Case with 4 Clowns (32 page)

The horses now drew level, running side by side and in step. Anita passed one end of the rope to her sister and the two riders did a variation together of the skipping dance. Then Anita passed across to the inside horse and they finished that part of their act with a fast gallop round the ring, hands raised to the clapping audience. Until then, I had been so occupied with watching the swift movements of each girl that I had scarcely noticed their faces. They were both smiling, as they must have been smiling all through the act, with broad set creases of their faces. For a moment I was horrified with the
mask-like effect this had. It was as if those expressions had been painted on their lips. I saw the two, one behind the other one, the horse, leaning inward with the speed at which it was running, and Helen's face just visible over her sister's shoulder, like a reproachful other-self in a mirror. For a moment it seemed that there were not two girls, but only one. And it was exactly in that that Anita's chief danger lay. I had a sudden realization of fear, fear of something almost unknown, that the closer the two girls approached to each other the greater was the danger. It was rather like two similar poles of two magnets which exert a violent repulsion if their magnetic fields happen to overlap.

But at that moment the twins leaped down from the horse, which ran straight out of the ring, and were bowing gracefully to the full applause of the house. A pure black horse ran in and began to canter round the ring, and the attendant came forward with a long lance and a whip, which he handed to Anita. Helen leaped into the saddle, seeming to reach it in one bound from the center of the ring. Both girls appeared to be giving the sort of performance which I had imagined only men could have given.

Meanwhile, the attendants had been placing small white wooden pegs in the ground at intervals around the ring. The horse cantered round for a while, slipping a little and breathing heavily through its nose, then it changed to a gallop. Helen grasped the lance which Anita handed her as she passed, and placed it at the “rest” position against her thigh. I realized that the next part of the act was going to be a display of “tent-pegging” fairly familiar with cavalry exhibitions, but which I had never seen in the restricted space of a circus-ring. The idea was to pierce each of the small wooden pegs with the steel tip of the lance as the horse galloped past them. It needed a supple and accurately-timed stroke to avoid a broken wrist or the unseating of the rider.

Then, with a feeling of horror, I watched Anita flick the horse once with the whip-lash and walk in behind it, so that she was standing astride one of the pegs. Was it possible that Helen was going to pick up the little white thing from between her sister's legs? It looked almost suicidal to me. Only the slightest slip of the horse, or an unsteady aim, and Anita would be pierced by the lance. I heard Cora Frances gasping beside me as the horse raced around, and Helen lowered the lance ready. With the horse going at that speed it would need an exceedingly strong wrist to raise the lance in time to avoid the waiting girl's body. Anita's face was expressionless. Had she no fear at all that her sister might not try once again to complete that which she had set out to do a few days ago?

As horse and rider approached Anita turned slightly sideways to them and then held her left foot about an inch above the peg. From where I sat it looked as though she had covered it. Helen rode past. There was a faint whistle and the flash of the lance over her shoulder, and Anita turned, almost casually, and walked to the next peg. The first one was impaled on the tip of the lance. I could not draw my eyes away from the ring, although I hated the whole thing. Somehow it fascinated me. As I looked from one sister to the other, I saw the same set, hard expression, almost as though they had not heard the violent applause which had greeted this act. The applause burst out again for the second peg, and the third and the fourth. There was only one more to be picked up.

But instead of standing over it, this time Anita lay down beside the peg and spread her arm, so that the peg shone whitely in the crook, not more than an inch from her side—and not more than six from her heart. The audience were completely silent now. They might have been holding their breaths, there was so little noise. I could hear the dull thumps of the horse's hoofs. Again the horse flashed by, and
the lance was waved in the air with all five pegs on the tip. Helen leaped from the horse and held the lance out to the audience, as if in proof that there was no trick, and then held out her other hand to her sister, who had got slowly to her feet. I sat back in my seat, to find that my shirt and coat were sticking to my shoulders. As she bowed, Anita kept her hand close to her left side.

“My God,” said Cora in my ear, “did you see how close that was? The lance actually cut the cloth of her costume.”

