Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

A man and a woman stood looking down at the casket. They hadn’t seen me come in. It was late, after midnight, and the big carnival tent was empty except for the three of us. They were arguing about something as I stopped behind them. Their voices, even in contention, had a hushed, sepulchral quality in the big tent.

The woman said in a tense whisper, “Gil, I can’t! Carl will have to come out any minute, and he’s always angry if I’m not here.”

“You’d think I was asking you out on a date,” Gil Holt said bitterly, “instead of going to the cook tent for a lousy cup of coffee!”

Linda Mercer said, “But don’t you see, to Carl it’s the same thing!”

“No, I don’t see. All I can see is a beautiful broad married to a man twice her age!”

I cleared my throat loudly, and the pair spun around guiltily.

Gil Holt said, “Patch! We didn’t hear you come in.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.” I nodded toward the man in the casket. “Carl all right?”

“Sure, he’s fine.” Holt’s glance swung toward the casket, and he took a step back. “Look, he’s watching us!”

The grave, if such it could be called, occupied a position of prominence in the sideshow tent, isolated by several feet from one end of the long platform running down the center. The area around the grave was chained off, a section of striped canvas hung from the chain, dragging the ground like a woman’s long skirt.

Actually the grave was little more than a rectangular pit, dug before the first performance of each new carnival date. The bottom two-thirds of the casket was covered with dirt, packed in tightly and mounded on top. The upper third was clear glass. It was set on a slight slant, giving the spectators on the entrance side of the pit an unobstructed view of the man inside. A heavy chain was wrapped around the lid, held in place by a large padlock.

The eyes of the man in the casket, deep black and strangely compelling, were wide open, staring up at us. His gaze was baleful, faintly menacing. His hands were still crossed over his chest, but now there was a barely perceptible rise and fall of the chest.

I saw Gil Holt shiver. “He always spooks me when I see him looking out of the damn coffin! Like a dead man come to life.”

Linda laughed mockingly. “That’s the name of the exhibit, Gil. ‘Buried Alive!’ ”

I heard the scamper of feet behind me. I glanced around at Juval.

Juval was a dwarf, standing just short of four feet, with stubby, powerful arms and legs. His was a gargoyle’s face, always fixed in a grin. He was a deaf mute. When Carl Mercer was out of the pit, Juval was in almost constant attendance, trotting along after the man. Juval had never learned to read or write. The only way he could communicate was through pantomime, and Mercer was the only person who could interpret his pantomimicry.

Now Juval capered on his short legs, gesticulating. He caught Linda’s attention and gestured toward the pit.

She nodded, saying curtly, “Yes, Juval. It’s time to get him out now.”

Juval bobbed his head and did a jig, leaping high in the air and hitting his heels together. He was carrying a half-empty pop bottle. Every time he had a chance, between his bally appearances for the ten-in-one freak show, he scuttled up to the cook tent for a bottle of cold pop. He set the bottle down now and darted into the shadows at the end of the tent. He was back in a moment with a short-handled spade. Working at amazing speed, he began shoveling the dirt away from the casket.

I watched, fascinated as always. Carl Mercer would die of suffocation within minutes of coming out of the trance unless he was freed from the casket.

I was vague about the particulars. It had something to do with only a few minutes, twenty at the most, of oxygen left at the end of an eight-hour trance. During the trance itself, Mercer’s bodily processes almost ceased, and he consumed only a minimal amount of air. But the instant he came out of the trance, his body functions resumed, and he needed the normal quantity of oxygen.

I knew Mercer worked without a gimmick. The casket was airtight. It wasn’t gaffed; there was no gimmick. This fact confounded most of the carnies. They couldn’t understand why Mercer worked without a gimmick, especially in an act as potentially dangerous as this one. The first day on any new carnival date, I personally supervised while a group of townies, reputable citizens who had no reason to lie, closely examined both Mercer and the casket. There were always local reporters covering it, and it made for good publicity.

“Aren’t you going to help Juval dig him out, Gil?” Linda’s voice was taunting.

Gil Holt said harshly, “I didn’t hire out to use a shovel.”

“Why not? It wouldn’t hurt that golden throat of yours.”

He glared at her without speaking. I studied the pair, sensing something going on between them.