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

She turned her back and began talking to Juval in a low voice, pointing to her mouth and wriggling her fingers in front of his face. My God, I thought, she’s trying to communicate with him!

Holt watched for a moment, then seized her arm and turned her to face him.

“Damn you, after what I did for you! Now it looks like it’s all for nothing!” he cried.

“You did nothing for me!” She wrenched her arm out of his grip and slapped him hard. “Now leave me alone!”

Holt’s face went white, and I thought he was going to hit her. Then his glance flicked around the tent, and he saw me. Without another word he stormed past me and out of the tent.

I grinned and flipped my hand at Linda and went out. Gil Holt was standing beside the ticket box, smoking furiously. He gave me a look of pure hatred.

I made my rounds until the midway began to close down, then stopped in at the cook tent to pass some, time with Kay. I had already decided to return to the ten-in-one after it closed and make a determined effort to lure Juval away from the pit and get some food into him. It was after midnight when I strolled back to the freak show. I toed out my cigar and went inside.

There was very little light in the tent, but enough to show me Juval, still in the same position where I’d last seen him. I walked over, clearing my throat to alert him. I stopped beside him, started to touch his shoulder, then stared down into the pit in shock.

The casket was no longer empty! The lid was down, covered with dirt except for the upper glass, and there was someone in it. For an instant my senses reeled. Had Carl Mercer returned from the dead? It was an eerie feeling.

I stepped closer, peering down, and saw that the figure in the coffin was Gil Holt. His eyes stared emptily, lips drawn back from his teeth. One hand was up before his face, the nails broken and caked with blood where he had clawed at the lid.

He had died horribly, as horribly as had Mercer. What had happened here? Obviously Juval was responsible, but how? He was very strong for his size. Still...

I squatted on my heels before him. His features had smoothed out now, most of the grief gone. I mouthed the words carefully, “What happened, Juval? Can you tell me?”

He understood me. Bobbing his head eagerly, he pantomimed what had taken place, tumbling about, twisting his supple body into strange positions.

Finally I thought I had the story straight. At least, his version of it. He had been standing in the same spot when Gil. Holt crept up behind him and tried to throw him bodily into the casket. But it had ended up the other way, with Holt in the coffin. Then Juval pantomimed closing the lid and shoveling dirt over it. Finally he gave a graphic depiction of the agonies Holt suffered before he died.

I sighed and got to my feet. I took Juval’s hand to lead him out of the tent. I expected resistance, but he went along quietly, without even looking back. At the bally platform he reached under for an empty pop bottle, pantomimed drinking from it, then flopped down on the blanket and pretended to fall asleep.

I nodded my understanding. It was as I had suspected all along. His pop had been doped with sleeping pills and he had slept past the time to get Mercer out. Why hadn’t he tried to communicate this before? But the more important question was, had he suspected, or known, all along that Gil Holt was responsible? Or had he deliberately provoked the attack so he could get his revenge? Or had Holt tried to kill him out of frustration over the changed will and Linda’s sudden rejection, hoping that he would still get Linda and Mercer’s money with Juval eliminated?

Since Juval couldn’t answer the questions, I would probably never know the answers. In a way it didn’t matter. It seemed to me things had come full circle.

I gripped Juval’s shoulder, smiling at him. He beamed, head bobbing, then lay back down. He fell into a sleep of utter exhaustion, even before I dropped the canvas back into place.

The final question remained: what should I tell the local police?

I had no wish to see Juval arrested for murder, and I was sure the other carnies would feel the same way. Likely the investigation would be as casual as before. Our present engagement would end in two more days, and the carnival would be moving on. The police would be happy to have us out of their jurisdiction.

Thinking out what, and how much, I would tell them, I headed toward the office wagon to make the call.

The Drop of a Pin

by Christopher Anvil

Her uncle was murdered and the door was locked in three ways. No one could have done it and escaped — could they?

* * *