Роберт Колби: Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 17, No. 4, April 1972

“Somebody peeled a piece of skin off her back, about two inches square.”

I closed my mouth with a snort and began plowing my way through the gathered carnies. The trailer lights were on, and I opened the door and stepped inside. May lay facedown on the floor of the living area, still in the halter and shorts she’d worn for the shows. The brown handle of a long knife protruded from her back just below the left shoulder blade, and lower down on her back, just as Bernie had said, a piece of skin, roughly two inches square, was missing.

There was very little blood, only a little oozing, which meant she had been dead, the heart had stopped pumping, when the skin had been cut away.

Bernie stepped inside, and I asked him, “What tattoo is missing?”

“How the hell should I know? With all the tattoos May had, who can tell which one is missing?”

“I don’t suppose any pictures were ever taken of her tattoos?”

“None that I know of.”

“Somebody should know what one is missing. Vernon maybe — he had her tattooed, but he’s in jail.”

“Not anymore he ain’t.”

I stared at him. “What do you mean?”

“He escaped sometime last night. Didn’t you know?”

“No, I didn’t know!” I snarled. “How did you know?”

“May told me,” Bernie said calmly. “She said Vernon called here, wanted to see her. That’s what she was so upset about.”

“Did he show up?”

“He could have, but I didn’t see him.”

“He could have killed her, too! I don’t suppose it occurred to you to tell the police an escaped con was on his way here?”

Bernie just looked at me.

“All right! Sorry I asked. You could have told me, at least.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think it was any of my business.”

“It figures,” I muttered, then sighed. “I hope you don’t mind too much if I call the police now, but I’d like to talk to Dirk first. I didn’t see him outside.”

“I imagine he’s in his tent getting bombed. You know he still had a thing for May and the stupid broad told him that Vernon was on the loose.”

“Seems everybody knew Vernon was out but me.”

“No reason for you to know, Patch. Who’d have thought he would kill her? What reason did he have?”

“If he did,” I muttered, walking out of the trailer.

Neither of us put it into words, but I knew the same thought had to be in Bernie’s mind. Obviously May had been killed for the two-by-two tattoo, and if Vernon had killed her, it could only be for one reason. The tattoo was a map of where the bank loot was hidden. That was ironic in a way. For over a year May had been walking around, on exhibition before thousands of people, with directions on her back where to find a hundred grand, except nobody could have recognized it as such. Yet, if Vernon had killed her, why would he do it for that reason? To save splitting the loot with her?

I told Bernie to stay behind and keep everyone out of the trailer. He was filling his pipe from a cavernous leather tobacco pouch as I left him.

Dirk’s tent was up the line about thirty yards. Dirk had been hitting the booze, all right. I could smell it when I pushed the tent flap back and went in. I fumbled overhead for the light cord.

When the light came on, Dirk, lying fully clothed on the cot, stirred and sat up, which meant he couldn’t be too drunk. He threw an arm up to shield his eyes from the light and said blearily, “Huh? What is it?”

Dirk was in my age bracket, around forty. Nobody knew his real name. Around a carnie, you don’t ask that question. He was over six feet, thin as a board, with an emaciated look. As a part of the act he swallowed a lighted neon tube — you could see it through the outer wall of his stomach. It was pretty weird, watching that tube of light travel down inside his skinny frame.

“Oh... it’s you, Patch.” He blinked at me. “What’s up?”

I decided to use shock treatment. “May’s dead, Dirk. Murdered.”

“May’s what...?” He started away from the cot, staggered and almost fell. “Murdered?”

I snapped the questions at him. “Were you in May’s trailer tonight, Dirk?”

“No... Of course not. Right after my last turn I came in here for a drink or two. May left earlier.”

“Were you still in love with her?”

“No... Well, yes, but May... The marriage was over, Patch, you knew that.”

I should explain that a carnie “marriage” is often without benefit of license or clergy and could last anywhere from a week up to a lifetime. A carnie doesn’t consider this as illegal or immoral. If it works, who’s hurt? If it doesn’t work, it’s much less trouble to dissolve, one or both parties deciding it’s over. Carnies did this long before the hippies did, proving there’s little that’s new. But understand, many carnie marriages, probably the majority, are legal in every sense of the word.

“Did you know Vernon was on his way here to see May?”

Dirk hesitated a moment before replying. “Yes, May told me.”

“Did you see him tonight?”

“No...” He took a step toward me. “Did Vernon kill her?”

“I don’t know. Did you? ”

He literally staggered, reeling as from a blow. “I wouldn’t kill May, Patch!”

“Let’s see your knife case, Dirk.”

“Why?”

“She was killed with a knife, a throwing knife.”

“And you’re thinking—?”

“Dirk, let’s see it!”

“Okay, okay!”

Dirk pulled a trunk from under his cot, from which he took a special case, flat like an attache case and slightly larger. He put it on the cot and opened it.

I stepped closer. The case, lined in velvet, held two rows of knives in graduated sizes and shapes, all fitted into niches in the velvet and held in place by leather straps. There were twenty... No, eighteen. Two were missing.

Dirk gasped. “Two are gone!”

“And I know where one is. In May’s back.”

“Patch, I swear...”

“How long since you’ve looked in the case?”

“Oh, weeks, I guess. I open it now and then to clean and polish them, keep them from rusting.”

“Were any missing the last time you looked?”

“No, they were all there.”

“All right, Dirk. Don’t suddenly decide to take off. It’s time I got the law in on this thing.”

“I’m not going anywhere, Patch,” he said steadily.

I went up the midway to the office wagon. Tex Montana, a huge man of sixty-odd, flamboyant in his cowboy garb, boots, Stetson, and the rest, was waiting for me. The nearest Tex had ever been to either Texas or Montana was western Missouri, when his carnie played a fair date there once. I briefed him on the situation, and he agreed I should call the town fuzz.

We were in Iowa, high corn country, and I expected a hick. Consequently, I was surprised by my first look at Sheriff Ray Tomlin. He wore a conservative suit, dark tie and white shirt — all business, with no manure on his shoes. It wasn’t long before he showed the usual townie wariness toward, and distrust of, carnies. Then, when he learned that the murder victim was a tattooed female member of a freak show, with a piece of tattooed skin missing...

I was sure I could read his thoughts: Who cares if one carnie freak killed another? Why put myself out? Two more days and they’ll be gone from my bailiwick. Then his second thought, when I’d told him about Dirk and Vernon: An escaped convict and a sword swallower, either one could have done it and who cares which one lands in jail?