Young Petrella (3 page)

“Oh, nonsense,” said Patrick impatiently. “We all knew that Auguste was Nina’s lover. That’s why he stuck up for her, and got knocked about by Manfredo. Manfredo wanted her himself. I didn’t say anything about it because I wasn’t sure whether it was a terribly good alibi. After all, if she was fond of him, she’d say he was there, wouldn’t she?”

M. Theron smiled, and said, “Very true. But in this case the concierge of the house where Nina lodges confirms it. Auguste arrived at ten o’clock in the evening, and did not leave until six o’clock the following morning.”

“A concierge is a zealous watchdog,” said Patrick’s father. “But even she must sleep sometimes.”

“Agreed,” said M. Theron. “But this one did not go to bed before one o’clock. Until that time she could hear the man and girl laughing and talking in their room. Manfredo, remember, was dead by one o’clock.”

“Did she see Auguste, or simply hear his voice?”

“Heard him,” said M. Theron. “What was in your mind?”

“He has a funny high-pitched voice. Easy to imitate.”

“That’s true enough,” said Patrick. “I’ve heard Nestor – he’s the Borners’ parrot – imitate him exactly. But then, he can take off all of them.”

M. Theron was frowning.

“I am a man of logic,” he said. “If it be accepted that no one except its regular inmates could enter the camp after dark without being detected by the dogs, we have the following position. A man is struck down and killed, with a heavy instrument – most probably of metal and circular in shape, according to the autopsy – a sledge hammer, perhaps. The man who is killed was a bully, and a lecher. Any one of his fellows might have had cause to strike the blow. When was the blow struck? Between eleven o’clock and one o’clock, says the doctor. But we can be more precise than that. The man Stromboli heard Manfredo come back to the camp.”

Patrick and his father looked up quickly.

“Yes. That is so. We learned it only this morning. The old man sleeps with his dogs. The sharp-eared
caniches
!
They woke him at midnight. He heard Manfredo. The inmates, when they come in late, they do not use the gate. There are places at the back where they climb through the wire.”

“He knew it must be one of the regulars,” said Patrick’s father. “But how did he know it was Manfredo?”

“He heard him. Manfredo was intoxicated. And he was talking to himself – loudly.”

“Did Stromboli go out to see?”

“He says no. He would not interfere with Manfredo sober. Certainly not when he was intoxicated.”

Patrick’s father had taken out his sketch plan. Now he marked a spot behind the row of machinery sheds.

“Manfredo would climb in on the south side, behind the machinery sheds – here? Emerge by the end of the sheds, pass Stromboli and the dogs – so? And make his way across the open centre of the compound, towards the row of caravans on the north side.”

M. Theron nodded. “And these caravans, remember, Senor Petrella, at that precise moment, were all empty save one. The large caravan at the end, occupied by Borner and his wife. Let us suppose that Borner hears this sot approaching. Staggering across the open. He sees his chance. He picks up a heavy, iron tent hammer. He creeps up behind him. One blow, and it is finished.”

“But why? Why would he do it?”

“He had a reason. All the circus knew it. I have no doubt your boy knows it, too.”

Patrick looked at his father, who said, “Tell me.”

“It was about ten days ago,” said Patrick unhappily. “Three days before Manfredo was killed. Nina was taking Leopold and Lorenzo for their afternoon walk – they are the lemurs, who live in Sam Borner’s caravan and ride the ponies. Lorenzo slipped his leash, got into Manfredo’s caravan and stole an orange. They’re both terrible thieves. Manfredo chased him out, and Lorenzo got into a tree, and started to eat the orange and throw the peel at Manfredo. Everyone was laughing – except Manfredo. He was mad. He got his long whip, the one he uses on his cats, and flicked Lorenzo with it. It nearly cut his tail off.”

“And do you think,” said his father, “that that would be sufficient provocation—?”

“Circus people think of their animals as children,” said M. Theron. “If someone flicked your child with a whip—?”

“They’re terribly valuable, too,” said Patrick. “They ride Rosalie and Marguerite, you see. It’s one of the main attractions of the circus. They’re awfully clever with them. Just like real jockeys. It’s taken Sam fifteen years to train them.”

