Death from Nowhere (6 page)

Don told him. “It's a very rare critter, Inspector. A white leopard — from Siberia. There aren't more than two or three in captivity. Maybe Zalini had one for sale.”

Church frowned. “I suppose they walk tight ropes even better than the other kind?”

Diavolo shook his head. “Trained ones, if any, are even rarer. If Zalini had anything like that he could have asked a fancy price. But Miss Skinner said Hagenbaugh was scared. That doesn't quite fit.”

“Nothing fits,” Church said. He scowled at the pad again for a moment and then asked, “Miss Skinner. Did Zalini have any bandages on his hand? Did it look as if he had hurt that too?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Remember which hand he wrote with?”

She thought. “Yes. His right. Oh, I remember now. He kept his left in his pocket the whole time.”

“Hmmpf,” Church said half to himself. “The wobbly way these letters are printed I'd have guessed he was writing with his left. But maybe—”

Even the two thugs would have been surprised if they had known that under the clown's white paint were the features of Don Diavolo

“Hello, Branner.” A cheery voice hailed from the anteroom. “How's the boy!”

Branner said, “Hey you! Keep outa there!”

But Branner was late. J. Haywood Haines, crack reporter for
The New York Press
, was already in at the door. Woody was a dynamic young man with a persistent habit of popping up like a genie from a bottle wherever news was in the making. That was his business. Writing a column of behind-the-scenes Broadway gossip required a Johnny-on-the-spot. There was a trick to it of course — several of them. Knowing what the police department was up to was one of them. And keeping a weather eye on Don Diavolo, as Woody had found out, was another.

He popped up sometimes, such as now, in places where a reporter wasn't exactly welcome; but the breezy amiability of his gate-crashing technique saved him from getting the bum's rush more often than not. The look Church was giving him now, however, suggested that this was one time it wasn't going to work.

Woody surveyed the scene before him, his gray hat tilted back on his blond head, a broad grin on his face. His eyes twinkled. “Well, well, well,” he said gaily. “Old Home Week. Hullo, Don. Hi, Inspector. Introduce me to the body … oh, I see. If it isn't R.J. himself! I can't say I'm too surprised. The old skinflint!”

“Branner!” Church barked. “What do you think you're supposed to be doing out there? Throw this guy out!”

An order like that coming from an Inspector of Police would have dismayed some people, but not Woody. He'd been through the mill before. “Touchy this afternoon,” he said lightly. “Aren't you, Inspector? Something you ate maybe? It's too late to throw me out now. Way too late. I'm in. And if Branner—”

But what Woody was going to do if Branner gave him the bum's rush no one ever discovered. Dr. Pepper's voice came from behind them.

“You know,” he said calmly. “
I think I've found Zalini!
”

His words burst like rockets in the air. Woody was forgotten. They all whirled to stare at the doctor standing behind the desk. The photographer having finished, Pepper had pulled back Hagenbaugh's chair and had been about to ask that the body be laid out on the floor where he could give it a closer examination. But beneath the desk in the hollow square where the circus owner's knees had been he had noticed an extra pair of feet.

The body of a man lay there, pushed deep back within the opening. Church, stooping, saw that the man's head was swathed in bandages. He and Brophy dragged the body out.

The dark blue suit and the bandages answered Miss Skinner's description, except that now the suit was soaking wet. The body left a wide dark streak of damp behind it on the carpet as they drew it forth.

Pepper gave a little cry of excitement and bent forward. “Look, Inspector, these bandages. They're loose. They've been removed and put back on — hastily.” He pulled them away from the face. Once more they saw the curious five parallel scratches like the ones on Hagenbaugh. These ran right across the front of the man's face, starting at his forehead and angling down to cut sharp gashes in his nose and lips.

Don Diavolo, seeing this, knew that it trumped any aces he might have. Quietly, while attention was still centered on the body, he moved toward Woody. Swiftly he whispered a dozen words into the reporter's ear. Woody blinked at him, started to object, then nodded. “Okay,” he murmured. “Can do.”

Pepper was saying, “And another odd thing. No shoelace in his right shoe. Inspector, you've got a puzzle on your hands.”

“Puzzle,” Church growled. “It's a nightmare! Brophy, get Miss Skinner in here.”

Woody answered quickly, “I'll do it, Inspector.” He hurried into the outer office. Miss Skinner came in a moment later, but Woody did not return. Don Diavolo, listening, heard the corridor door close quietly as Haines let himself out.

The Inspector was saying, “I don't know how you thought you could get away with it, Diavolo. Out the window, my eye! Did you really think we'd miss finding your other victim there? Tight-wire walker indeed!”

Miss Skinner was staring down at the dead man. Her voice came suddenly, low, tense, half hysterical.

“Inspector,” she said. “That —
that's not Zalini!
”

C
HAPTER
VII

An Early Arrest

M
ISS
Skinner's statement was too revolutionary to be fully comprehended all at once. Her words hung for a moment, vibrant and trembling, in the air above and then, as their full force exploded, flashes of amazement lit up the faces of her listeners.

Inspector Church made a false start, stuttering like a motor boat, “But … but … but…” He stopped, gulped, and began again. “It's the bandaged man you showed in here though, isn't it?”

“No.” Blondie was positive. “I've never seen this man before! Look at his hand, the right one. That tattoo mark — the anchor. There was nothing like that on Zalini's hand! I'd have seen it when he wrote that note.”

