The Collection (151 page)

“What do you mean,
if
she did it?” Tepperman asked
coldly. “No, he was lying with his head against the stake, if you got to know.”

“He must've been teasin' her,” Pop insisted. “Lil ain't no
killer. Maybe he give her some pepper to eat, or—”

He walked up to Lil and patted her trunk. “You shouldn'ta
done it, old girl. But— Damn, I wisht you could talk.”

The carney proprietor snorted. “Better stay away from that
bull till we shoot her.”

Pop winced. That had been the word he'd been waiting for,
and it had come.

But he didn't argue it; he knew there wasn't any use, now.
Maybe later, when Tepperman's anger had cooled, there'd be a chance. An outside
chance.

Pop said, “Lil's all right, Mr. Tepperman. She wouldn't hurt
a fly. If she did ... uh ... do that, she sure had some reason. Some good
reason. There was something wrong about that there Shorty. You should've never
let him ride her in the parade, even. She never did like—” And realizing that,
by emphasizing Lil's dislike of Shorty, he was damaging his own case, Pop let
it die there.

There was, blocks away, the clang of an ambulance bell.

Tepperman had turned back to the doc. He asked, “Had Shorty
been drinking, Doc?”

But Berg shook his head. “Don't seem to be any smell of
liquor on him.”

Pop's hopes went lower. If Shorty'd been drunk, it would
have made it more likely he'd been teasing the bull deliberately. Still, if he
hadn't, why'd he gone by there at all?

Especially, at that time of—

“What time is it?” Pop asked.

“Almost one.” It was the doctor who answered. Earlier than
Pop thought; he must have barely gone to sleep when it happened. No wonder so
many of the carneys were still awake.

The ambulance drove up, collected the thing on the ground,
and drove off again. Some of the crowd was drifting away already

Pop tried again. “That Shorty was a crook anyway, Mr.
Tepperman. Didn't he get hisself arrested when we was playin' Brondale a few
days ago?”

“What are you driving at, Pop?”

Pop Williams scratched his head. He didn't know. But he
said, “Only that if Lil did anything to him, she musta sure had a reason. I
don't know what, but—”

The carney owner glowered him to silence.

“Wait here,” he said, “and keep an eye on that bull. I'm
going to shoot her before she kills anybody else.”

He strode off.

Pop patted the rough hide of Lil's shoulder. “Don't worry,
old girl. He won't find it.” He said it softly, so none of the other carneys
would hear. He tried to make his voice cheerful, but he knew he'd given Lil
only a stay of execution.

If Tepperman hadn't found that gun by daylight, he could
easily get another at one of the local stores.

Somebody called out, “Better stay away from that bull, Pop.”

It was Whitey Harper's voice.

Pop said, “Nuts. Lil wouldn't hurt a fly.” Then, so he
wouldn't have to yell, he walked over to where Whitey was standing at a safe
distance from the bull. He said, “Whitey, what was it Shorty Martin was pinched
for back in Brondale early this week?”

“Nothing. Suspicion, that's all. They let him go right
away.”

“Suspicion of what?”

“There was a snatch that the coppers were all excited about.
They were picking up every stranger wandering down the stem. Lot of carneys got
questioned.”

“They find the guy who got snatched?”

“It was a kid — the banker's kid. Haven't found him yet that
I heard about. Why?”

“I dunno,” said Pop. He was trying to find a straw to grasp
at, but he didn't know how to explain that to Whitey. He asked, “Did Shorty
have any enemies? On the lot, I mean.”

“Not that I know of, Pop. Unless it was Lil. And you.”

Pop grunted disgustedly, and went back to Lil. He said,

“Don't worry, old girl,” quite unnecessarily. Lil didn't
seem to be worrying at all. But Pop Williams was.

Tepperman came back. Without the rifle.

He said, “Some blankety-blank stole my gun, Pop. Won't be
able to do anything till morning. Can you stay here and keep an eye on the
bull?”

“Sure, Mr. Tepperman. But listen, do you got to—?”

“Yes, Pop, we got to. When a bull once kills it doesn't pay
to take any more chances. It wasn't your fault though, Pop; you can stay on and
help with canvas or—”

“Nope,” said Pop Williams. “Beckon I'm quitting, Mr.
Tepperman. I'm strictly a bull man. I'm quitting.”

“But you'll stay till tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” said Pop. “I'll stay till tomorrow.” He watched
Tepperman walk away.

Yeah, he'd stay till tomorrow all right. Just let anybody
try to get him off the lot, while there was a chance to save the old gal. A
Chinaman's chance.