Patrick broke off. It suddenly occurred to him that he might be talking too much. His father had returned to his sketch plan.

“One thing puzzles me,” he said. “Manfredo was found in the entrance of the stable.”

“If you are thinking,” said M. Theron, with a smile, “that one of the horses may have kicked him, I can assure you that it is impossible. Unless it had legs of elastic! The nearest horse was tethered in its stall a full ten paces from the door.”

“I wasn’t thinking of that. I was wondering what he was doing there at all. His caravan is at the other end of the line. Crossing the open compound he would go to the right to get to it. Why did he bear left-handed towards the stables?”

“Who knows?” said M. Theron. “He was drunk. He may have lost direction.”

“He might,” said Patrick’s father. “It’s curious, all the same.” He was frowning in a way that Patrick recognised. He said, “I, too, am a man of logic. I will concede to you that Borner is the only man who could have done this thing
by himself
.
His wife would be a tacit accomplice, but we need not concern ourselves with her. Have you, however, considered that it could have been done, quite easily, by
two
people in concert – a conspiracy?”

It was clear that M. Theron had not thought about it.

“I will suggest two possible combinations. There may well be more. Clearly Auguste and Nina could have worked it. No one
saw
Auguste after eleven o’clock. The concierge heard his high-pitched voice. A voice which, as we have heard, even the parrot could imitate. If a parrot, how much more easily could a clever girl do so?”

M. Theron frowned and said, “Auguste seems to me – somehow – pyschologically an unlikely murderer.”

“Agreed. Then let me suggest a second one. Ramon. Who knows what tensions may grow between brothers? Did not Cain kill Abel?”

“But—”

“But Ramon was in a police station cell by midnight. Agreed. But suppose he followed his brother back to the circus, killed him at half past eleven, and immediately took steps to have himself arrested. That trouble he stirred up – it seemed to me a little obvious even at the time.”

“But—”

“But we are told that Manfredo was alive at twelve. Who by? By Stromboli. But who knows that
he
may not be in with Ramon? The two of them together—”

“A conspiracy,” said M. Theron. He sounded unhappy; as a man may, who has arrived at what seems to be the unique solution of a problem, and perceived that it may, at best, be one of three.

“I worked out a fourth possibility,” said Patrick’s father, “involving Ramon, Stromboli
and
Sam Borner.”

“No, no,” said M. Theron. “Three is enough. You have said quite sufficient to make me doubt my own diagnosis. Possibly I ought to let Mr. Borner go? It is not right to detain a man who might be innocent. On the other hand, it might be wise to detain him for his own protection. That brute, Ramon, has sworn to avenge his brother.”

He took himself off, a worried frown on his good-natured face. After he had gone, Patrick said to his father, “Did you really believe any of those ideas, or did you make them up to get Sam out of a hole?”

“Didn’t they sound convincing?”

“Oh, yes. They were terribly convincing.”

Patrick’s father looked hard at him. If his son was capable of pulling his leg, he must be growing up.

“But I gather that they didn’t convince you.”

“They were quite all right,” said Patrick. “Quite logical. They
could
have planned it like that. The thing is, though, that they
wouldn’t
.
Auguste isn’t the sort of person to kill anyone. And Ramon bickers a lot with Manfredo, but he wouldn’t kill him. Manfredo was killed by someone who
hated
him.
I’m positive of that.”

“By Sam Borner, then?”

“Not by Sam,” said Patrick. He said it in such an odd tone, that his father looked at him again. The boy had gone white.

The idea had not come to him suddenly. It had grown, from little things; things noticed, things heard, half observation, half impression. It was not a logical solution. It was more like a picture. He saw Manfredo, full of wine, muttering and stumbling, climbing through the wire perimeter at the well-known place, steering an unsteady course across the dusty, moonlit compound, towards his caravan and bed. And then – his father had noticed it – something must have diverted him. Patrick did not believe that Manfredo drifted off course. A drunken man has a compass which takes him to his own bed.
Something
had attracted him to the front of the pony shed and, inside that dark entrance, the murderer was crouched, ready to kill.

It might be proved, too. Only the time was short, and getting shorter.

