Stuart Kaminsky: Catch a Falling Clown

“Man, woman?” I tried.

“A man-woman,” he mused. “No, I don’t think so. I should surely have noticed that.”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but he must have been. What I surely couldn’t decide was whether the joke was on me or a private entertainment.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I react rather badly when disaster strikes anywhere but on a studio set.”

“I forgive you,” I said, wondering how to get out of this polite, droll conversation and get murder back to the people where it seemed to belong. “Tall figure, blue?”

“Correct,” he nodded, looking at the posters. “I never realized how frightening a circus could be.” Instead of looking frightened, he looked quite pleased. “Do you think it would be all right if I stayed today and possibly tomorrow? My friend lives in Mirador. He drove me over this morning.”

“I guess so,” I said, giving up and lying down on the cot. “I suggest you stay away from the Mirador police.”

Hitchcock rose slowly with a distinct grunt. He looked even fatter standing than he did sitting.

“As I have indicated,” he said, “I have a morbid fear of the police, dating back to my childhood days when my father had a policeman put me in jail for an hour to teach me what happens to bad boys. I have endeavored since that moment to be a good boy and stay away from policemen.”

“I’ll run off copies of that philosophy and send it to a few hundred friends of mine who could use it.”

“Good afternoon,” Hitchcock said politely, moving to the door.

“If you remember anything more about who was standing near that harness, let me know,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’ll be around.”

“I shall,” he said and left the wagon.

Thomas Paul, the “businessman” from Mirador, was the next person ushered into the wagon-office by Peg. When I heard the door open I sat up, and it’s a good thing I did.

I hadn’t had a good look at the man in the business suit who had run into the tent an hour earlier. I knew he was big, but his face had been covered by a hat. That hat was still on, but it couldn’t hide the scar on his face, a purple scar that split his face in half. The right side was sharp-eyed and smiling with a secret joke. The left side was pulled down, distorted by what seemed pain or sorrow. He was a Janus who couldn’t be read, happy and sad at the same time. The scar cut across the corner of his mouth, so his speech was slightly distorted.

Grotesqueness was no sign of guilt, just of fascination. I shook his hand and pointed to the chair. He took it. With some stretch of the imagination, his suit might be taken for blue, but it was more black than blue. Paul didn’t seem a good bet for a killer. Whoever did it was probably tied in to the death of the elephants for the past few years and was affiliated with the circus.

“Why have I been asked to come in here?” he said, his voice slurred.

“Won’t take a minute,” I said reassuringly, trying to make up my mind if it would be more polite to avoid looking at him or to force myself to keep my eyes on him.

“My visage makes you uncomfortable, Mr….”

“Peters,” I said. “I’m sorry.”

“I assure you that it is an even greater source of discomfort to me,” he said, the one side of his face amused, the other even more in agony from its opposite grin. “War accident. The Ardennes. Shell exploded. I have a feeling that even more will suffer in our current confrontation with the Huns.”

“We don’t call them Huns anymore,” I said. “Nazis.”

“It is your war,” he said, sitting back. “Call them what you like.”

“This is a routine investigation for the insurance company,” I said, not liking Mr. Paul. “May I ask you a few questions?”

“You may ask,” he said, his eyes never leaving me. “I will decide whether or not I wish to answer.”

I found a pencil and began to doodle on a sheet of paper on Elder’s desk. I drew cubes tied together and worked on Koko the clown. I didn’t care if Paul knew I wasn’t taking notes. “How long have you lived in Mirador?” I asked.

“Four years,” he said. “Though I fail to see how such information could help the insurance company.”

“Simply trying to fill out the form,” I said. “Background information establishes the credibility of the witness.”

“I witnessed nothing,” he said. “The accident had already taken place when I arrived.”

“What were you doing here, at the circus?” I tried.

“I am a reasonably wealthy man,” he said. “Primarily real estate in various parts of the nation. I have some plans for revitalizing Mirador and the county. Hope to draw business interests here.”

“To help the county while you sell land?”

“It is mutually advantageous,” he agreed. “I have no intention of defending my interest in making money. It is my interest, my passion. I came here today to try to begin negotiations to have the circus set up a permanent West Coast headquarters here. Just a preliminary step. The idea would be to make the circus management welcome, to plant the seed.”

“Your sheriff didn’t exactly make them welcome this morning,” I said amiably.

“Mr. Nelson is sometimes a bit overzealous,” said Paul. “But he knows his responsibility.”

“And he knows who pays the rent,” I added, looking up.

That face betrayed nothing because it displayed everything. “Mr.…”

“Peters,” I said.

“I am not here to engage in argument with you. I wish to cooperate with the circus if I can, for reasons which I have now made quite clear to you. I will make it clear to the management of this circus that it is to their advantage to have a location like Mirador where the government, which includes the sheriff, fully understands the plans and needs of the business community.”

“As long as the circus stays on the good side of the business community,” I said.

“I don’t know where you got your training, nor in what,” he said. “It certainly wasn’t in business or economics.”

“Tanucci fell from a harness while rehearsing,” I said. “Did you see the harness hanging in the ring over to the right side of the tent?”

“I do not know. I do not remember. What difference does it make?”

“None, Mr. Paul,” I said, standing up. “I’m just doing my job.”

He stood up. Physically, he looked like a larger version of Alfred Hitchcock, but there was something tight about him. Maybe it was just his twisted face or the fact of having seen a dead man and being asked questions about it. I wasn’t feeling any too loose myself. But I had a job, so I moved one step up the ladder to a broken friendship.

“What do you think about circuses, Mr. Paul?”

“Very little,” he said. “They are businesses which can occupy space and bring jobs, which means more people who need more land. It seems a bit unsavory, but that doesn’t bother me. Carelessness bothers me.”

His eyes, both the good and bad one, took me in, from graying hair to scuffed shoes, pausing, I was sure, at my coffee stain.

“I try not to let it bother me,” I said. “Like rude people. If they feel better making enemies instead of friends, it’s their back that has to be watched. People like that hire people like me. So if you ever need a private detective …”

“I should look you up,” he finished.

“No,” I said. “Go to San Diego. There are two private eyes named Maling and Markham who take hopeless cases. Some people will do anything for a buck.”

“Times are hard,” said Paul. I caught no irony in his words.

“They’re always hard,” I said.

“I’m amazed,” he said, opening the door. “We actually agree on something.”