The Big Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories (131 page)

I briefly explained our grim mission to Treves, who extended his sincere sympathy, and we made our way back to the circus grounds. We had no trouble finding Sidney Larkin and Rocco, for they were in Rocco's caravan, heads bowed in grief. All claimed it was the hoodoo working, and shuddered at the thought of the two additional deaths to follow. Panelli, feeling he was somehow to blame, would see no one. The show had been over for several hours and we were at liberty to examine the main tent. We entered and were immediately overwhelmed by the enormity of it. With the assistance of Larkin and Rocco, Holmes lighted several of the big carbon-arc lamps that served as spotlights. These he aimed upwards at the flying bars and platforms. Then, much to the amazement of all present, he approached the rope ladder that hung down into the centre ring and began to climb.

“Halt!” came a voice. “What are you doing here?”

We turned to see a powerful-looking man approach the centre ring and glare up at Holmes, who was almost to the top.

“Vayenko, this man is Sherlock Holmes, a detective who is helping Gregor discover the cause of Anna's fall—” began Rocco, but he was cut short.

“Get down!” cried the Russian, shaking his fist.

“Mr. Vayenko, I am here at the request of Mr. Gregor Zolnay. I would be most anxious for your assistance in this matter,” said Holmes coolly. “However, if you do not wish to cooperate, I would request you not interfere.”

Holmes continued climbing toward the aerialist's platform. He had almost reached the platform when Vayenko, with a curse, started up the ladder in pursuit with a speed that was unbelievable. In short order he had overtaken my comrade and seized him by the ankle.

“See here!” I shouted and ran to the ladder, Larkin and the clown at my heels.

Holmes assayed the situation calmly, and asked the acrobat to release his grip. I was appalled at the aerialist who, of all of us, should have been the most keenly aware of the danger to which he was subjecting Holmes. Yet I watched terrified as the Russian began pulling at his leg, and drew Holmes's other foot from the rung on which it rested. My friend dangled there, forty feet up, carrying not only his own weight, but much of the other man's as well. However, just as I thought his grip would fail, I saw his free foot snap back and the boot drive into the Russian's hand. The man let out a howl of pain, and allowed Holmes to reach the platform.

“What is going on here?” cried a deep voice. We saw an elegantly dressed man approach the ring and look up.

“Vladimir, is that you? Who the devil is that up there with you?”

The man made himself known as Lamar Chipperfield, the owner and manager of the show. Upon hearing the nature of our business, Mr. Chipperfield gladly consented, and instructed Vayenko to dismount the ladder immediately.
Upon receiving this order, the man's demeanor changed markedly; he assumed a meek and dutiful manner, and went to great pains to assure Mr. Chipperfield that he was acting only out of concern for the circus—preventing a stranger and trespasser from damaging the apparatus.

“You know, Mr. Chipperfield, that our lives depend on the wires. To have them damaged in any way…”

“I fully understand, Vladimir. You made an honest mistake. Kindly wait in your wagon until these gentlemen are through, for they may have questions to ask you. Goodnight.”

The Russian moved off most humbly, even bowing slightly in my direction. But my loathing for him remained, and I felt that his servile attitude was a sham, for I saw him glare again in Holmes's direction just before he departed the tent.

I returned directly beneath the platform and spent the next several minutes helping to direct the spotlights in the directions Holmes indicated.

“A little to the left and up,” he would say, peering about the tent from his lofty perch, “no, not so far—there, hold it steady for a moment…”

Apparently tiring of this, he amazed us by drawing the middle bar over to the platform by means of a light rope. In a few seconds we saw him swinging in a wide arc over our heads. We were all afright for his situation, but he displayed that remarkable coolness which was his hallmark; he sat on the bar as if enjoying himself tremendously, gazing about and shouting directions to us.

“Don't be a moron, Holmes!” I cautioned. “You'll break your neck! I say, come down at once!”

But he stayed up another ten minutes before returning, bright-eyed, to the sawdust ring.

“I say, Larkin, what's that?” he enquired, pointing to a canvas canopy that emerged between tiers of wooden benches.