In three or four days, the main circus would be back, the camp would be full of shouting, working, jostling people; the lights would be on most of the night as they repaired, against time, machinery and equipment for the autumn circuit. The caravans would all be occupied, the clues would be trampled underfoot and the scent would be cold. Also his mother would be back.

She had more belief in the value of an English boarding school than either Patrick or his father. Her first experiment had been unsuccessful. Three years before she had chosen a school on paper and dispatched Patrick to it without further enquiry. A few weeks after his arrival the headmaster’s son, a lout of ten, had tried to bully this eight-year-old new boy. He had been half killed for his pains. Patrick had learned about fighting from the small banditti of the slums of Madrid. His methods were unorthodox but drastic. The headmaster had beaten Patrick, but done nothing to his son. That was quite enough, and Patrick had removed himself and made his way home. When his father had heard what he had to say he had supported him and Patrick had resumed the enjoyable freedom of life with his peripatetic family.

Now, he realised, things were different. His mother had departed for England and set about a personal inspection of schools and headmasters coupled with talks to friends who had young sons. This time, no doubt, she would find a decent school for him. And when she got back his liberty would be curtailed.

He spent the next two days on the quayside. Anyone will talk to a polite, good looking, eleven-year-old boy. Patrick listened. There was a single piece of information that he needed. It was late on the evening of the second day – after nine o’clock – that the son of the proprietor of one of the waterside cafés brought him the news. Patrick went back with him, to confirm it. He wanted no slip-up. The boys stood and peered through the bead-curtained window. Ramon was sitting at a table, staring at the wall. There was a half-empty bottle on the table.

“It’s his second,” said the boy. “If he makes trouble, my father and his brother will handle him. Shall we stay to watch?”

“No,” said Patrick. “I must telephone.”

“Why waste money?” said the boy. “Use ours. It is in the passage. I will show you.”

Patrick spoke to the housekeeper. His father was out, and would not be back until late.

“When he comes,” said Patrick, “tell him – tell him that I am going with some of my friends for a moonlight picnic—”

He cut short her protests by ringing off.

Ten minutes later, he was climbing, alone, into the circus enclosure. When the poodles had inspected him, and the Alsatians had sniffed, and passed him, he walked round the perimeter of the enclosure, keeping as much as possible in the shadows, until he came to the line of caravans. Here he moved very cautiously. He was making for an empty caravan, next to the Borners’ at the end of the line. There was a light in the sleeping quarters of the Borners’ van. That would be Donna. Even when she got into bed and turned out her light, she would probably not sleep very soundly. She would be worrying about Sam. Great care was necessary.

Patrick fitted into the lock of the empty caravan the key which Nina had, very unwillingly, lent to him, eased it round gently, and went in. It was not so elaborately equipped as the Borners’ caravan, but was constructed on the same lines. There was a cushioned couch under the side window. Patrick climbed onto it, and opened the window.

It was a night of magic. The full face of the moon looked down from a sky of black velvet. It was so bright that it seemed to be generating a light and heat of its own.

And it was very quiet. Patrick could hear the clack of sharp little hoofs on the concrete as Rosalie or Marguerite moved in her stall, and, away on the far side of the compound, a throaty rumble as old Rosso the lion dreamed of the forests of his youth.

From where he knelt, every detail of the living room of the Borners’ caravan was picked out in the cold white moonlight. Opposite to him, on his perch by the open window, sat Nestor, the big green parrot. His eyes were shut. Of Nestor, alone among all the birds and animals of the circus, Patrick was afraid. He had been afraid since he had discovered, in a book of his father’s, that Nestor was his real name.
Nestor notabilis,
the sheep-killing parrot of Australia and New Zealand. He had read how they would fly on to a terrified and cornered sheep and peck through its back, into its liver. He had read, too, how the enraged farmers tried to trap them and how the parrots, endowed with almost human cunning and calculation, had avoided all the snares that were set for them, and even set traps themselves in return.

Nestor had opened his eyes. For a moment, Patrick thought he had seen him; that he was going to open his hooked beak, and scream out a warning to the camp. Then he saw that Nestor had his head cocked and was listening.

The next moment, Patrick heard it too. It was the sound of Ramon returning.