After that— Oh, hell, why worry about after that? The arcs
on the midway were blurring a bit, and he wiped the back of his sleeve across
his eyes. And then, because he knew Tepperman was right, and because he had to
blame somebody he muttered, “That damn Shorty!” What business had Shorty to
come monkeying around Lil when she was asleep for the night, and what had he
done to her?

He turned to look at her, and she was sleeping as peacefully
as a baby. Old Lil a killer?

Hey, wait! Maybe she wasn't! He'd argued against it, but
suddenly he realized that he'd really believed, down inside, that she had
killed Shorty.

But would she have? Lil had a temper, all right. But when
she got mad, she trumpeted. She hadn't let out a yip tonight. Drunk or sober,
asleep or awake, he'd have heard her.

He said, “Lil, didn't you—?”

She opened her little red eyes sleepily and then closed them
again. Damn, if she could only talk.

Who'd found Shorty's body, and where had Shorty been before
that and what had he been doing? Maybe the answers to those questions could be
important. Nobody else was asking them, either. Everybody else was going on —
what did the coppers call it? — circumstantial evidence. Pop looked around for
someone to ask those questions of, and there wasn't anybody there. He was
alone, with Lil.

Somewhere a clock struck two.

He took a look at Lil's leg chain and at the stake it was
fastened to. They were all right.

Walking softly, so as not to waken her, he picked his way
through the dimness, around the Dip-a-Whirl and into the midway. On the soggy
shavings of the path, he headed for the cookhouse.

Half a dozen carneys were sitting at tables or at the
counter.

Whitey was there, and Whitey said, “Hi, Pop. Have cuppa
Java?”

Pop nodded and sat down. He found he was sitting gingerly,
as though the seat were hot, and realized it was because he was afraid
Tepperman would see him here, when he'd promised to stay by the bull. But what
if the boss did see him? This was his last night anyway, wasn't it? You can't
fire a man who's already quit.

He made himself relax, and the hot coffee helped. He asked,
“Anybody see what happened back there? I mean, what Shorty was doin' to the
bull, or how come he went over there in the first place?”

“Nope,” said Whitey Harper. “Shorty was in the freak-show
top just after you left. That was the last I saw of him.”

“Did he get in the game?” Pop asked. “Nope. Just watched a
few minutes. Let's see; I came up here and borrowed a buck and went back.
Shorty was there then, and left a few minutes later, somewhere around midnight.
I dunno where he went from there.”

One of the ride-boys at the counter said, “That must've been
when I seen him. Coming out of the freak-show top, and he went over toward the
Ferris wheel. Pete Boucher was working on the diesel. I guess maybe he was
going to talk to Pete.”

“Was he sober?”

“Far as I could see,” said the ride-boy. And Whitey nodded.

Pop finished his coffee and shambled out to look for Pete
Boucher. He had no trouble finding him; Pete was still working on the
recalcitrant engine.

“Hi, Pop,” he said. “They gonna shoot the bull?”

“I guess so,” said Pop. “Tepperman can't find his rifle, or
he woulda done it tonight. Shorty stopped to talk to you a little after
midnight, didn't he, Pete?”

“Yeah. Guess it was about then.”

“Did he say anything about the bull, or about going over
there?”

Boucher shook his head. “We just talked about tomorrow,
whether it's going to be a good day or not. He wasn't here long. A few
minutes.”

“Say where he was going, maybe?”

“Nope. But I happened to notice. He went on across the
midway and cut in between the dog stand and the geek show.

Valenti's trailer's over there, back of the geek show. I
guess he was maybe heading for Valenti's trailer.”

Pop nodded. Getting close, he thought. From the trailer,
Shorty must have gone direct to Lil, and no one would have seen him make that
last lap of the journey. He'd have gone around the curve at the end of the
midway, probably, in the darkness back of the tents.

He said, “I can't figure out why Lil — Pete, what kind of
mood was Shorty in when he was talkin' to you?”

“Cheerful. Kidding around. Said he was going to be rich
tomorrow.”

“He didn't... uh ... sound like he meant anything by it, did
he?”

“Naw. What th' hell could he mean? Say, Pop, what are you
gonna do after they shoot Lil?”

“I dunno, Pete. I dunno.”

Pop strolled on across the soggy midway, past the big tank
and the eighty-foot tower from which Valenti dived once an evening. Pop didn't
look up at the tower. He had a touch of acrophobia — fear of heights. Enough to
give him the willies at the thought of that dive.

He went back past the dog stand toward Valenti's trailer.

It was dark, and he hesitated. Maybe Valenti and Bill
Gruber, his partner, had both turned in and were asleep. Must be after
two-thirty by now.

The trailer itself was a black shadow in the darkness.

Pop stood at the door, wondering whether he dared call out
or knock. Maybe they weren't asleep yet.

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.