The Floppy Clown Mystery

 

That’s why I was surprised when Stephano Steffanapolis walked into my office. He was the manager and part owner of the Ding-Dong Brothers Travelling Comedy and Thrills Show. And he wanted to offer me a job. Me, working for the circus. As the actress said to the castrato, I sure didn’t see that coming.

“I heard through certain contacts, that you might be able to help me with a matter that requires the utmost delicacy, Mr. Hard.”

“Oh yeah, I’m all about delicacy,” I answered him. “If there’s one thing I’m known for, it’s my discretion.”

I heard a snort and some muffled laughter coming from the other room and realized that Tim Pot was listening in. 

“Just a minute, Mr. Steffanapolis. I’ll be right back,” I said and got up and moved into the other room shutting the door behind me. Tim was sitting on the edge of his bed with a big, stupid grin on his face. He’d been staying with me at the office for a while now since the cheap flop-house he usually resided in burnt to the ground when someone, cooking chow-mein in a bowler hat, fell asleep and the joint caught fire. I guess I don’t need to tell you who’s hat it was.

“Just waking up, Tim?” I asked.

Before he could answer, I grabbed the bottom end of the bed and pulled it straight up. The big, heavy Murphy bed creaked once and then the huge springs in it engaged and pulled it up and shut like a comfortable mouse-trap with Tim inside. I could hear his muffled pleas for help as I walked back to the other room.

“Catch another forty winks, Tim”, I said as I shut the door behind me.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Hard?” Mr. Steffanapolis asked.

“Nah, a rat in the garbage. We get that from time to time. I took care of it,” I replied. “Now, where were we?”

“Mr. Hard, do you have any idea how difficult it is to run a circus?” Steffanapolis asked.

“No. Do you know how difficult it is getting a dame to come up to your office when you live in this part of town?” I shot back.

“What?’ Steffanapolis said.

“Nothing. I just wondered if we were gonna get to the point of your visit, is all. I haven’t got all day.” I did have all day, as a matter of fact, and most of next week too. Still, all this banter was beginning to annoy me.

“Of course, I’m sorry.  You must be a busy man,” Steffanapolis apologized.

“That’s okay,” I said. “Spill.”

“For the last month, my circus has been playing over at the Lyceum Theatre. Have you been to the show? It got great reviews.” Steffanapolis boasted.

“Seems to me I did read something about it in the Elephant Times, but, no, I haven’t been.”

Steffanapolis took an envelope out of his breast pocket and placed it on the desk in front of me. I picked it up and looked inside. There were two tickets for tonight’s show, and they were wrapped in a fifty-dollar bill.

“What’s this?” I asked, looking up at him as I pocketed the fifty.

“Well, the tickets are my gift to you, sir, and the fifty you just put in your pants should act as a retainer for your services.”

“Never had a ‘retainer’ before,’ I said, impressed. “If you don’t count the one my mother made me wear for five years.”

“To great effect, I must say, Mr. Hard. Your teeth seem perfect.”

That made me laugh to myself. If this guy only knew how many times I’d had all my chompers knocked out of me, he might think differently. And these teeth were only perfect because Tim found them on a bus in Glendale. They have good teeth in Glendale.

“Mr. Hard, the circus is a small community. Every day we travel, work, eat and sleep together.”

“You must have a hell of a big bed,” I said.

“In order for the circus to function at all, we all have to be like a family.” Steffanapolis went on.  “There can be no secrets. We must trust each other completely. Why, some of the acts, especially the trapeze artists and so forth, must have total faith in the others that are supporting them.  Can you imagine what would happen, for instance, if the lion-tamer’s assistant forgot to feed the lions?”

“Well, I guess one way or the other, they’d get fed,” I replied.

“That’s right, Mr. Hard.” Steffanapolis looked down at his feet. I did too, half expecting to see a huge pair of red shoes. “Well, it seems that we aren’t the big family I thought we were. Somebody has been sending threatening notes to the others.”

“Threatening notes, you say?” I asked, trying to feign interest.

“Oh, they were innocent enough at first, things like warning somebody to stop smoking in the change room, things like that. All sent anonymously, of course. That’s the way it is with show folks. But then, lately, the notes became more ominous. Two weeks ago, the strong-man got a note threatening to tamper with his tights.”

“That could be a problem,” I acknowledged.

“I know it sounds ridiculous, but if his pants ripped open at the wrong time, it could throw his concentration off and the car might come down on his head.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Yes, this note was received by the Human Eel last night,” Steffanapolis said and handed me a piece of paper.

“The Human Eel?” I asked, thinking I was probably not going to like what I was going to hear next.

“Yes, Tommy Contanus. He was born seven feet tall, but absurdly thin. He has no hair and he has scales up and down his arms and back. “

“What’s his act?” I said.

“That is his act,” Steffanapolis replied.

“So, he’s a freak,” I said.

“We don’t like to use that term, Mr. Hard. We think of him as ‘singular’.”

“Hopefully so,” I said. I opened the note. It was a plain piece of paper with letters from a magazine individually cut out and pasted on. It read, ‘Get ready to die!’ on it.

“I suppose we can rule out the Eel and the Strong Man as suspects then, Mr. Hard?” Steffanapolis said.

