and gave him the benefit of his cold insolent policeman’s stare, a stare that lasted for almost a full second before he swallowed what was obviously a painful lump in his throat. He moved in front of Sergius and spoke softly: “Your pardon, Colonel. I was not notified.”
“Your headquarters were informed. Find the incompetent and punish him.”
“Sir. My apologies for —”
“You’re blocking my view.”
And, indeed, the view was something not to be blocked. No doubt inspired by the fact that they were being watched by connoisseurs, and wildly enthusiastic connoisseurs at that, the company had in recent weeks gone from strength to strength, honing and refining and polishing their acts, continually inventing more difficult and daring feats until they had arrived at a now almost impossible level of perfection. Even Sergius, who was normally possessed of a mind like a refrigerated computer, gave himself up entirely to the fairyland that was the circus. Only Nicolas, the young — and very presentable — photographer, had his mind on other things, taking an almost non- stop series of photographs of all the main artistes in the circus. But even he forgot his camera and his assignment as he stared — as did his companions — in total disbelief as the Blind Eagles went through their suicidal aerial routine. It was shortly after their performance that a nondescript individual approached Sergius and murmured: “Two rows back, sir, ten seats to your left.” A brief nod was Sergius’s only acknowledgement.
Towards the very end of the performance Kan Dahn, who appeared to grow fitter with the passing of every day, went through his paces. Kan Dahn spurned the use of props such as iron bars and bar-bells: a five-year-old could tie an iron bar in knots and lift a massive 400-pound bar-bell, provided they were made of the right material, which could be anything except iron. He invariably worked with human beings: creatures who ran, jumped and turned cartwheels could not very well be made of featherweight plastic.
As a finale, Kan Dahn paraded around the centre ring, with a heavy wooden pole resting in a yoke on his shoulders. On either side of the yoke sat five circus girls. If Kan Dahn was aware of the presence of their weight he showed no signs of it. Occasionally, he stopped to scratch the back of his left calf with his right instep. Sergius leaned across Kodes and spoke to Angelo, who was watching the spectacle with an air of determined indifference.
“Big, isn’t he, Angelo?”
“All show muscle. Puffy. I once saw an old man in Athens, seventy-five if he was a day, and not a kilo, I swear, over fifty, carrying a grand piano the length of a street. Friends must have put it on his back — he could never have straightened his legs under the load — and if he didn’t keep them straight he would have collapsed.”
Even as he spoke, Kan Dahn started climbing a massive stepladder in the centre of the ring. The platform on top was about three feet square. Kan Dahn reached this without any apparent difficulty, stepped on to an inset turntable, and by a circular motion, slowly speeding up until the girls on the outer ends of the pole were no more than coloured kaleidoscopic blurs. Gradually he slowed, came to a stop, descended the ladder, knelt, then bowed his shoulders until the feet of the circus girls touched the sawdust. Sergius leaned across again. “Could your old friend in Athens have done that with his piano?” Angelo made no reply. “Do you know that they say that he can do that with fourteen girls but the management won’t allow him because they say nobody will believe it?” Angelo remained silent.
The performance ended with rapturous applause, a standing ovation, lasted several minutes. When the audience started filing out, Sergius looked for and located Wrinfield, and by judging his pace contrived to meet him at the exit gangway. He said: “Mr Wrinfield?”
“Yes. I’m sorry, should I know you?”
“We haven’t met.” Sergius pointed to the picture on the front of the souvenir programme he carried. “The likeness, you will agree, is unmistakable. My name is Colonel Sergius.” They shook hands formally. “Stupendous, Mr Wrinfield. Impossible. Had anyone told me that such a show existed I would have called him a liar to his face.” Wrinfield beamed. Beethoven’s Ninth left him cold — this was the music that reached his heart. “I’ve been a devotee of the circus ever since I was a young boy” — Sergius was as fluent a liar as the next man and a great deal more so than most — “but never in my life have I seen anything like this.”