“That, sir, is the
run in
.”

“The
run in
?”

“Yes, sir. The animals make their entrance through it. It's a canvas tunnel that runs out to the backyard and wagons. It's kept sealed until showtime, for the children would sneak in through it to avoid paying.”

The three of us examined the cloth-covered entranceway. It was about four feet in diameter. We entered the tunnel, stooping low as we walked, until we came to a wall of canvas tightly laced. Larkin undid the laces for us and we passed out into the night air. Sure enough, we were in the midst of the menagerie of wagons. The faint growling and acrid stench indicated the presence of lions.

“And this is always kept laced?”

“Yessir. Until the middle of showtime. As you can see, there's nobody hereabouts most times—since the performers gather over near the front line tent for tea and a chat…”

“I see. And not only is this area deserted, but remarkably near the outer fence too,” observed Holmes as he walked slowly about, eyes glued to the ground. “It may interest you to know, Watson, that the entranceway of the run in is visible from the platform, but not from the centre bar…”

“You don't say,” I replied, unable to follow his train of thought.

“Larkin, are the flaps to the run in kept closed also?”

“The inside ones? Yes, sir. It allows the trainers to lead their animals into the run without them being seen.”

“And how are the flaps raised?”

“By means of stout cords, which are held by the ringmaster—Mr. Chipperfield, the gentleman you met. After announcing the act, he gives a sharp pull to the cords, see, which raises the flaps, signaling the animals to prance into the ring. It's a pretty sight sir, ain't it, Rocco?”

“I see,” mused my companion, and returned through the tunnel of canvas to the grounds. There he requested a lantern, which Rocco promptly brought. He spent the next half hour, lantern in hand, tracing wide half-circles over
the “pitch,” or grounds. I seated myself on an enormous coil of rope and smoked three cigarettes during this procedure. Finally I heard the yelp of satisfaction that announced a discovery.

“Like a hound, eh?” I said to my companions. “His cries tell us he's found the scent.”

Holmes, thirty yards distant, was kneeling upon the earth, eyes and face aglow with excitement.

“You see here, Watson…you
see
?” he cried tensely, pointing at the ground.

I saw nothing save a rough scrabbling on the earth that seemed to repeat itself at regular intervals. It certainly did not resemble footprints of any sort I had ever seen. Yet the regular repetition of the strange pattern indicated a locomotive motion, albeit a strange one.

“Ah, look here,” said Holmes, pointing to a small round depression in the earth that was likewise repeated with the pattern.

“A cane?”

“Yes, or a crutch. So it is a human—or is it? Certainly it leaves no ordinary footprints. Let us follow them…”

The track led to the outer fence, and there, fastened upon a slat of wood that formed the fence, was a cloth object that Holmes removed from its perch and examined with much interest.

“What is it, Holmes?”

“I'm not yet sure, but it appears to be some kind of garment…”

He held the weird object under the lantern's beam, mumbling to himself. He then made additional efforts to pick up the strange track on the other side of the fence but, owing to the darkness, was forced to relinquish the chase.

“The track was clear enough in the earth and sawdust of the pitch, but will be extremely difficult to follow in the meadow that surrounds it. It's a wonder we ever found it at all considering the enormous traffic flowing over the grounds. However, as you saw, I discovered it only by circling far out towards the fence. Whoever, or
whatever
it was clearly headed straight for the fence, and over it. No, Watson, we'd be wasting our time to search further tonight. Better to return tomorrow in full daylight. For the present, I think we've learned all we can from our inspections. Tell me, Larkin, is it true the flyers were alone in the main tent the night of the accident?”

The stunted man hobbled alongside us in the darkness for several minutes before replying.

“Yes, sir, to the best of my knowledge. I think we was all in the side tent, or tending to our own affairs in our caravans. As you know, I was with Panelli and Rocco.”