“Now, Miss Skinner,” Church said soothingly. “Take it easy. That can't be right. This
has
to be the man who called himself Zalini. You might very easily not have noticed …”

Miss Skinner shook her head decisively. “It is
not
Zalini. His hands were neat, manicured. This man's nails are ragged, dirty. I doubt if they've ever seen a manicurist. And I think he's heavier. Yes — I'm sure of it.”

Church regarded her morosely. “You'll swear to all that on oath?”

Blondie, frightened, but firm, nodded. “Yes.”

“Okay,” Church said helplessly and thoroughly disgusted. “That'll do.”

Then he stooped above the body and rapidly investigated the man's pockets. When he stood up he held their entire contents on the palm of one hand. Church frowned at his loot.

It didn't look very helpful. It consisted of two Lincoln pennies and one uselessly damp match folder,

The Inspector was mad now. He decided he'd had more than enough talk. Look what it got him. He began barking orders and his assistants leaped to the task of carrying them out. Church stood in the center of the floor and spouted more orders as needed. The fur flew. He wanted action and he got it.

He was thorough. Don Diavolo, watching, handed him that much.

Every square inch of that office was scrutinized, probed, investigated, searched and what have you. The carpet came up; the walls were sounded. Even the ceiling got a suspicious once over. A fingerprint man sprayed and dusted until the air was misty with a haze of lampblack and aluminum powder. He produced a glass slide, ink, roller and cards, and took Don Diavolo's prints, Miss Skinner's, Mrs. Belmonte's, Hagenbaugh's, and those of corpse No. 2. Don wondered if he was going to take his own.

In the midst of it all Lieutenant Brophy had an idea. “The corpse, Inspector,” he said with sudden excitement. “It — it might be that dame's husband, the tight-rope walker — Belmonte!”

Church frowned, considered the idea and replied, “This bird looks like a Swede to me, not a Spaniard.”

“Yes,” Brophy said, “but remember Stefanovsky, that Russian actor we put the bee on for loading his wife's borscht with strychnine. His real name turned out to be George Throopmorton. You can't tell about actors.”

“Okay,” Church gave in. “I'll try anything once. Get her.”

Juan Belmonte

Brophy brought her in. The mascara around her eyes was a bit smudgy now. She looked at the body. Her voice was limp. “No,” she said. “That is not my husband.”

Miss Skinner agreed with her. “Juan Belmonte's a Mexican,” she said. “Dark, skinny, little moustache.”

“Inspector,” the fingerprint man said looking up from the magnifying glass through which he had been comparing prints. “I've got an index finger and a thumb here on the desk top. A dame's. Doesn't match either Skinner or Mrs. Belmonte.”

Church looked at the secretary. “Who else has been in here today?”

“That must be Miss Powers,” Blondie said. “She was here this morning. Lillian Powers.”

“Who is she, what did she want?”

“R.J. had a controlling interest in the Hagenbaugh Powers Circus. She owns the rest of it. It used to be her father's show until R.J. bought into it three or four years ago. She still works the flying act. It's all old circus family.”

The Inspector's glance moved to the window and back again. “Flying act?” he asked as if he didn't like the sound of it. “What's that?”

Miss Skinner raised an eyebrow. “When did you see a circus last? It's the trapeze act of course. She doubles the cloud swing and Spanish web act too.

“That's enough,” Church growled. “She's an acrobat. I'd like this case better if it had just one suspect who has a game leg.”

“Cap. Schneider is using a cane,” Miss Skinner offered. “Does that help?”

“Schneider? Who's he?”

“Hagenbaugh Powers' feature act this season. Animal trainer. Satan jumped him in Brooksville two weeks ago and clawed his leg. He's working again, but he needs a cane except when he's in the ring.”

“Satan?”

Church couldn't understand just what it was but somehow he couldn't talk to this Skinner dame for more than three minutes at a time without having to duck a verbal thunderbolt.

“Satan,” she said, “is a black leopard.”

Church sighed. “I've been waiting for that,” he said. Then he added, “The show is on the road now, isn't it? What was Miss Powers doing in New York this morning and what did she see your boss about?”

Miss Skinner frowned. “The show is playing Lakewego, Connecticut. That's only an hour and a half or so out on the Merritt Parkway. I—I don't know what she saw him about.”

The Inspector gave her a careful look. “You don't say that as if you meant it, Miss Skinner. This is a murder investigation. Come on. Let's have it.”

Miss Skinner stuck out her chin. “I said I didn't know. You might ask Miss Powers.”

There was another commotion in the outer office, Branner's voice commanding, “You heard what the Inspector said. Scram!”

“Now, Branner,” Woody Haines replied, “You know the old boy as well as I do. He has to have his little joke. Kindly stand to one side.”

Church opened the door, gave the reporter a scowl that would have made Hitler think twice, and then ordered, “Brophy, we're moving down to headquarters. Now that this guy's wise we'll be up to our ears in reporters in another ten minutes. Have Maurer go on ahead with Skinner and Mrs. Belmonte. Branner, get on the phone and tell that elevator starter downstairs to send an empty car up to this floor.”

He turned to face Don Diavolo. “You,” he said grimly, “are going to headquarters in style. If you are playing with any idea of putting over another of those phony vanishes of yours, I warn you, it had better be good. Because you'll have to vanish Lieutenant Brophy and me too. We're going to be handcuffed to you, one on each side. And I'm going to keep my eyes on you every second until you land in a courtroom — if I have to go without sleep from now on.”