‘Spit it out, son.’
‘It says, “Money. Farrell sells Circus? Jones not rich. Who provided cash?”’
‘Clear enough,’ said Grossmith. ‘If that Jones is the Jones I think it is, then he ain’t got a pot to piss in. Small-time crim with the ’Roys. Thought he hadn’t been infecting the street with his presence lately.’
‘Which Jones?’ asked Robinson anxiously.
‘Killer Jones . . . oh, Lord,’ said Grossmith. ‘Your Miss Fisher’s there. And Jones likes girls. He likes ’em half- dead.’
‘She can look after herself,’ said Robinson abruptly. ‘You said something important then, Terry. Where did the money to interfere in this circus come from? Not from Jones himself. From the ’Roys?’
‘I can’t imagine it,’ said Grossmith. ‘Albert Ellis has more flash than cash.’
‘Harris, get onto it. I want you to find out who owns Farrell’s Circus and who put up the money for Jones. Then I want you back here by this afternoon with a bag. We’re going to Rockbank tonight. I’m going to take you boys to the circus.’
Phryne Fisher, unable to find an occupation which did not involve sewing, strolled into the girls’ tent. It was empty. She opened her suitcase, took out a Coles notepad and a pencil and wrote busily for ten minutes. Then she tore off and folded the papers and stuffed them down her front.
The suitcase seemed even more in disarray than when she had left it. She put it down on her bed and rummaged through its contents. It had certainly been searched. Her little gun and her box of ammunition were gone.
With a great effort she managed to saunter casually through the circus and into the carnival, where Alan Lee was leaning on one pole of his carousel. She took off her cardigan, draped it over her arm and took his hand under cover of it.
‘Fern?’ he said under his breath, as her hand slipped in his grasp. Her palms were sweating. ‘What’s gone wrong?’
‘They’re onto me,’ she said, her lips hardly moving. ‘Can you send these telegrams for me?’
‘Yes.’ He took the pages that she slipped him and shoved them down his shirt. ‘Can I do something else for you?’
‘Call Dot on this number and ask for any news. And try to send the telegrams without anyone seeing you. I’ll come back in an hour. You might have to wait for a reply.’
‘You frightened, Fern?’
‘No,’ she lied.
He held her hand in a strong clasp for a moment, then released it. ‘Break a leg, Fern.’
Phryne was afraid that she would. Who had searched the suitcase? One of the girls? If so, who? And was this idle curiosity? No. Idle curiosity would not take the gun.
It was time that she took the initiative. But there was not much she could do until she had some answers. Finally she wandered down to where Dulcie was repairing a large box.
‘H’lo Fern, come and help me.’
Phryne took one side of the box and tilted it, so that Dulcie could tuck the piece of cloth she was gluing underneath.
‘What is this?’ Phryne found her voice. It was shaky.
‘It’s the magician’s disappearing-trick box. See,’ Dulcie motioned Phryne to set the box down and walked her around it, ‘it looks solid.’ She tapped it. ‘It sounds solid. But this side is just cloth, painted to look like that stained wood. So all the sides match and it ain’t too difficult to make Dulcie vanish.’
‘How do you vanish, then?’
‘I just lift up the side and out I go.’ She demonstrated. ‘There’s a screen between me and the punters.’
The screen was also painted to look like the box and was of canvas. Dulcie fitted neatly between the screen and the outer wall of the box.
‘Only thing to do is not to giggle,’ said Dulcie. ‘What’s the matter, Fern? You look pale.’
‘Miss Younger . . .’ said Phryne. Dulcie patted her shoulder.
‘It’s real hard for her,’ she said slowly. ‘Losing Mr Christopher like that. But it’s not surprising that she went crook. She sorta looks after us girls. And it’s my fault too, Fern. I oughta told you about clowns.’
‘What about clowns?’
‘They’re off limits,’ said Dulcie slowly. ‘I dunno why. It’s just always been like that. It’s all right for them to marry, like old Thompson, but not to have lovers, not to be happy. Clowns ain’t supposed to be happy. You did the wrong thing, Fern.’
‘So I did the wrong thing.’
‘And you gotta give him up.’
‘Do I?’ Phryne was bewildered. Just as she had thought that she was understanding the circus, it had turned unaccountable and alien again. ‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then you’ll be a tart. They’ll all be coming to the tent and asking for you. You’ll be pestered to death.’
Phryne thought about it. The clown was too sweet to surrender because of the circus’s strange views of morality. He was also the only person who could make her feel loved. She needed him. The affair would have to be secret. Then she remembered that one cannot have secrets in a circus. It was give up the clown or be taken for a tart. The decision was already made. There were worse fates than being pestered. She presumed that they would not go as far as actual rape.
‘Then the pesterers are going to get a shock,’ she said defiantly. ‘I’m not giving him up. He’s lovely.’
Dulcie sighed. ‘Oh, well, Fern, if that’s what you want. But it won’t be easy for you. I hope you know what you’re doing. You look a bit upset. Come and we’ll see if Bernie can give us a cuppa. He might even have some ginger biscuits left if that thieving Bruno ain’t scoffed the lot. That’s why he keeps ’em in a tin. Bruno ain’t got the hang of tins yet. Or, no, we can’t. Bernie’s washing Bruno today. We’ll think of something. Mr Sheridan,’ she called. ‘I’ve fixed the box.’
The magician came out of the large caravan emblazoned with his name and smiled at Dulcie. Even in a dressing-gown he had a morning-suit manner.
‘There’s my good girl. My two good girls,’ he added. ‘Hello, who is this?’
‘Fern,’ said Dulcie. ‘We gotta go, Mr Sheridan.’
Sheridan slathered a lascivious smile all over Phryne, leaving her feeling smirched. He stepped back into his large caravan like a cuckoo into a clock.
‘Jeez!’ snorted Dulcie, dragging Phryne away. ‘Every time he does that I feel like I gotta go and have a wash. It’s no jam being a magician’s girl. Here, look at the state of your arm. Fingerprints, they are. What did Miss Younger do to you, Fern?’
‘Nothing. Nothing really. She was upset.’
‘Yair. Well, you can stay out of her way until tonight. I’m going over to see a friend in another camp. You want to come?’
This was a surprising announcement. Phryne nodded and went with Dulcie back to the girls’ tent to wash off Mr Sheridan’s smile and change into another once-washed cotton dress. This one was lime green and had a matching scarf.
As they crossed the circus into the carnival, Phryne realised that Dulcie was not going to stop there. They were going to the gypsy camp.
The invisible boundary was crossed. It looked just like the other camps, except for the people. Dark eyes lifted from washtub and lathe and stared with the absent-minded indifference of cats.
‘Here,’ said Dulcie and stopped outside a tent. It was bigger than the others and striped in red and yellow.
‘Come in,’ said an old voice. They ducked in under the fringes of many brightly coloured shawls and came face to face with Mama Rosa.
She was massive. Her face was beaky, strong and determined. She had a shawl draped over her mass of white hair and her blunt-fingered hands were folded in her lap. She was wearing what had been someone’s grandmother’s good black silk dress. On Mama Rosa it looked like a wizard’s gown. She had the huge Gothic authority of a mountain.