“Can’t rule anybody out. One of them might have written the note to themselves to cover their butts.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.” Steffanapolis said.

“That’s why I get paid the big bucks. Speaking of which, if I take the job it’ll cost you twenty bucks a day. So, if the job takes two weeks, you’d owe me…” I thought it over quickly. ‘You’d owe me just over a hundred bucks.”

“That sounds reasonable, Mr. Hard,” Steffanapolis replied, with a smile.

“Plus… expenses”

“Of course, when can you start?

“That depends. What exactly do you want me to do?” I asked.

“Well, I want you to find out who is sending the notes.”

“Right.’

“So…”

“What?’

“When can you come to the circus?”

“Well, I won’t be going personally. I’ll send my operative, Tim down tonight. He’ll look around and report back to me. Then I’ll figure out our next move.”

I waited for Steffanapolis to say something. He had a strange look on his face. Somewhere between surprise and frustration, If I had to guess. Might have been excitement and melancholia. I’m no mind-reader. Then he pitched forward, smashing his face against the corner of the desk before falling over sideways in a heap.

I leapt to my feet and rushed around to him. His face had turned a bright blue and his eyes were bulging out of their sockets. He was dead. I lowered his head down to the carpet and walked over to the phone. A few moments later, a familiar voice was on the line.

“County Morgue,” it said.

“Rock Hard, here,” I replied.

There was a pause and a sigh. “What can we do for you today, Mr. Hard?”

* * *

Lt. Tom Gowdy prowled around the office like a mink trying to decide which store to avoid. He paused occasionally and looked like he was about to say something and then resumed his pacing. Eventually he came to rest by the desk and stared down at the medical examiner who was finishing up his first look at the body of Steffanapolis.

“Well?’ Gowdy growled.

“Hard to say, Lieutenant.” Said Dr. Peabody.

“You gonna need more time?”

“No. I know what it is, it’s just hard to say.”

“Give it a shot.”

“He died from toxic sub-neuro-helioplastic diarhytmia.”

“Well, ya gotta admit, it is pretty hard to say,” I said. “What was it again, Tom?”

“Cut it out, Rock. No lip okay? If you think we’re gonna play footsies around here for the next week while you pile up bodies in your office again, you can forget it. Christ, I hate it when you get a job.” Then to the doctor, “In plain English, doc?”

“He was poisoned. With a slow-acting substance that eventually stopped his heart.”

“Sort of like the Scotch at McReady’s?” I asked.

“Where did he get it?” said Gowdy, giving me the hard eye.

“Could have been from anywhere. Depending on the dosage he could have ingested it up to seventy-two hours ago.”

“Great,” said Gowdy.

“Well, at least you’ll have a good excuse when you can’t solve this,” I quipped.

“Oh, we’ll solve it, Hard, you can bank on that. Okay, doc, you can go. Let me know if you find anything else when you get the stiff down to the morgue.”

“Righty-o,” said Doc Peabody as he gathered up his stuff.  He turned at the door. “Say, Rock, how’s Tim’s, um, situation? Clearing up?”

“Oh, he’s right as rain, thanks for asking. It eventually just fell off.”

Gowdy looked back and forth between us, started to say something and then turned on his heel and left just as Tim was coming in from the bedroom/inner office. Gowdy gave Tim a wide berth and Tim looked after him, quizzically.

“What’s with him?” Tim asked, as Gowdy and the doc’s men brushed by him, carrying the body out. “Geez, Rock, who’s that in the bag?” he asked.

“Well, he was going to be our client. Runs the circus. Goes by the name of… well, it doesn’t matter now, I guess.”

“Too bad, we could have used the dough. How much was he going to pay?”

Then I remembered the fifty in my pants. Well, that was just great. He’d paid me and if there’s one thing that is sacred in my business, its that when a client pays you, you gotta make good. It’s bad practice for every dick if you don’t. Of course, nobody but me knew about the fifty…

“Say, Rock, look at that, there’s a fifty-dollar bill on the floor!” Tim cried.

“What? Oh, yeah. It musta fell out of Gowdy’s pocket, oh well.”

“Maybe I can catch him outside,” said Tim as he bent over to pick up the bill.

I dove down and grabbed the bill before Tim could snatch it up. He fell over me we rolled around on the floor.

“I’ll give it to him next time I see him,” I breathed through my gritted teeth as we wrestled for the now-tattered Ulysses.

“You might… not… see him for… days!” Tim gasped, as I let him have it in the chops with my elbow.

“Never mind that! When he realizes it’s gone, he’ll come back here for it!” I shouted as I leapt to my feet, the fifty smackers in my bleeding fist. Tim got up slowly, wiping the blood from his lip.

“Rock, what’s going on? You know Tom Gowdy has never had fifty bucks in his life,” Tim said.

“Well, maybe… oh, for chrissake, okay, it was a retainer from the circus guy. Ya happy?”

“But doesn’t that mean…”

“Yeah, yeah, I gotta take the case anyhow. Thanks a lot, pal,” I said.

“Excellent! What do we do first, go to the circus? I love the circus. All the show folk and the animals and the cotton-candy. When do we go?”

I thought he was going to wet himself the way he was jumping up and down. Crazy kid had already forgotten about the fat lip. I passed him the tickets that Steffanapolis had given me.

