Fredric Brown - The Fredric Brown Collection

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He said, “Valenti,” softly. Not loud enough to wake anyone already asleep, but loudly enough, he hoped, to be heard if either Valenti or Gruber were in there, and still awake.

There wasn’t any answer. He was listening carefully, and he heard a sound he’d never have noticed otherwise. A soft and irregular breathing that puzzled him, because it didn’t sound like an adult at all. Sounded like a kid. But neither Valenti nor Gruber had a kid. What would one be doing in the trailer?

That breathing wasn’t normal, either, or he’d never be able to hear it, even in the dead silence of the night. But why—?

He hadn’t heard the footsteps behind him.

Valenti’s voice demanded, “Who’s—? Oh, it’s you, Pop.

What you want?”

“Is that a kid in the trailer, Valenti?” Pop asked. “Sounds like one with the croup or something.”

Valenti laughed. “You’re hearing things, Pop. That’s Bill.

He’s got a helluva cold, along with his asthma. Wait till I tell him you thought it was croup. What did you want?”

Pop shuffled his feet uneasily. “I… I just wanted to ask you a question or two about Shorty.” He lowered his voice.

“Say, maybe we oughtn’t to talk here. If Bill’s sick and asleep, we better not wake him.”

“Sure,” said Valenti. “Want to go up to the cookhouse?”

“I was just there. I better get back by the bull. Let’s walk over that way.”

Valenti nodded, and together they picked their way through the high, wet grass back of the tents, following, probably, the same path Shorty Martin had taken an hour or two ago. Maybe, Pop thought, Valenti could tell him—

In sight of the sleeping elephant, they stopped. Pop said,

“I’m still trying to figure out what happened tonight, Valenti.

Why Shorty came over here at all, and what made Lil grab him — if she did.”

“What do you mean, if she did?”

“I dunno,” said Pop, honestly. “Just that — well, she never done anything like that before. Pete Boucher said Shorty was heading for your trailer sometime after twelve.

Did you see him then?”

Valenti nodded. “He wanted to know if Bill and I would go uptown with him. Neither of us wanted to. Then he went on over this way; that’s the last I saw of him. Last anybody saw of him, I guess.”

“Did he say why he was—?”

Pop’s eyes, as he started the question, had been straining past Valenti, out toward the edge of the lot. Someone was coming from that direction, and he couldn’t quite make out who it was.

And then, right in the middle of the question, his voice trailed off into silence and his eyes went wide with bewilderment.

Valenti had been lying to him. Bill Gruber, Valenti’s partner, wasn’t asleep in the trailer. Because it was Bill Gruber who was cutting across the lot toward them.

Valenti had lied, and there was a kid—

“What’s the matter, Pop?” asked Valenti. “You look like you saw—” And then Valenti turned to see what Pop was looking at.

Bill’s voice cut through the sudden silence, unconcernedly. “Hi, Pop, how ya? Finally found a drugstore open, Val. I got— Say, what’s wrong with you guys?”

Valenti laughed as he turned back. “Pop, I was kidding you about—”

And those few words bridged the gap of his turning, and kept Pop off guard during the second when he might have yelled for help or started to run. And then that second was over, and Valenti’s huge hand was over his mouth while Valenti swung him around.

And then, while Valenti’s arm was tightening crushingly around his ribs, and Valenti’s hand over Pop’s mouth was bending his head backward, Pop knew what had happened to Shorty, and why. Too late now, he knew why Shorty had expected to be “rich” tomorrow. Shorty had found out that Valenti was holding the kid in the trailer and had gone to demand a cut on the ransom.

Yes, everything fell into place all at once. Banker’s kid snatched at Brondale. Held, probably doped, in the trailer.

Valenti, the only man with the carney strong enough to kill, as Shorty had been killed. And as Pop Williams was going to be killed right now. So the blame would fall on Lil.

Why, when he didn’t really believe Lil had killed Shorty, hadn’t he thought of Valenti? Valenti, who wouldn’t shoot dice because it wasn’t enough of a gamble for him. Who was strong enough to wring a man’s neck like a farmer would wring a chicken’s. Who had the nerve to dive eighty feet into a shallow tank every day—

And only a second ago, he could have yelled. He could have waked Lil, and she’d have pulled her stake and come running.

Too late, now. That hand over his mouth was like the iron jaw of a vise. His ribs and his neck-Only his feet were free. Frantically, he kicked backward with his heels.

Frantically, he tried to make some sort of noise loud enough to wake Lil or to summon other help.

One heel caught Valenti’s ankle, hard, but then the shoe fell off Pop’s foot. He still hadn’t taken time to tie them on after that desperate rush to get out of bed and hide Tepperman’s rifle.

As the crushing pressure around his ribs tightened, he tried again to yell. But it was only a faint squeak, not so loud as their voices, which, in normal conversation a moment ago, had not disturbed the sleeping elephant.

Help, adequate help, ten feet away directly in front of him — but sound asleep.

And Valenti was standing with his legs braced wide apart. Pop couldn’t even kick at the ankles of the man who was killing him. He tried, and almost lost his other shoe.

Then, in extremity, a last, desperate hope.

He kicked forward, instead of backward, with all that remained of his strength. And at the end of the kick, straightened his foot and let the shoe fly off.

Miraculously, it went straight. Lil grunted and awoke as the shoe thudded against her trunk.

For just an instant, her little eyes glared angrily at the tableau before her. Angry merely at being awakened, in so rude a manner.

And then — possibly from the helpless kicking motions of Pop’s bare feet, or possibly from mere animal instinct, or because Pop had never hit her — it got across to her that Pop, whom she loved, was in trouble.

She snorted, trumpeted. And charged forward, jerking her stake out of the ground as though it had been embedded in butter.

Valenti dropped Pop Williams and ran. There’s a limit to what even a daredevil can face, and a red-eyed, charging elephant is past that limit. Way past.

Pop managed to gasp, “Atta girl,” as Lil ran on over him, with that uncanny ability of elephants to step over things they cannot see. “Atta girl. Go get him” — as Pop scrambled to his feet behind her and wobbled after.

Around the Dip-a-Whirl and alongside the Hawaiian-show top, and Valenti was only a few yards in front, toward the midway. Valenti ducking under the ropes and Lil walking through them as though they were cobwebs. She trumpeted again, a blast of sound that brought carneys running from all parts of the lot and from the cars back on the railroad siding behind it.

There was terror on Valenti’s face as he ran out into the open of the midway. Death’s hot breath was on the back of his neck as he reached the area in the center of the midway where stood the tank and the diving tower. He scrambled up the ladder of the tower, evading by inches the trunk that reached up to drag him down.

Then Tepperman was there, and the carney grounds cop with a drawn revolver in his hand. And Pop was explaining, the instant he had Lil quieted down. Somebody brought news that Bill Gruber was back of the Hawaiian-show top, out cold.

Running, he’d apparently taken a header over a tent stake and smacked into a prop trunk.

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