Carnival of Shadows

  “And her name?”

  “Her family name is Mironescu.”

  “M-I-R-O-N-E-S-C-U?”

  “That’s right, yes.”

  “Does she have a middle name?”

  “She doesn’t, no.”

  “Her date of birth?”

  “She was born in March of 1916. She doesn’t know the exact date.”

  “And she is from where?”

  “Originally from Romania.”

  “But she does live with you here in the caravan?”

  “She does, yes.”

  “And where is she now?”

  “She went southwest to a place called Augusta.”

  “For what reason?”

  “She is scouting towns for the next leg of our trip.”

  Travis paused to raise his glass. Doyle followed suit.

  “Sláinte,” Travis said.

  Doyle laughed. “I am impressed, Agent Travis. You even pronounced it correctly. Sláinte to you also.”

  They drank. Doyle refilled the glasses.

  “You know I’m going to need you and your people to stay here until my investigation is complete.”

  “Need, or want?”

  “Both, Mr. Doyle.”

  Doyle shook his head resignedly. “I do understand your position, Agent Travis. However, I have to make a living. There are a good number of people who work in the carnival, and if we don’t run the show, we don’t make any money. Another few days, and I won’t have enough money to feed them all.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Doyle, but—”

  “Do you think your Mr. Hoover would be so kind as to foot the bill for feeding all these people until your work is done?”

  “That’s not quite the way it works, Mr. Doyle.”

  “So, how does it work, Agent Travis? If we answer all your questions, and you put all those answers in your little book, and you are none the wiser as to who might have killed that man under my carousel, then cannot we wish each other well and go our separate ways?”

  Travis felt that Doyle was subtly challenging him.

  “How about this?” Travis suggested. “Answer a few questions for me, let’s see whether or not this is even a federal matter, and we’ll go from there, okay?”

  Doyle smiled, and once again there was that tremendous warmth in his eyes, ostensibly an expression of friendliness, but somehow strangely disconcerting. For all Travis’s experience in reading people, Doyle was a paradox, at once almost willfully contrary, in the next moment something else entirely.

  Doyle withdrew a short-stemmed pipe and a leather tobacco pouch from his vest pocket. He filled the pipe, tamped it neatly, and then proceeded to light it with a long wooden match. The smoke clouded around his face, and when Travis looked up from his notebook, he saw Doyle watching him through that smoke, in his eyes something almost mischievous.

  “You have forgotten your questions, Agent Travis?” Doyle asked.

  “Not at all, sir,” Travis replied. “I wanted to begin with the discovery of the body itself.”

  “I can imagine Sheriff Rourke has already told you what we reported, and beyond that I have nothing more. A young woman screamed; we rushed to see what had upset her, and there he was under the platform of the carousel. I could tell from the angle of his head that his neck was probably broken, but Sheriff Rourke told me that he had been stabbed.”

  “That’s correct, Mr. Doyle. He had been stabbed. I must ask you how you would know that his neck appeared broken. Do you have experience of such things?”

  Doyle smiled. “No experience that would concern you, Agent Travis.”

  Travis did not push the point, but simply withdrew the photograph of the dead man and placed it on the table between himself and Doyle. He slid it toward Doyle as if this were a game of poker and he was dealing the next card. His hand over the man’s face, Travis then uncovered it simply to determine if there was any involuntary or obviously disguised reaction from Doyle. There was nothing. Doyle looked down at the dead man’s face and slowly shook his head.

  “I have to say that this man is a complete stranger to me. Sheriff Rourke already asked us if we knew him, if any of us had ever seen him before, but no one had. I mean, as you can imagine, we see hundreds of people each weekend, and trying to remember them all would be impossible, but the human mind does have the capacity for recognition, even for a face seen only once. However, I have to say that I honestly cannot recall ever seeing this man before.”

  Travis believed Doyle. Either that, or Doyle was a masterful and consummate liar. It was true that lying was almost an art form for some, and Travis’s training had encompassed aspects of reading through the outer layer of a person. However, no matter the skill of the interrogator, it was now being suggested that a certain element of intuition was required, and intuition—even if there was such a thing—could not be taught. Travis did not concur. It was not that he did not consider the possibility of faculties that extended beyond the primary five senses, it was that such things were unpredictable and uncertain. Travis was of the firm belief that resolute and persistent questioning would ultimately break down all barriers. There was a school of thought that suggested that all people were basically good, even the Dillingers and Clyde Barrows of this world, and that they actually wanted to tell the truth. His theory, as yet unfounded, was that the vast majority of criminals made stupid errors and left signs and clues as to their identity so as to ultimately be caught. Why? Simply because they were incapable of restraining themselves from committing crimes and thus needed someone else to stop them.

  His instructor had called him an unmitigated optimist, suggested that a little more cynicism and suspicion might serve him well.

  As it stood, and in that very moment, Doyle was telling Travis the truth. This was what Travis observed.

  “And this?” Travis said, producing the sketch that he had made at the morgue—the sequence of dots that had been tattooed behind the man’s knee.