“Here ya go, Tim, knock yourself out.”

“Gosh, Rock, thanks!” he said, and looked like he was gonna start crying. “You’ve never given me a present before,” he said, quietly.

“It’s not a present you idiot. It’s work. I want you to go down there tonight and snoop around, okay? Steffanapolis told me someone in the circus was threatening the others. My guess is that it was the same someone who poisoned him. So now it’s murder. I want you to figure out the most likely suspects and set up appointments for them to come to the office. Then I’ll interrogate them and maybe we’ll get to the bottom of this. Don’t let the cops see ya, they’ll be all over the place. Start with the strong-man and some guy named The Human Eel.”

“The Human Eel?” Tim said, excitedly. “He’s with this circus?”

“Ya know him?” I asked.

“Yeah, Tommy Contanus, he used to baby-sit my sister and me. He was fun. We’d play slide on him.”

“That kinda explains a lot, Tim,” I said. “Ya’d better get going.”

“Okay, Rock, you bet,” said Tim. “Hey, maybe I’ll take that newsie kid, Buster, with me. I’ll bet he’s never been to the circus before.”

“Sure, take the kid, no harm in that, I guess. Just don’t spend a lot of dough. We gotta make this fifty last the winter.”

Tim left and I picked up the phone. I hoped McReady’s still delivered.

* * *

The next morning, I sat in my office chair waiting for the first of the ‘show folk’ to appear. Tim was there too, still a little shaky from eating way too much candy floss and drinking cheap lemonade. Buster, the newsie, had disappeared after about five minutes under the big top and Tim hadn’t seen him again until he came to the office at sun-up. Buster was asleep beside his paper bundle and people were just taking papers and the ones that had an honest streak in them were leaving coins in his empty peanut cup.

Tim had said, when he was sober (if you can call it sober when the only thing you’re drunk on is sugar) that he had met most of the performers and workers. The Bearded Lady, the acrobats, etc. and some guy with bugs on his face. When I asked him what his act was called, Tim told me that he was just the guy who took the tickets at the entrance. The bugs were secondary. That sent the old circus chill up my spine all right. I wasn’t looking forward to these ‘singular’ people showing up. Tim assured me that they would though. Apparently, they were all fond of the recently deceased owner and wanted to help in any way they could to find his killer.

The first appointment was set for the Strong Man. When he showed up, on time, the door swung open and what looked like two separate gorillas walked in. Or should I say, stooped in. He had to bend almost in double to get through the door. We had to get him to sit on the sofa because none of the chairs would fit him. I didn’t think the couch was going to take it. Mind you, the Relatively Fatman had used it without incident. I looked down at my list.

“So, you’re Gongo the Titan?” I said.

“Gongo show-name only!” his surprisingly high-pitched voice shouted. “Me no use Gongo name in public.”

Great, I thought, no definite articles or sense of tense. This was going to take a while.

“You know, if it’s easier, you can speak in your native language, whatever that is. Tim here speaks a bunch of different lingos. He can be the translator.”

“Sure thing,” Tim agreed.

“No have other language! English only language for Gongo!” Gongo said.

“Okay, fine. All right, Tim start getting his particulars,” I instructed.

“Last name?” Tim asked.

“Stein” came the answer.

“First name?”

“Frank,” Gongo said.

I saw where this was going and started to open the drawer to get my slap-happy out.

“Your middle name… Wouldn’t happen to be Nathan or something would it?” I asked curtly.

“Norman,” Gongo replied.

Tim read it back. Frank N. Stein.

“Okay,” I said, angrily, “you think that’s funny, ya slob?”

“Me work on gag for long time,” he said with a grin. Then Gongo got a serious look on his face. “Gongo not always going to be strong man for circus. Gongo get old, weak, then Gongo must start new career. But Gongo always like performing arts. Me going to be comic.”

“Stand-up?” Tim asked.

Gongo got to his feet.

“Sit down, Gongo,” I said. “He meant are you going to try stand-up comedy.”

“Gongo not know what that is. Gongo only have modicum of literacy.” He sat back down.

“Well, you should fit right in then,” I said. It was going to be a long day. “Tell you what, just answer a couple of questions for us, will ya?”

“Gongo try.”

“When you got the note from the killer, what did you do?”

“Gongo find someone to read it to him.”

“Who did you get?” I asked.

“Barbara,” he replied.

I looked at Tim. “The bearded lady, Rock. She’s his girl-friend.”

“And what did you do when you found out it was a threat message?”

“Gongo laugh! Gongo strong! Gongo not afraid of anything. Or anyone! Except…” Gongo trailed off. We waited while he looked around. “Gongo afraid of certain fabrics.”

“Fabrics?” I asked.

“Gongo hate wool. Hate to be itchy itchy all of time. But wool only fabric that make suits that fit.  That why Gongo stay mostly in caravan. Not go outside except for show when Gongo wear tights. Tights good.”

For a guy who didn’t like using his stage name he sure said it a lot. Well, that was that. It wasn’t likely that Gongo could come up with a poison, let alone sneak into Steffanapolis’ quarters dressed in his tights.

“Well, thanks for coming in, Frank,” I said. “You can go now.”

