Free Death from Nowhere by Clayton Rawson Page A

Mike was lecturing the group of customers gathered around him. Mike, who had also seen the parade as it came under the sidewall and who, by now, had recognized The Horseshoe Kid, threw the ticket taker a nod of assent. Mike’s booming voice filled the tent. “When the Leopard Men of India go on the warpath they assume the costume which you see Naga wearing — the leopard mask and the leopard claws.”
    Naga, a slender brown-skinned man, wore a leopard skin loin cloth. His head was encased in a mask that represented the leering, sharp-fanged head of a snarling black leopard. In one hand he held a short, broad-bladed spear; the other wore a glove which with its sharp curved claws resembled a leopard’s paw. A half dozen grisly shrunken objects were displayed on a rack at his side — human heads hanging by their hair.
    Chan whispered in Don’s ear. “Heads very probably manufactured in this country. Also suspect mask and claws. The Nagas don’t dress as leopards. They wouldn’t think it was necessary. Not when they think they can be leopards.”
    Leatherlung Mike finished his talk and directed the attention of his audience to the stage at the far end of the tent. “The next attraction offered for your edification and amusement will be the oldtime Plantation Revue, a syncopating extravaganza of mirth and melody. Take it away, boys!”
    A four-piece negro band on the stage swung into action. A buxom coffee colored singer swayed her hips and sailed into what she may have thought was a song of the Old South but which sounded a lot more like The Boogie Woogie Blues.
    Leatherlung Mike stepped down from the platform and came toward Horseshoe and his companions. “Hello, Kid,” he grinned. “Where have you been keeping yourself all this time?”
    â€œOh, I’ve been around, Mike,” Horseshoe said. “I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.” He introduced Pat, Mickey and Chan. Pointing to Woody he said, “This is Don Diavolo, the Scarlet Wizard. Maybe you’ve heard of him. He vanishes elephants and stuff.”
    Mike pumped Woody’s hand. “Yes, of course. Read about your elephant stunt in Billboard. I’d like to see it some time. We’ve got a few bulls out in the menagerie. Don’t suppose you could give us an impromptu demonstration?”
    â€œWhy sure,” Woody replied unexpectedly. “Any time at all. Glad to.”
    The Horseshoe Kid blinked. He knew that Woody’s skill at conjuring consisted solely of one or two simple tricks with matches.
    Then Woody covered himself. “Vanish them all for you,” he said. “Your boss might object, though. I haven’t figured out yet how to bring them back again. When I vanish them they stay vanished.”
    Horseshoe cut in quickly before Woody should be asked to demonstrate some more practical feat of sleight of hand. “And this,” he said, indicating Don, “is Woody Haines, star reporter for the New York Press. He’s got an assignment to do a series of circus articles. He’d like to interview some of the performers. I thought maybe you could fix it for us.”
    Mike nodded. “Sure. Doc Whipple’s the man to see. He’s the fixer and he runs the outfit when R.J.’s not on the lot. But you’d better wait until I can take you back. Doc’s a bit touchy tonight and he might bite. I’ll be tied up here for awhile yet. Why don’t you all go in and catch the show for a bit until I can get away. Then—”
    â€œWhat’s wrong with Whipple?” Horseshoe put in. “He hasn’t been having cop trouble, I hope? I heard there wasn’t any grift on this outfit this season.”
    â€œThat’s right,” Mike replied. “But we had a run-in with the law just the same. The fuzz in this town is poison. The chief of police hit the lot this noon with a damage suit some towner has been