In The House Of Secret Enemies

I slipped back onto the circus grounds and headed for Nell's trailer. The door was slightly ajar. I knocked on it three times.

'Run, Mongo! They're waiting-'

Nell's voice was cut off by the obscene sound of metal striking flesh. I heard Nell groan, then the sound of a man cursing and running toward the door. I crouched down, my back against the trailer, and waited for him. The door burst open and I caught a quick glimpse of Nell huddled by the door, her hand pressed to a deep gash on her cheek where the man standing above me had pistol-whipped her. Nell's beard was matted with blood.

Marshmallow Mouth started down the three steps leading to the ground. I caught him on the second step, grabbing his left ankle and lifting it. The somersault he executed wouldn't have won many diving points, but it looked beautiful to me. Marshmallow Mouth flipped and landed on his back with a delightful smack as the breath went out of him. The automatic pistol he was holding popped out of his hand and landed harmlessly a few feet away.

He was helpless, his eyes glazed, so I didn't follow up with anything fancy; I stepped forward and kicked him in the jaw hard enough to put him on a liquid diet for about three months. The remaining lights in his eyes clicked out.

I picked up the gun and turned to go into the trailer. I froze in a crouch as three men emerged from around the side. The tallest one had hawklike features and bright, cocaine eyes. He was wearing a four-hundred-dollar sharkskin suit that clashed with the dusty circus grounds and the bulky vest he wore beneath it. The two men on either side were wearing guns, both of which were pointed at me.

'Drop your gun, Dr. Frederickson,' Fordamp said. 'You have a reputation for speed and cleverness. I assure you that my men will not underestimate you. If you even breathe funny you will be shot full of holes.'

'And have the whole circus down on your neck?'

Fordamp didn't blink an eye. 'Perhaps. But you will be dead. It will be an unfortunate situation for both of us.'

I dropped the gun and straightened up. The two gunmen flanked me. I kept my eyes on Fordamp. The expression on his face might have been a grin.

'Dr. Robert Frederickson,' Fordamp said in the tone of voice of a man who was about to give a lecture. 'Mongo the Magnificent, famous circus headliner, college professor, criminologist, private detective extraordinaire.'

'You have good sources.'

'Of course. A businessman can never know too much about those who might stand in his way. I don't suppose you've come to ask for your job back?'

'I'm here to find out why my partner sold my half of the circus out from under me.'

Fordamp smiled again. 'How much would you consider taking for your half of the business?'

'I'm not in the mood to sell out. I'd as soon stay partners with you. My guess is that this circus is suddenly going to start making a lot more money that it has been. What's the deal, Fordamp? What do you want with a circus?'

Fordamp made a clucking sound with his tongue. 'That's a disappointing ploy coming from someone with your reputation, Dr. Frederickson. I've seen the ownership papers, so I know that you do not own any part of the circus. Still, you are here. My guess is that you've come to interfere in my affairs.'

'Why did you kill Roscoe, Fordamp?'

Fordamp absently touched the rectangular bulge in his vest, but said nothing.

'Where's Statler? Did you kill him, too?'

This time I got a reply of sorts; another clucking sound from Fordamp, and a gun barrel on the top of the head from one of Fordamp's goons who had slipped behind me. The pain shot like a lightning bolt from the top of my head to my toes. The ground opened up beneath me, then closed over my head.

I clawed my way back up the sides of a hole that smelled like ether, crawled over the edge, and found myself propped up against a stone wall, staring into the grizzled face of Phil Statler. He had a dead cigar in a mouth framed by a stubble of steel-gray beard that had managed to foil every technological advance in razor blades. He had a look in his pale eyes that he usually reserved for sick elephants. I grinned.

'Hey, Phil, how's business?'

'Mongo,' Phil growled, 'you turn up in the damndest places.'

'I got a call from Roscoe; he said there was trouble, so I flew over. You can see how much help I've been.'

Phil made a sound deep in his throat. 'If I ever get out of here I'm going to kill a few sons-of-bitches,' he said evenly. He might have been talking about buying a new car.

'Phil, Roscoe's dead.'

Something passed over Phil's face. He rose slowly and turned away, but not before I caught the glint of tears in his eyes.

Now I could see the rest of the room; it bore a close resemblance to a dungeon. There was a single window with a clear view of nothing but sky, which explained why it was unbarred.

The man standing next to the window had the soft, handsome features of a San Marinese. He had a good deal of stubble on his face, but his dress was still impeccable. He still wore a suit jacket, and his tie was neatly knotted. His gaze was a mixture of curiosity and dignity in the midst of adversity; the whole impression added up to a man used to holding public office.

'Arturo Bonatelli, I presume?'

The man smiled. Ciao,' he said, then added in English: 'Pleased to meet you.'

Phil eyed the two of us. 'You two know each other?'

'Only by reputation,' I said. 'This is a strange place to take a vacation, Mr. Bonatelli.'

Bonatelli grinned wryly. 'Is that what they say?'

'That's what they say.' I grimaced against the pain, rose and shook Bonatelli's hand. 'I'm Robert Frederickson, Mr. Bonatelli. What's happening here?'

Anger glinted in Bonatelli's eyes. The emotion seemed out of place on his features, like an ink smear on a fine painting. 'A man is trying to take over my country.'

'I know that. Fordamp. Why?'

'I think he intends to turn it into a sanctuary for international criminals.'

Things were beginning to fall into place; I kicked myself for not thinking of it earlier.

'Fordamp told us that he only wanted to use San Marino for a little while,' Bonatelli continued, 'long enough to make plans for getting Luciano Petrocelli out of Europe. Petrocelli has paid Fordamp a lot of money. But if it works once, why should it not work many times?'

'That's why you're here?'

'Yes.'

'What about the circus?' Phil said. 'There ain't no money in the circus.'

'The circus is his transportation vehicle,' I said. 'Hiding a man in San Marino is one thing; getting him in and out is something else again. It won't work forever, but it will work long enough to make Fordamp a tidy profit. At least Fordamp thinks so.' I turned to Bonatelli. 'Why didn't the others resist?'

'It isn't because they are cowards,' the Regent said quickly. 'It is because they fear for their country, and I did not agree with them on which was the best way to meet the threat. You see, despite the plastic souvenirs, San Marino itself is an authentic medieval treasure house. Most of the buildings are irreplaceable, and they contain countless art masterpieces. Without our churches, our art and our castles, we would be nothing more than a joke on a mountain.

'In addition, tourists would no longer come, and our economy would be crippled. Victor Fordamp has placed dynamite charges in many of our buildings, including the castles. He carries an electronic detonator in a vest that he wears, and he has threatened to blow up everything we hold dear if we resist. If you've met him, you know that he always has two armed guards with him. It is impossible to take him by surprise.'

Bonatelli was flushed with anger, pacing back and forth in front of the window. 'I, too, love everything that is San Marino,' he continued. 'But I do not believe we can allow ourselves to be blackmailed. Besides, I think Fordamp will blow up everything when he is finished with us anyway; such men cannot abide beauty. I argued that we had to