“Me wait in hallway. Barbara next appointment, I think.”

“Fine.”

Gongo left and as he bent over to get out the door a tiny woman with a beard squeezed by him. She looked up at him and smiled. Gongo smiled back at her and patted her on the head affectionately.

“Good morning, Miss…?” I began.

“Damascus. Barbara Damascus,” the Bearded Lady said as she sat down.

Actually, take away the six-inch brown beard and this dame wouldn’t be half-bad looking. Kinda pale but she had shy, kind eyes and a smile that would light up a jail cell. Maybe.

“We’d just like to ask you a couple of questions regarding your ex-boss Stephano. Can you think of any reason why somebody would want to bump him off?”

“No, of course not, he was like a father to us. We all loved him.”

“I didn’t love my father much,” I said, remembering the incident with the cat and the garden shears. Nope. When I left those shears out and the cat scratched the handles, my old man whacked me around for an hour. “Maybe someone found him too… fatherly”

“That’s ridiculous,” Barbara said, with a sniff. “I tell you everyone loved him.  Except the doctor of course.”

“The doctor?” I asked.

“Yes, Dr. Von Brain, Stephano’s partner in the circus and the animal trainer. They had the occasional… disagreement.”

Von Brain. I had a vision in my minds-eye at once. But where did I know that name from?

“This Dr. Von Brain… is he about five-foot six and dresses sort of like a Nazi?” I asked. “You know, knee-length leather boots, wears a monocle and carries a long, black riding-crop? Small moustache?”

“Why yes, that does sound like him. Do you know him, Mr. Hard?”

“Could be,” I replied. “Look, Miss Damascus, I think we have enough from you to…” I stopped.

Barb Damascus was staring straight past me. She was looking at the wall and she wasn’t moving. Small, white flecks of spittle started to appear on her beard. Tim jumped up and started to back away as her breathing got heavier and a strange gurgling sound started to come from her mouth. She stood up, swayed back and forth, clutched at her throat and fell into the waste-paper basket.

“Rock!” Tim shouted.

“Don’t touch her, Tim,” I shouted back as Tim started towards her.

Suddenly the door crashed open and Gongo appeared in the room. He looked at me, then at the basket and then at Tim.

“What you do to Barbara!” Gongo snarled and he grabbed Tim by the neck. Tim’s eyes immediately started to bulge out of his face. Looked pretty funny, really. But no time for that. I grabbed at Gongo’s arm, but I might as well have been wrestling a giraffe. Or a rhino, or something. I don’t know. I ain’t no zoologist.

Gongo tossed me off like a sack of spaghetti. Tim was starting to pass out. Then out of nowhere, Tom Gowdy appeared and hurled himself at Gongo. Gotta hand it to Tom, he knew his business. He took Gongo out at the knees and before the giant could turn to grab him, he sapped him behind the ear with his billy. Lights out for Gongo.

Tim, released from the crushing grip, staggered to the desk and bent over, choking and trying to regain his breath. I helped Tom up.

“Nice timing, Tommy,” I said. “That coulda turned out as ugly as a chihuahua.”

“What the hell is going on here now, Hard?” He managed to get out in between gulps for air.

“Just routine,” I replied, straightening my tie.

“Yeah, looked it,” said Tom.

“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked him.

“Came to fill you in on the medical report.”

“Nice of you to keep me informed. That ain’t your style though, is it Gowdy”

“Yeah, well if it was up to me, I’d have let ya stew. But there’s a public health concern. At least that’s what Peabody called it.”

“What d’ya mean, a public health concern? You been sleeping around again?” I asked.

“Shut it, dick. Okay, here it is. Turns out that the circus guy didn’t die from poison.”

“No?” I said. “He looked pretty poisoned to me.”

“He had a disease.”

That got me. A disease. My stomach suddenly felt very empty and alone. Tim was staring at me. I figured I knew what was going through his mind.

“Rock, we should do something about Miss Damascus.” He said.

Okay, so maybe I didn’t know what was going through his mind. I thought maybe he was going to make us all some coffee. Just goes to show you.

Gowdy was staring down at Damascus. Then a light went on in his tiny cop brain and he started to back away from the body. Gongo made a sound and it looked like he might be coming around. I ran to the door and shut it, turning the key and putting it in my pocket.

“What the hell are you doing, Hard?” Gowdy cried. “Let me out of here!”

“Nobody leaves here until I hear about this disease.”

“You’re nuts, Hard! You wanna die in here, fine. Me, I’m getting out!” He started to move towards me.

I pulled out my .45. “Stay where you are, copper,” I growled.

“Rock, you can’t pull a gun on a cop!” Tim shouted.

Gowdy smiled a nasty smile. “I got you now, Hard. You’ll do time for this.”

“I don’t think so, Tom. Not if it stops a nasty germ from getting out of here and running havoc through the noses of the citizenry. Hell, I might even get a medal,” I said.

Gongo was awake now and rubbing the back of his neck. Then he saw the Bearded Lady again and crawled over to her with a little moaning sound. Poor sap, he was real broke up. Hard to imagine how a woman with that much facial hair could have such an affect on a guy. Mind you, I dated a dame with a goatee once. But it was fake.