Wrinfield beamed some more. “You are too kind, Colonel.” Sergius shook his head sadly. “I wish I had the gift with words the way you have with those marvellous performers of yours. But that is not the sole reason for introducing myself. Your next stop, I know, is Crau.” He produced a card. “I am the Chief of Police there.” Sergius carried a considerable variety of cards with him. “Whatever I can do, I am at your service. Ask and it’s done and I shall consider it a privilege. Not that I shall ever be very far from your side. It is my intention to attend every single performance, for I know I shall never see the like again. For the duration of your stay, crime in Crau can reign unchecked.”
“Again, you are too kind. Colonel Sergius, you shall be my personal — and, I hope — permanent guest at the circus. I would be honoured —” He broke off and looked at the three men, who showed no intention of moving on. “They are with you, Colonel?”
“How thoughtless of me. I’m afraid I quite got carried away.” Sergius performed the introductions while Wrinfield introduced Harper, who had been seated next to him. Wrinfield went on: “As I was about to say, Colonel, I would be honoured if you and your men would join us in my office for a glass of your national drink.” Sergius said that the honour would be entirely theirs. It was all very cordial. In the office, one glass became two and then three. Nicolas, permission given, clicked his camera constantly, not forgetting to take at least a dozen of a smilingly protesting Maria, who had been seated behind her desk when they had entered. Wrinfield said: “I wonder, Colonel, if you would like to meet some of our performers?”
“You’re a mind-reader, Mr Wrinfield! I must confess that I did have that very thought in mind but I didn’t dare presume –
I mean, I have sufficiently trespassed upon your hospitality —” “Maria.” Wrinfield rattled off a list of names. “Go to the dressing-rooms and ask them if they would be kind enough to come and visit our distinguished guest.” Wrinfield, in recent weeks, had fallen victim to a certain mid-European floweriness of speech.
And so they came to see the distinguished guest, Bruno and his brothers, Neubauer, Kan Dahn, Ron Roebuck, Manuelo, Malthius and half a dozen others. Apart from a certain reserve in Angelo’s attitude when he greeted Kan Dahn, everything was very pleasant indeed, fulsome congratulations offered and as modestly received. Sergius did not overstay his welcome and left almost immediately after the last handshake, he and Wrinfield exchanging mutual expressions of goodwill and cordial anticipation of their next meeting.
Sergius had a large black limousine waiting outside, with a uniformed police chauffeur and a dark man in dark clothes beside him. After about a quarter of a mile, Sergius stopped the car and issued certain instructions to the plain-clothes man, whom he addressed as Alex. Alex nodded and left the car.
Back in his hotel suite, Sergius said to Kodes and Angelo:
“You had no trouble in matching the voices with the tapes?” Both men shook their heads. “Good. Nicolas, how long will it take you to develop those photographs?”
“To develop? Within the hour, sir. Printing will take considerably longer.”
“Just print those of Mr Winfield, Dr Harper, the girl — Maria, isn’t it? — and the leading circus performers.” Nicolas left and Sergius said: “You may leave, too, Angelo. I’ll call you.” Kodes said: “Is one permitted to ask the object of this exercise?”
“One is permitted. I was about to tell you, which is why I asked Angelo to leave. A loyal soul, but one does not wish to overburden his mind with complexities.”
Bruno and Maria, for the first time walking arm in arm, made their way along the ill-lit street, talking with apparent animation. Some thirty yards behind them Alex followed with the unobtrusive casualness of one who has had long practice in following people without calling attention to himself. He slowed his pace as the couple ahead turned through a doorway with an incomprehensible neon sign above. The cafe was ill-lit and smoke-filled from an evil-smelling brown coal fire — the outside temperature hovered near the freezing point — but cosy and comfortable enough if one had a gas-mask ready to hand. It was half full. Seated in a wall booth were Manuelo and Kan Dahn, the former with a coffee, Kan Dahn with two litres of beer. Kan Dahn’s legendary consumption of beer was excused — by Kan Dahn — on the grounds that he required it to keep his strength up: it certainly never affected his performance. Bruno spoke briefly to them and asked to be excused for not joining them. Kan Dahn smirked and said that that was perfectly all right by them: Bruno led Maria to a corner table. Only a few seconds later Roebuck sauntered in, acknowledged their presence with a wave of his hand and sat down with his two companions. The