  “What is this?” Doyle asked, leaning forward, his expression one of genuine curiosity.

  “This is nothing more than what it appears to be,” Travis said. “It’s a sequence of dots, a pattern. I wondered if it meant anything to you, if it reminded you of anything, if you had ever seen anything like it before.”

  Doyle studied it for a while and then started shaking his head before he spoke. “Doesn’t look familiar,” he said, and then he looked up at Travis.

  Again that seemingly sincere and ingenuous expression was in the man’s eyes.

  “So you don’t know the victim, are not aware of ever having seen him before, nor does this symbol mean anything to you?” Travis asked.

  Doyle smiled. “You ask me that like a man who believes that everyone is fundamentally a liar, Agent Travis. Do you think I am a liar, or is that your naturally suspicious manner making itself known?”

  “I consider everyone capable of lying, Mr. Doyle, but I err toward granting people the benefit of the doubt. My inclination is to trust people until they give me reason to distrust them.”

  “That is quite refreshing, Agent Travis. As you can imagine, in this line of work, everyone considers us crooks and thieves before we even open our mouths.”

  Travis smiled. “Just as everyone considers agents of the Bureau to be utterly without charm or imagination.”

  Doyle laughed—it was a natural and infectious sound. “Ha, you have a sense of humor, Agent Travis!” he said. “Try your best not to lose it, eh?”

  “I will try my best, Mr. Doyle.”

  “So, are we finished?”

  “For the moment, sir, yes, but I would appreciate your assistance in showing me the carousel itself, the precise location of the body when it was discovered, and I would like to speak to the carousel operator.”

  “You can do your best, Agent Travis, but he is a m
ute.”

  “A mute?”

  “Yes. His name is John Ryan. His hearing isn’t so good either, but he can lip-read. He can read and write a little, but finds scant use for either.”

  “And he operates the carousel.”

  “He does a great deal more than that. He maintains all the vehicles, the arcade games, does general repairs.”

  “He has been with you long?”

  “Since the beginning almost.”

  “Which was when?”

  “Well,” Doyle said, “Valeria and I met in France in 1943, and we started the carnival together about three years later. John came to us in about 1947 or ’48, as far as I remember.”

  “And he has been mute since birth?”

  “No, Agent Travis. He was suspected of having informed on some criminals, and they took a knife and split his tongue. It could have been repaired, perhaps, but it became infected and had to be removed.”

  Travis looked at Doyle. Doyle had explained Ryan’s inability to speak in such a matter-of-fact and nonchalant manner that it seemed unbelievable.

  Travis’s reaction must have been evident on his face, for Doyle added, “I think you will find that everyone here has their own unusual story, Agent Travis. John Ryan’s is perhaps one of the more interesting, granted, but he is not alone in the… let us say the idiosyncratic uniqueness of his experiences.”

  “So I would imagine there isn’t a great deal that he can add to what you have already told me.”

  “From what we can gather, he was unaware of the body beneath the carousel until the young woman started screaming. She screamed loud enough for even John to hear her, and he immediately stopped the thing. It was he who went under the carousel and dragged him out, believing perhaps that he was still alive, that he was merely unconscious. Sheriff Rourke explained that it would have been better to leave the victim precisely where he was, thereby preserving the integrity of the crime scene, as he so elegantly put it. Obviously, John thought the man might have fallen from one of the horses and been struck in the head or something, and so immediate medical attention was at the forefront of his mind.”

  “How would it be possible for someone to fall from a carousel horse and end up beneath the carousel platform?”

  “It wouldn’t, Agent Travis. Of course not. But we tend not to think altogether rationally in moments of stress and emergency. We don’t all think and react like G-men.”

  Travis did not take the comment as an insult. Doyle’s tone did not lead him to believe it had been intended that way.

  “Could you show me the carousel now?”

  “Absolutely,” Doyle replied. He eased out along the bench and stood. Travis followed him from the vehicle and out across the open expanse of land and through the deepening twilight they walked to the main carnival site.

  The strings of lights and Japanese lanterns that ran between the tents and awnings were unlit. There was a central marquee, larger than all the others, itself appearing shabby and worn, patched here and there with squares of newer canvas. The popcorn and hot-dog stands stood idle and empty. There was the murmur of voices from people unseen, the scratching of three or four chickens from within a tarpaulin-shrouded cage. The whole arrangement—as Rourke had commented—seemed tired and worn-out, as if the very physical substance of things resented whatever efforts were employed to keep this show on the road. It exuded an air of sadness and dejection, as if here could be found the last of those who rebelled against normality.

  Travis, for a moment lost among his own thoughts, became aware that Doyle had stopped walking. He caught himself just in time, yet otherwise would have walked right into the man.

  Doyle did not seem to notice Travis’s preoccupation and merely indicated the carousel to their right.

  “Here,” he said, and pointed.

  The carousel was larger and more impressive than Travis had anticipated. He had expected a beaten-up, falling-apart wreck of a thing, but what stood before him was quite different.