“What do you know about this ‘disease’ Tom?” I asked. I should have known better. Tom couldn’t retain the day of the week, let alone any important medical info.

“I dunno. Just that it’s a bug and it kills people.”

“So does a Volkswagen with a drunk at the wheel. That tells me nothing, Gowdy.” I replied.

I walked to the phone, keeping the gun levelled at the others. I picked up the receiver.

“City morgue…” I said to the operator.

There was a pause and then a voice was on the morgue end.

“Dr. Peabody?” I asked.

There was a deep sigh and then the voice said, “Just a minute, Mr. Hard, I’ll go get him.”

A moment later Peabody was on the phone.

“What is it Rock, another body?” Peabody said, his voice tired and disappointed.

“As a matter of fact, yeah, there’s another body. The same as the other one. What’s this about a disease?”

“That’s right, Steffanapolis didn’t die of poison. He had a strange form of paralyzing bacteria. We’re calling it the Blue Face Strain for now.”

“Catchy,” I said. “Well, we’ve got another case here. Does that mean we’re all goners here, Peabody?”

“No,” said Peabody. “If that was the case, you would have caught it from the first victim. No, the disease isn’t contagious at all. It builds up quickly in the system, kills the host and then disappears.”

“Just like guests at a lousy dinner party,” I quipped.

“You’re a strange man, Rock,” said Peabody. “I’ll send the guys over to get the body.  You know, maybe we should just open up a shop for you downstairs.”

“That would be real convenient, doc. Thanks.” I hung up and turned to the others. “It’s okay. It’s not contagious.”

Tom wiped his brow with his handkerchief as I put the gun away.

“You gonna bust me, Gowdy?” I asked.

“Nah, I guess not. You was just trying to protect the public. Can’t fault a guy for that.” Gowdy said. He turned to Gongo. “Okay, you, you’re gonna come with me down to the station to answer a few questions.”

“But my Barbara…” Gongo said, softly, totally subdued now.

“The boys from the morgue will take good care of her, don’t you worry,” Tom said and led Gongo out. Tom sure had a way with the guy. I guess it was a gorilla to gorilla kind of thing. Anyway, they left and soon the city came and cleaned up the mess. It was well past lunch time by now.

“Guess we might as well get a bite to eat, Tim,” I said. “How be you go out and get us a couple of Hoagies.”

“Can’t right now, Rock,” Tim said from over by the window.

“How come?”

“The clowns are here.”

* * *

I watched from the window as the tiny yellow car with the red wheels pulled over to the curb. A hand reached out and squeezed the black bulb horn that hung from the windshield. The resulting ‘ahooga’ stopped passersby in their tracks and all eyes went to the strange little vehicle. Then the passenger-side door opened and a short leg with a red shoe appeared and springing forth, although shot out by a cannon, a clown about four feet tall exploded onto the sidewalk. This was followed by the driver-side door opening and a taller clown with a top-hat stepped out. Then a third clown, this one female came out from behind the first clown. They stood there for a moment looking around.

And that was that. I had been led to expect a much greater experience but see, that’s why I hate clowns. It’s always a let-down.

The clowns stood there as the pedestrians moved off, they too probably disappointed. Then a long, brown sedan pulled up in front of the yellow car and the driver, the chauffeur I guess you’d say, got out and sprung the back door. A tall man in a brown cape and wearing knee-length leather boots and carrying a riding crop got out.

“Unless I miss my guess, I think we’re looking at Doctor Julius von Brain,” I said to Tim. But Tim didn’t respond. He couldn’t. He was buckled over in a paroxysm of laughter. He could barely breathe.

“Oh, Rock, did you see that?” he gasped. “When those clowns got out of that car, I thought I was going to die!”

I shook my head in disbelief. “You found that funny?” I asked.

“Well, of course. They have those funny clothes on and everything.” Tim said, calming down now.

“Tim, they’re just standing there.”

“I know, I know…” said Tim and started laughing again.

“Well, if you found that funny, you’re going to love this,” I said and knocked him out.

A few minutes later the group of clowns and their leader were standing in my office. Julius von Brain towered over the funny little people.

“Guten morgen, Herr Hard,” said von Brain in his thick German accent. “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is…”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You’re Julius von Brain, co-owner of the Ding-Dong Circus,” I said.

Von Brain clicked his heels together. “Vell,” he said. “I don’t zink vee have had the pleasure of meeting before?”

I still couldn’t get a grip on where I knew this ‘German’ from, but it would come to me.

“Your reputation proceeds you,” I said, covering myself for the time being. “But I don’t get it. We had separate appointments set up for these… clowns. What are you all doing here together?”

“Vell, its like zis, Mr. Hard. The clowns here don’t speak very vell and they wanted me to speak for zem. May I introduce zem?”

Tim had come-to by now and came into the room rubbing his head. As soon as he saw the clowns he broke out into a big smile. I hoped I wasn’t going to have to conk him again. But he saw my expression and took out his pad and pencil and sat down.

As von Brain introduced each of the clowns, they stepped forward with a short, quick bow.

“Zis is Mr. Bubbles…” von Brain said. The smallest of the clowns dressed in yellow pants, a polka-dot shirt and a ridiculously large red wig, stepped forward. He had the requisite red nose and huge red shoes too. A classic.