Holmes spent another half-hour questioning the remaining circus people: had any of them been in the main tent during the ill-fated rehearsal? Was it true that the flaps were fastened shut so no one could enter? Had they seen a strange animal amongst the wagons, or loitering near the big tent? The answer to these questions was no. Therefore we boarded a hansom and within the hour found ourselves once again at our quarters. Saddened over Anna's death, we sat for some time before the fireplace in silence. Then Holmes retrieved the strange article of clothing he had found on the circus fence. It resembled a huge sleeve, yet one end was sewn up in heavy canvas, which was blackened with dirt and macadam. He drew it over his arm; his hand was then encircled by the canvas end, which he inspected carefully with the aid of his lens and the glare of the student lamp. After twenty minutes of scrutiny, broken only by occasional sighs and grunts, he flung it nonchalantly into my lap.

“What do you make of it?”

“It looks like some kind of slipper,” I replied at last, “since we can see by the condition of the canvas end that it has had repeated, even constant, contact with the ground.”

He nodded his head in agreement as he drew on his pipe, expelling clouds of smoke into the lamp's glare.

“The strange part is, it is not shaped like something that would fit over a leg and foot,” I continued. “In fact, from its dimensions, I would say it was made more for a fin, or flipper, than for a human limb—”

“If it were made for a normal human foot,
even disregarding its intense size and grotesque shape, we could assume that the
footprint
on the canvas—the dark stain that has been produced by the limb within pushing the cloth onto the ground—would bear a roughly elongated shape comparable to a foot. It would show a series of smudges at one end corresponding to the balls of the feet and perhaps the toes—”

“Yes!” he interrupted. “And a slightly smaller smudge at the other end which would be made by the heel…”

“Of course. But in this case, we see that the stain is an irregular blob. Instead of delineating a foot, even roughly, it delineates nothing.”

“Or nothing that is a foot,” he corrected.

“Then
what is it
?” I enquired, the horror growing in me.

“I don't know, Watson, except to say that it is perhaps human, or half-human, as the case may be. I can tell by the remnants of sawdust stuck to the tar that this was on the limb—one of the limbs rather, that made the strange track near the tent.”

“…the elephant man…” I mused.

“My thoughts exactly. Is it possible? What sort of man—if such he could be called—would require a boot like this one, eh? He would have to be terribly—”

“Deformed?”

“
Yes!
Only—I say, wait a minute! I seem to remember a column in the
personals
of about a month ago…let's see here…”

He flung himself down upon his knees and began rummaging like a pack rat through the stacks of newspapers that littered our floor.

“Drat, Watson! I see you've been housecleaning again—shame on you! How am I to solve these puzzles if you persist in raiding my stores of information, eh? Neatness is a loathsome trait, Watson; never forget it!”

I spent the better part of an hour convincing him that, were it not for my ‘housecleaning,' our flat would soon become a jackdaw's nest. As a further balm for his distress, I offered to buy our dinner, and soon we were off to Morley's Chop House. Throughout the meal he plied me with questions. As a medical man, was I aware of any disease or condition that would result in horrendous deformities? I replied that there were a few, like
elephantiasis
, that could result in unbelievable swelling of the flesh and lymph glands, and a corresponding ulceration and scaling of the skin.

“By Jove! And the correct name as well! Surely then that is the answer, and yet…”

He fell silent again, and we finished the meal talking of other subjects.

“Tell me, Watson,” he pursued as we left Morley's, “does elephantiasis, damaging though it is to the flesh and glands, affect the bones?”

When I replied in the negative, Holmes observed that we had best rule out the disease.

“As you yourself stated after examining the strange slipper we found, the
limbs
are misshapen, not just the tissue on them, correct?”

I nodded. “I must say I'm entirely at a loss, Holmes. If indeed it is a human afflicted with a malady, the malady's identity escapes me. I don't see how you expect to find the answer to this puzzle either, unless you plan to continue following the strange track in tomorrow's daylight…”

“There may be an easier way, Watson. Tomorrow morning shall find me at the
Times
office. I'm quite sure it was in that paper—in the agony columns—that I saw the notice a month ago. Well, shall we return directly to Baker Street or would you rather stop by Drury Lane on the way?”