  There were fourteen horses, six composing the inner ring, eight in the outer. Travis counted them as he walked around the perimeter, noticing that they were all in a good state of repair. They were well maintained, their colors bright and fresh, the spiral posts that ran through their saddles and stomachs and held them rigid between the lower and upper platforms were substantial and solid. Travis stepped up onto the platform itself, gripped one of those posts and found it utterly immovable. He stepped between the ranks of horses and then walked anticlockwise between the rows. He proceeded through a seemingly infinite phalanx of animals. He touched each one in turn, ostensibly to check that each was secure, that it was not a hazard to those who rode on it, but in reality for some other reason entirely. He wanted to engage with the physicality of the crime scene. He wanted to be right there in the failing light, right where the body had been found, not as an after-the-fact spectator, but as a real participant, addressing what had really happened, posing questions, determining answers, finding the truth.

  Travis felt a hand on his shoulder. It was as if a surge of electricity had shot through him, head to toe.

  He turned suddenly, his breath catching in his chest, his eyes wide.

  He heard Doyle laughing. “Oh, he made you jump!” Doyle said.

  The man who had touched Travis just looked at him. He was old, so very old, and when he raised his eyebrows, it was evident to Travis that this man was asking the reason for Travis’s presence.

  “Agent Travis, meet John Ryan.”

  “Mr. Ryan,” Travis said. “I am Michael Travis. I am from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I am here about the man who was found on Saturday night.”

  Ryan smiled, showed gums that were almost toothless, and his leather face cracked and wrinkled. He turned to Doyle and made a series of gestures and signs with his hands.

  Doyle laughed.

  “What did he say?” Travis asked.

  “I don’t think you want to know what he said, Agent Travis,” Doyle replied.

  “I do, Mr. Doyle. I very much want to know what he said.”

  “Oh, trust me, what he said bears absolutely no relation to what you want to know,” Doyle replied.

  “I think I would be the best judge of that, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Very well, if you insist, Agent Travis. John said—very crudely I might add—that you look like someone put a six-foot pole up your ass. It’s his way of saying that you seem a little uptight and edgy.”

  Travis laughed. He did not feel insulted. He did not feel angry or agitated by the man’s wisecrack. However, had he been pressed to describe how he felt, he might have used the word invaded, as if someone had looked inside him, as if someone had reached right up inside him and pulled out some private aspect of his life and shown it to the world.

  Travis looked at Ryan. “And you, sir, have a face like a saddlebag left out in the rain and then stampeded by buffalo.”

  Ryan laughed coarsely, and he slapped Travis’s shoulder.

  “You’ve got a friend for life now,” Doyle said. “You do realize that, don’t you, Agent Travis?”

  Travis reached out and took Ryan’s forearm to get his attention.

  “Show me precisely where you were standing when the girl screamed,” Travis said. “Exactly where you were and then exactly where the body was.”

  Ryan nodded and motioned for Travis to follow him. Doyle came up onto the platform and joined them in the center of the carousel.

  The central hub of the construct was immobile—a small wooden control booth, windows on each side, within the booth the levers that would start and stop the gears and cogs below, the heavy rubber belt visible beneath their feet, below that the ground.

  Ryan stood in the booth, put his hands on the levers, and looked out of the window in front of him in the direction of the tents and vehicles. He nodded.

 
“He was standing here,” Doyle said.

  Ryan raised his hand to his ear and then pointed slightly to his left.

  “He heard the girl scream and then saw her in that direction.”

  Ryan made as if to pull the levers sharply down.

  “He immediately stopped the carousel. It takes about a minute to come to a complete standstill, but John walked out between the horses and jumped off the carousel to the grass before it had slowed fully.”

  Ryan then did as Doyle had explained. He fetched out a torch, came out of the booth, walked to the edge of the stationary central hub, and then reached out for one of the posts that ran through a horse. Gripping that post he stepped across the outer platform, now immobile but moving rapidly at the time of the incident, and then weaved his way between the horses, gripping the post in front of him before releasing the post behind him so as to maintain his balance.

  He then jumped off the carousel platform to the grass—no more than two feet—and walked to the left, out to where he had seen the screaming girl.

  Then Ryan knelt on the ground and looked beneath the carousel. He switched on the torch and directed the beam toward the hub.

  Ryan got up again, walked back onto the platform, and started toward Travis and Doyle. Three or four feet from them, he stopped and pointed down.

  “The body was under the carousel at this point, just about three or four feet in. It was not so far back as to be completely invisible, but far enough so as to explain why no one had seen it,” Doyle said. “Sheriff Rourke also suggested that the sheer number of people around the carousel had obscured any line of sight, and that only at the end of the night when the crowds had dispersed did the body become visible. He also had John take a section of the platform away so he could look for any further indications of what might have happened. He said there was nothing.”

  “First thing in the morning, I am going to need to look myself,” Travis said, “so if you could tell John to do that for me again, it would be appreciated. It’s too dark now.”

  “We would like to open again on Friday evening, Agent Travis,” Doyle said. “Do you think that would be possible?”