“May I also introduce, Miss Penelope Plumebottom?” Von Brain said. The female clown, a bit larger than Mr.Bubbles, stepped forward and glanced up at me coquettishly through her huge, inflated bosoms. She carried a pink umbrella and her face was a glaring white with hideous red lips. As she turned, her large, rotund butt swayed behind her. I started to feel a little queasy.

“And last, but certainly not ze least, Lord Pootington the Third.” This clown was wearing a set of tuxedo tails that came down to the floor and curled up at the last second, stiff and bouncing up and down behind him almost like a real tail. He had a huge, florescent bow-tie that immediately began to spin around as he bowed. He took off his top-hat and stooped down, straightening the large pansy that was stuck in the brim. The large pair of glasses he was wearing slid off his nose, bounced off the floor, and returned to their place on his face.  I thought Tim was going to have a heart attack. He was biting his lip so hard, there was blood running down his chin. None of the clowns had said a word.

“Please, have a seat,” I said. Von Brain sat on the sofa. Miss Plumebottom jumped up on Tim’s lap and sat there, peeking at him from behind a green fan with a dragon on it. Lord Pootington took out a big, black cigar, lit it and started pacing up down in front of the desk. He sort of looked like a small train as the smoke escaped somehow through his hat when he puffed. Mr. Bubbles sat in the waste-paper basket, with his legs dangling over the edge. He was glowering at Tim and Miss Plumebottom, obviously upset by her shenanigans.

Von Brain saw me looking at Mr. Bubbles. “Oh, don’t worry about him, Mr. Hard. Penelope is Mr. Bubbles wife and he gets a little upset sometimes ven she carries on.”

“Are they always like this?” I asked. “Don’t they ever let up?”

“Only ven they’re by zemselves, or alone vith each other. It’s part of their code.”

“I see.”

“How can vee help you, Mr. Hard?”

“Vell… I mean, well, you can start by telling me why you’re not more upset about the death of your partner only a day ago,” I said, studying his face.

“Oh, but I am upset, Herr Hard. Very. I must admit, I don’t like to make a display of things like grief.”

“Uh huh,” I said, wittily.

“Besides, vee veren’t all zat close. Oh, vee dined together occasionally, but our roles vere very vell defined. He made all ze artistic decisions and verked the show, vile I kept ze books and attended to ze animals. I am a trained veterinarian, you see. Anyvay, I have only been vith ze circus for two years.”

“What did you do before that,” I asked.

“I vas in ze army,” he said.

“Whose?” I asked.

“Vell, lets put it zis vay. Vee lost.”

“Gotcha. So, I guess you know by now that Steffanapolis’s death was no accident?

“Zo I gather.”

“Any thoughts on who might benefit from his death?”

“If you are implying that I, as his partner vould vish him dead, you are wrong. My stake in the circus vas very small and vill amount to a pittance in ze end. No, if anyone vas to benefit, it vas ze clowns here. Stephano loved zem and it vas his wish zat they would be cared for in the event of his death. Almost every penny vill go to zem.”

I looked at the clowns. Pootington and Plumebottom were staring at me. Bubbles was just looking down at the floor with a sad look on his face. I got up and walked over to him.

“Why so glum, chum?” I asked. “Sounds like you get a pretty sweet deal.”

Bubbles looked up at me. From somewhere in his little jacket, he pulled out a tiny violin and started to play a very high note that became a sad, dirge-like melody. I guess he was trying to tell me he was as upset as he could be. Maybe the money meant nothing to him. Nah, money means something to everybody. Still he looked honest. As far as I could tell about a four-foot clown.

“Tim,” I said. “We’re not being very good hosts. Maybe you should get something for these guys to drink. Coffee, okay?” I said to Von Brain.

“Nein, danke. Not for me. Perhaps ze others though.”

Lord Pootington made a gesture as though he was drinking from a bottle.

“I zink his highness vould like something a bit stronger,” said Von Brain, with a chuckle.

“Got ya. A clown after my own heart,” I said. “Tim, break out the scotch and as many glasses as you can scrape out.”

Tim disappeared into the back room and returned a minute later with the scotch and a tray with some glasses on it. The room, which had been a bee-hive of activity froze and all eyes were riveted on the tray. You could hear a pin drop. My blood ran cold when I got the drift.

“Tim!” I shouted, too late. “Put that seltzer bottle away!”

A half an hour later the clowns and Von Brain were gone. The room was soaked from the ceiling fan to the radiators and soda dripped down from virtually every square inch of the walls. Tim was unconscious again and half-undressed with his pants to his knees. I was tied to the water cooler and had a flower stuck in my ear. It looked like my interviewing idea wasn’t going to pan out.

* * *

It was around three o’clock in the morning when I woke up suddenly. I lay there listening intently, trying to figure out what had roused me. It wasn’t Tim. Sometimes I could hear Tim snoring lightly from his little bed in the shower, but it wasn’t that. I was used to that. It usually just meant throwing a shoe at him. Besides, the shower curtain was pulled. It was quiet now but there was an odd odour in the air.