But the girls turned before I could verify this statement, and ran from the ring. The clapping was deafening, even the people from Bogli's Circus were applauding. But the girls did not reappear to take a bow, and in a few seconds the band changed the music and the curtains parted for the next turn, as Eustace the seal flopped through and into the ring, where the attendants were already arranging the apparatus for the turn.

Somehow, after the previous display, the seal act seemed slow and uninteresting. I realized how much the audience had been shaken in the last five minutes by the way they now felt the urge to talk, to turn to each other with some nervous joke or remark, as if to prove that they each knew there had been no danger in that last act. Actually, there had been very real danger, and they knew it, but people are like that. A slightly hysterical giggle often betrays far higher emotion than the burying of a face in a pair of hands.

Even Cora seemed to feel this, for she turned to me now that Corinne had followed the seal into the ring, with the obvious desire to talk.

“Trying to be a
femme fatale
,” she said, indicating Corinne, who did appear to be performing in a remarkably languid way. “Of course, the seal does rather spoil the act for her, poor dear,” went on Cora. “Oh, but how catty you must think me. I simply can't help it. You must admit that she's a very silly little creature, really.”

I tried to evade saying anything to this by merely grunting, and pretending to keep my eyes glued on the act. Torrant, I noticed thankfully, had not heard the remark, for he was leaning forward in his seat gazing at Corinne Jackson.

The act followed the usual lines of the seal-act, balancing balls, climbing steps with a ball on its nose, juggling with a loaf of bread and so on. I could see that the people from Bogli's Circus were showing quite open boredom, and this in turn seemed to affect Corinne, whose commands to Eustace grew more and more curt, and her actions even careless. At one point, when the seal was balancing on a narrow strip of board and refused to take up a position she wanted, she walked over to it and lifted it bodily an inch or so farther along. A loud voice from the other side of the ring gave a derisive laugh, which was quickly taken up by the rest of Bogli's artists.

Knowing even the slight amount that we did about Corinne, I could realize the dislike Corinne must have for this act. It could only be her father's influence that made her bring it on. Even the small pieces of fish she had to handle during the tricks must have nauseated her.

My attention was distracted by the figure of Jackson standing at the back of the ring, close to the curtains which concealed the artists' entrance. He seemed to be watching the act with some anxiety, every now and again glancing quickly behind at the curtains, and even once or twice going back to them and peering between them. What could he be expecting from that direction? Whatever it was, it did not interrupt the act, which passed off smoothly, if uneventfully. The applause was polite, except from Bogli's Circus, many of the members of which called into the ring phrases which I could not hear properly. They were probably in circus slang, for I noticed Cora gave a slight chuckle once, as if she had seen a joke. Corinne bowed coldly to the audience and then retired, to be
immediately replaced by the three clowns. There seemed to be a slight altercation at the entrance, and one or two of the audience at that side of the ring laughed.

Sid Bolton, who was wearing a long black silky costume, rather like a pantomime dame, flopped down on the ground as he reached the ring, and began to waddle in on his bent elbows and knees in a large imitation of Eustace the seal. In a few seconds he was followed by Eric, who minced coyly to the middle of the ring, and then, taking up a small whip, menaced Sid with it, ordering him in a squeaky voice to mount the stool. Sid shook his head violently, Eric insisted, and then, on a further refusal from the “seal,” he threw down the whip in the sawdust and stamped his feet pettishly. I realized suddenly, with the audience, that Corinne's act was being guyed, and a gust of laughter rocked the tent. Finally, Eric walked daintily forward and threw his arms round the prostrate Sid, pretending to attempt to lift him into position.

Young Torrant suddenly stood upright in his place, but Cora grasped him quickly and drew him down. “There was no need for him to do that,” he protested.

“Oh, you mustn't mind that sort of thing,” said Cora pacifically. “Of course, it's not in the usual act, but I think it's rather clever all the same.”

“But it's not right,” said Torrant, still trying to free himself from her. “I mean, showing her up in the ring like that. And he's her brother too.”

“I should have thought that gave him more of a right than most people,” I observed, for quite honestly, I had found the display immensely amusing, even if not in the best of taste. I could only imagine how furious Corinne would be. It might even be a reason for her never appearing in the ring again. Meanwhile, however, it was very funny.

