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

With a flourish of his hand Gil Holt sent the performers hurrying from the platform and into the tent. Juval gave the wheel a final clang and scampered down the steps. I saw him duck under the bally platform. I knew he wouldn’t come out again until time to get Mercer out. I fired a cigar and watched for a few minutes as people lined up at the ticket-box. They would have a full tent.

I strolled on up the midway, checking on other shows and the rides. A minor crisis held me up at the merry-go-round where a child had fallen off a horse. He wasn’t hurt badly, but I had to see that he got medical attention and examined by a doctor. His parents were grateful he wasn’t hurt, but I knew from past, sad experience that they could change their minds later and launch a massive law suit.

Consequently it was quite late when I approached the freak tent again. The front was dark, the banners rolled up for the night. It was long past time for Mercer to be out. I started to walk on.

Something made me hesitate, then turn into the tent. It was deserted. I let my glance sweep the empty tent and started to turn back out. Then I stopped short. There was something wrong.

A second glance told me what it was. There was no mound of dirt, no casket in sight. I hurried over to the pit.

Mercer was still sealed in the casket. His eyes were wide and staring sightlessly, his face frozen in a horrible grimace of death. One of his hands was up by his face. The nails were torn and bleeding.

I could readily see what had happened. He had come out of the trance; there had been no one around to get him out, and he had scrabbled and torn at the coffin lid until the air was all gone, and he had died of asphyxiation.

But where was Juval?

I hurried out of the tent — there was nothing anyone could do now for Carl Mercer — and to the bally platform. I raised the canvas. Juval was sprawled on his back on the blanket, his mouth open and snoring. I shook him, but he was out cold. I leaned down and sniffed. There was no odor of alcohol. It made no sense, no sense at all. There were several empty pop bottles near him. I collected the whole lot and stashed them out of sight in the ticket box.

Two hours later, we were all in the tent, gathered around the open pit. Several of the carnies had dug down, opened the casket and removed Mercer’s body. The police had come and gone, taking the body with them.

Just before the police came, Juval had stumbled into the tent. He had rushed to Mercer, a muted cry of anguish coming from him. Then he had scurried to the pit, looked down at the empty casket, and gazed around at the accusing faces, his small black eyes pleading dumbly for an explanation.

The police had interrogated everyone without getting any pertinent answers. They had tried to interrogate Juval, without any success whatsoever. They had held out little hope they would arrive at any solution, leaving the impression they didn’t really care very much. After all this was a carnival; everyone knew carnival people were strange, addicted to weird doings, and here today, gone tomorrow. I was certain they would eventually label it accidental death.

As they took Mercer’s body out, Juval had tried to go along, and had to be forcibly restrained.

Now Juval stood at the edge of the pit, gazing down into it, his tiny figure hunched in voiceless grief, as though he expected the nightly miracle to recur and Mercer would rise once again from the dead.

I had questioned Gil Holt and Linda without learning anything. Gil Holt seemed smug, self-satisfied. I had a strong hunch that he was somehow responsible. But I had no proof and saw no chance of getting any. My thought was that he had slipped something into one of Juval’s pop bottles, probably sleeping pills. I had told my suspicions to the officer in charge of the investigation, without naming names. He had ordered all the bottles collected and taken downtown for an examination. Yet I was doubtful of any fruitful results. If Holt had doped Juval’s drink, he could easily have disposed of the bottle afterward. He’d have been stupid not to.

The tent began to empty. I waited until the carnies were gone. It was quite late now. I stood for a moment in indecision, looking at Juval’s hunched figure. I finally went out and left him alone with his grief.

Juval’s vigil beside the open pit continued the next day. All efforts to lead him away had failed. The freak show people brought him food and water; he had refused everything but a little water.

But what outraged the freaks was Linda Mercer’s and Gil Holt’s decision pot only to open the show that evening, but to capitalize on Mercer’s death and Juval’s vigil.