I got up and opened a window, the sounds of the city that never slept came drifting in slowly and with it another smell that I had become used to after years of living in an office by the waterfront. Still, there was something…

I walked over to the office door, opened it and stepped inside. The moon was ebbing in through the blinds on the window. The gray light cast long, striped shadows around the room. Then I realized that there was something in the middle of the floor. Something low and hard to make out. I turned the desk lamp on, and the dim yellow glow lit up my half of the room in a small circle.

There on the floor was a pile of clothes. It looked familiar and I quickly recognized them as the yellow pants and polka-dot shirt of Mr. Bubbles. His big red shoes were there too and his wig, but something was wrong. It wasn’t just a pile of clothing laying there. I slowly went over to the pile and nudged it with my toe. The clothing was wrapped around something. Something soft and malleable like a plastic bag filled with raw hamburger. And that smell was very strong now.

I got down on my knees and lifted the clothing up a bit and then I fell over backwards onto my ass when I understood what I was looking at. It was a body. But it had no form, like it had been crushed by a wrecking-yard car demolisher or something. But there was no blood. The skin was intact and from what I could tell, the face was too, the eyes slightly protruding from beneath what should have been the brow. Could this be Mr. Bubbles? I had only met him briefly and in this state, it was hard to tell who it could be. Other than the fact that it was obviously a clown dressed just like Mr. Bubbles.

“Disgusting, isn’t it?” came a voice from the shadows. I stood up quickly, my hand automatically reaching for the colt that I knew wasn’t there. If there’s one thing I hate its somebody getting the drop on me when I’m in my underwear. And you be surprised how often that happens.

I reached for the lamp on the desk and tilted it up so that it illuminated the rest of the room. There was a dame sitting on the sofa, her legs crossed and the small gun in her hand pointing directly at me. She was about thirty-five, dark-haired and very attractive. Now I wished I had my fresh underwear on.

“Okay, sister,” I drawled. “What’s the rumpus?” Trying to appear cool.

“No rumpus,” she said, lowering the gun somewhat. “I take it you’re Hard?”

“Not at the moment,” I replied. “Something about that gun is keeping me low key.”

She smiled at this. The gun lowered a bit more. “If I put this gun away, can we talk for a bit without you getting anxious?”

“You bet. I talk way better when I’m not nervous. Who the hell are you? And what,” I pointed at the mess on the floor, “is that?”

“My name is Camponia Freedalopowicz,” she replied. Here we go, I thought. For once, can’t the dames in my life have names like Susan or Glenda? “I work for the FBI,” she went on.

“The FBI?” I said.

“Yes, the Federal Bureau of…”

“You might be surprised to know that I’m up to date on what the FBI is, sweetheart. I mean, I am a private dick.” I had cut her off but, for the life of me, I couldn’t remember what the ‘I’ stood for. Was it Indiana? Iceland? No, that wasn’t it. I guess I’d have to hope she didn’t call my bluff. “And that?” I asked, nodding at Bubbles.

“That is what’s left of a certain entertainer by the name of Mr. Bubbles. I think you know him?” Camponia said.

“Yeah, I know him. Well, knew him. He was an okay guy I guess, for a clown.”

“You don’t like clowns?” she said.

“There’s lots of things I don’t like, lady. And one of them is being threatened with guns.”

“Yes, well, I’m sorry about that but I didn’t know how you’d feel after seeing the state of Mr. Bubbles there. And I had to see how you would react when you first saw him. I see now that it was a shock to you, so I guess you’re in the clear.”

“In the clear from what?’ I asked, sitting down slowly in the desk chair and pouring myself a scotch. I watched her as she stood up and walked over to the desk. I poured another glass and she accepted the offer. “Mind if I go get some pants?” I asked.

“Not just now. Perhaps later,” she said.

“Sorry there’s no soda. We had a bit of a mishap here earlier with the seltzer.”

“Neat is fine,” she said. She looked over to the body. “You know what happened here?” she asked.

“Well, off hand, it looks like somebody ran over Bubbles with a steam-roller.”

“No, Mr. Hard. Much worse than that.”

“There’s something worse that that?” I asked.

“Have you ever heard of Tetrus Osteo Emphoric Acid?”

“Sure, he came fourth in the Preakness last year, didn’t he?” I said, downing the last of my scotch. I re-filled the glass.

“Amusing, Mr. Hard, but no. TOEA is a highly corrosive compound that the government has been trying to harness for the last five years. It is an acid that only eats one thing.”

“Pasta?” I guessed.

“Bones,” she said.

I looked at the body again. I was beginning to get the picture. And it was an ugly one. “Are you saying that Bubbles here had his bones eaten?”

“Looks that way,” Camponia said. “About four weeks ago, the offices of the government’s Neuro-Pathology Lab was broken into and several vials of the acid were taken. We thought we would have plenty of time to get it back. Even though the acid corrodes bones, a way of introducing it effectively into the body had yet to be discovered. It seems someone has found a way.”

“Now, hold on, lady,” I said. “You mean to say that the government was working on a way to inject humans with this stuff and dissolve their bones? Why?”

Camponia walked over to the window and looked out. “As a deterrent,” she said.

“A deterrent for what?”

“Pretty much anything. If you told a spy you’d use this stuff on them unless they talked, for instance, it would be pretty persuasive.”

“Great! And now some nut is walking around town with it. But what did Mr. Bubbles do? He was just a stupid clown.”