But Eric and Sid had finished their gagging, and had gone on to the routine which I knew: an exchange of slaps, which
always seemed to form the bedrock of the circus clown's art. Sid writhed on the ground in mock agony, howling and moaning in an unusually realistic way. Whether it was from previous knowledge of him or not, I felt that this evening he was more than ever annoyed with the part he was playing. Suddenly, in the middle of the act, there was the crack of lightning close over the tent, followed immediately by a roaring burst of thunder. Clem Gail pulled a long face and looked round at the audience.

“Eeee,” he said, “what a luvly night for a murder.”

Strangely enough, the crowd did not laugh very much at this, and I felt myself being wrenched back to the reality of the situation. The clowning filled in the gap quickly, however, and in a few minutes the crowd were applauding them out of the ring. If I had never seen Clem Gail before, I should have found it impossible to believe that this clown was the same man I knew him to be out of the ring. Not only his manner, and his face, were changed, but his whole bearing were those of another man, of a stranger. It was as if he had become someone else despite himself.

Jackson now came forward to announce, while the apparatus was being erected, Daroga's wire-walking act. The two shining steel trestles were quickly wedged into place, with the wire hanging slackly between them. Jackson was just tightening this when Daroga entered the ring and saluted the audience. Bogli's, who had been giving the most generous applause to the other acts, now remained perfectly silent, and Daroga glanced across at them, almost as if he were commanding them to clap. “Let's see if you're worth it first,” shouted a voice. Daroga made as if to threaten the speaker, and then suddenly remembered where he was and walked coolly over to the wire and tested it. He looked almost handsome in his bright cossack costume, with high soft leather boots, embroidered blouse, and astrakhan hat. A small, evil-looking knout dangled
from his belt and knocked against his knee as he walked in a way which fascinated me. As he approached the wire, Jackson, who was screwing the supports tighter, said something to him in a low voice. The wire-walker took no notice, but pushed the proprietor out of the way roughly and proceeded to loosen the very wire Jackson had been tightening. The proprietor stood his ground for a moment, and then retreated slowly, almost like a cat, until he was just outside the ring, and then he turned and walked swiftly out of the tent.

I had watched Daroga's act before, and found it amazing that a man of his age was able to perform such feats on the wire. But I soon realized that he was on his mettle this evening, and was doing a number of tricks which were completely new to me. Even Cora Frances seemed impressed when, without effort, he lifted his body clean on to one arm without using his elbow for support.

“You know,” she whispered to me, “I had no idea that old Daroga could do a thing like that When I went to Bertram Mills' this season, they told me that Reverbo was the only wire-walker who could do it. Of course,” she rattled on, “the somersault on the wire is more difficult—I've seen Colleano do that, and Don Valento, although he's probably not so well known, has some of the best tricks of the lot. But old Daroga, in his time, was as good as any of them. Divine old man. Look at him now.”

Daroga was lying on his back on the wire with his hands tucked comfortably behind his head and his feet crossed, and swinging from side to side, almost as if he were half-asleep in a hammock. The band was playing a low lilting tune in time with his swinging, which grew faster and faster, until he suddenly threw himself up on to his feet and continued the swaying from this new position. His body swung with the wire, the center appearing perfectly still, and his legs moving so fast that his body looked like a large letter X. By some
arrangement I had not previously noticed, the lights concentrated on him almost like a spot-light, leaving the rest of the tent dim. As his body flicked backward and forward in the strong white light, I suddenly realized what a perfect target the man made. I looked round instinctively, as I thought this, almost as if I might see the sharp-shooter somewhere behind me. But, of course, the ideal position was not inside the tent at all, but outside. How simple it would be for anyone to stand by a hole in the tent wall, fire at Daroga, and then get away long before anyone could get out and trace where the shot came from. The first suspicion would naturally fall on those inside the tent, and during the confusion the assassin could easily either get away or even come into the tent unobserved. At this time of the night, and especially during a violent rain-storm, no one was about outside the tent. My imagination had produced the picture so clearly that I almost anticipated the shot, hearing it ringing in my head. I looked quickly at the wire-walker to see if he had fallen, and then realized that there had been no shot at all—that I had been well on the way towards creating a murder.