer in the ring— and she's paid the biggest'salary in the history of the business." "Who else?" "Signor Sebastian, called the 'King of the Air'— and, speaking impartially, Sebastian is all of that, too— and Murillo, one of the wire dancers. I think that's all." The big showman straightened up, hesitated, and added, with a trace of diffidence: "There's another nasty side to it, too. You see, tonight is Friday, the thirteenth— so none of my people want to open. I don't either, but I've got to. My financial backer— probably you know him, Marburg Lovell, the millionaire?— well, he's sore about our delayed opening. Our overhead runs about fifteen thousand dollars a day, we've had big losses, and he is getting very discouraged, threatening to sell out his interest for a song. So I've got to open tonight no matter what date it is. Of course," he added, a note of defensive pride creeping into his voice, "our show would be a big money maker. We always do good business— if it wasn't for those damn funny accidents." The showman snorted into a silk handkerchief and then grinned good naturedly. "Our business is always full of hell," he conceded. "Much worse than any of this, most of the time. Just the same, Chief— three sudden deaths! I still say it doesn't all seem natural— not with those threatening letters. I don't know why I stay in it anyhow— I had some money left me not long ago: I could retire if I felt like it. Here I have kicked all the mobsters and shortchangers out of my outfit. It's a strictly family attraction now. And what does my honesty get me? Only more grief! The old-timers will tell you the grifters keep the bad luck away. Speaking impartially, maybe there's something in this old-time bunk after all." Colt stood up, smiling politely. "I shall tell one of our men to look into the matter." "But, Chief— I was hoping that you would sort of go into it yourself—" Before Colt could decline Robinson's earnest appeal the door opened and Captain Henry's face looked in at us. "I'm sorry, Mr. Commissioner," he apologised, "but they've had an accident up at the Garden— Colonel Robinson is wanted on the telephone." There was a moment of apprehensive silence. " "Connect the call in here," directed Thatcher Colt, as the circus man grabbed the receiver and listened. We heard a strident voice breaking bad news in broken, explosive sentences. It was with a heavy hand that Colonel Robinson hung up the receiver: all good nature was gone from his face. "My boss mechanic went up on some high wire rigging, toppled off a platform— and was killed." And after a moment's pause, he added mournfully: "I guess I ought to be getting right up there." Colt was emptying the ashes from his pipe; his eyes were narrowed an¿ serious. "I will take personal charge of the investigation as you have requested," he decided. "Meet me in the lobby of the Garden at seven tonight. Take us back to meet the people who got those threatening notes." "Much obliged, chief!" murmured Colonel Robinson and, shaking hands limply, departed like a man in a daze. "ROBINSON'S case is by no means unique," remarked Colt when we were left alone. "You take those death notes seriously, then?" I exclaimed. "In spite of what he said, I thought they were only the publicity man's ballyhoo." Risen from the desk, Thatcher Colt was reaching for top hat, gloves, and stick. "I take those death notes very seriously," he admitted. "Generally, in such cases, we eventually find that one of the persons who received the notes actually wrote them all." "But if one intends to kill, why write warnings?" "The vanity of the criminals. Such uncontrollable Impulses have been the undoing of more than one clever killer who could not resist the temptation to show off. That is why I have hopes of being able to find the writer of those notes tonight." "By comparing handwriting?" "Not at all. I have come to the conclusion that victims of murderous delusions almost invariably betray themselves to the acute observer of human behaviour. Hence I wish to observe all the people who received threatening notes and out of the lot try to pick the guilty one, and prove it." "All before the show opens? You will find you have a real job on your hands," I predicted. "And a challenge to any detective's skill," added Colt, his worried face partly clearing. "If this theoretical, undiscovered killer actually exists and is not caught in time, he will certainly commit another crime.... Did you have a previous engagement for tonight?" "Only with Betty!" "Bring your wife along, by all means. It's been ages since I saw her. Let's try to combine pleasure with business." It was now 4.15 o'clock and in fifteen minutes the Commissioner was due to attend special exercises at City Hall, where the Mayor was to bestow medals of honour in recognition of the heroism of twenty policemen, nine of whom had been killed in the performance of their duty; their widows and mothers would receive the decorations. "Ask District Attorney Dougherty to join us in our box," suggested the Commissioner, lifting a gardenia from the Persian tear bottle on his desk. Carefully he fixed the white bloom in his lapel. "Get Inspector Flynn," he instructed. "Tell him to check up on all those accidents Colonel Robinson told us about. Tell him to see what the railroad authorities have learned about that wreck near Washington— and the accident to the clown mule. Tell him also to get whatever we have in the files about Mr. Marburg Lovell, who has been so hard hit financially by all these accidents. Of course, Flynn will need two or three good men to check on the death of this mechanic in the Garden. And if he can get any information on any of the circus people, so much the better. Incidentally, prepare Betty to go home unescorted. And be sure you have your revolver handy." The door closed behind the Police Commissioner.