“I followed him here. I think he was coming to tell you something. Something about who was doing this. Unfortunately, I lost track of him after he entered the building. Somebody else must have followed him as well and did this to Mr. Bubbles before I could relocate him.”

“Did you come through the front doors?” I said, standing up. Then sitting down again when I realized I still had no pants on.

“Why, yes, I did. The killer must have come in some other way.”

“Well, sorry to inform you, Miss FBI, but there is no other way in, and all the other floors are locked at this time of night. Which means…”

Camponia went pale and then flushed a bit and then went pale again, only not quite as pale. Maybe ninety percent as pale. “The killer is still in the building.” She started to reach for her gun which she had just put in her pocket.

“I don’t zink you will be needing zat gun, my dear!”

The voice came from the darkness of the bedroom. There was a pause and then Julius von Brain stepped into the light. He had his Luger pointed at Camponia. He must have been there all along, even when I woke up. Must have hidden there waiting for his moment.

“Dr. von Brain,” I said. “I should have known.”

“Colonel von Brain, actually”, said Camponia. “Former head of the SS chemical weapons development program.”

Von Brain clicked his heels together and touched his cap with his riding crop. “Ze same.”

“We had a feeling it might be you behind this,” Camponia said. “Ever since you disappeared after the war without a trace, we’ve been waiting for you to crawl out from under some rock.”

“My goodness vat an indictment. Really, its quite unbecoming for such a beautiful woman to speak in such a manner.”

“So, you’re behind all this,” I said, stating the obvious.

“You might say zat. Actually, I am being paid rather handsomely by a third party to obtain and produce the TOEA in a veaponized form.”

“And the circus folk?”

“Vell, let’s just say I needed someone to experiment on vithout too much risk. And vat better group zan a travelling circus. Here today, gone tomorrow. Nobody but zer coworkers to miss zem. Also, zer ver some ‘singulars’ in the show zat looked like they had already received the serum. In a vay, I was doing them a favour.”

“Spoken like a true Nazi,” I said.

“Danke. The plan was perfect. Until Steffanapolis had the idea of going to you, that is, Mr. Hard.”

“And the threatening letters? What was that about?’ I asked.

“Oh, merely a distraction. Some of the performers ver beginning to vonder vy most of ze animals I vas meant to be tending to, ver dying. Getting new exotic animals was proving difficult und expensive. I thought if I got zem fighting with each other, zey vould forget about me.”

“You monster,” Camponia said softly.

“Oh, come now, my dear. Why your own government was trying to do ze very same thing.”

“Maybe, but we wanted to dissolve people’s bones for the sake of the country!”

Von Brain lowered his gun slightly and tilted his head, quizzically. I looked at Camponia in much the same way.

“I’m sorry. Perhaps that didn’t come out quite right,” she said, sheepishly.

“Look,” I said. “This is all quite wonderful, but what now? You planning on using that stuff on us?

Von Brain looked at me. “Vell, I hadn’t thought of zat, but zats not a bad idea. Couldn’t hurt to have two more test subjects.”

“Damn it,” I said.

“Nice one, Hard,” Camponia said.

“Nein, nein, zis will be fun. You can inject each other. I have two syringes. It vill be interesting to observe. Who vill dissolve quicker? Ze FBI agent who is obviously fit and in good health? Or ze overweight, slightly sickly-looking private dick who drinks far too much?”

“Too bad you don’t have a third syringe,” I said,

“Vy?” asked von Brain.

“Well, you could try it out on someone of Asian heritage.”

“And who might zat be, Mr. Hard?”

“The Cambodian who is about to smash a chair over your head,” I said.

With a splintering crash, the wooden chair from the bedroom that Tim Pot had in his hands came down on von Brain. With a moan he fell to the floor. The Luger hit the floor and fired off. The bullet hit Camponia in the shoulder, passed through her small arm, bounced though a section of the door frame and landed, its force spent, with a rattle in the glass ash tray on the desk.

“Couldn’t do that again in a million years,” I said with a whistle.

* * *

 

So there ya go. The Floppy Clown mystery.

It was a strange case, and I can’t help but feel that I didn’t actually solve it. Mind you, I feel that way about a lot of my cases.

Von Brain got life for killing Mr. Bubbles. The other two murders they could never pin on him as there was no scientific way of linking von Brain with the crimes since the bodies had already been disposed of. The ‘disease’ that Peabody told us the first victims had was just an unfortunate side-effect of the bone acid that von Brain hadn’t quite perfected. That’s why there was no contagion, I guess. What do I know? I ain’t no scientist.

Camponia Freedalopowicz healed up from her shoulder wound, quit the FBI and took up painting for physio-therapy. Later, she changed her named to Frida Kahlo. She’s a painter down in Mexico now last I heard. Supposed to be pretty good, too. At least that’s what Tim tells me.

The clowns held a big funeral for Mr. Bubbles. I was invited but I couldn’t go on account of I didn’t want to. So, they came along to the office the following week and gave me a private performance. And you know what? I didn’t half mind it. Tim really liked it anyway.

And get this. Turns out that ‘third party’ von Brain was supposedly working for? None other than the Relatively Fatman. Maybe he wanted to use it as a dietary supplement. I don’t know.

Just goes to show ya.