Unhappy Hooligan by Stuart Palmer Page B

ever knew of.”
    “Well,” said Howie Rook sensibly, “you didn’t come all the way down to Vista Beach just to inquire about my progress, did you?”
    “No,” she admitted. “But I found out something today that I thought you ought to know. It has nothing to do with the circus, but you can’t afford to miss any angles at a time like this. I discovered that for some months Vonny has been taking singing lessons. Not the regular kind, but from a coach who works with would-be canaries—you know, the girls who sing pop music in cafés and on radio and TV. I have a hunch that she was planning to work up an act or something with this boy friend of hers, the musician she was once married to!”
    She waited for his reaction, but Rook only snorted. “I know that,” he said. “Or at least I gathered as much from what she told me this afternoon.”
    “Vonny was here? Today?”
    He nodded. “Not that she had much of anything to contribute—” Rook broke off suddenly, nodding toward where the darker shadow of a man’s figure showed against the gray of the canvas, not fifteen feet away. “We have company,” he whispered. “Somebody is spying. Shall I say ‘Boo!’?”
    “Paul!” Mavis cried quickly. “Paul, you promised! You—” She took one impetuous step forward, and stopped. The shadow had quietly dissolved into nothingness.
    “I guess it wasn’t Paul,” said Rook dryly. “Who is Paul, and just how does he fit into the picture?” He took her arm and steered her closer toward the comforting lights of the now almost-deserted Midway.
    “Paul?” said Mavis lightly, perhaps too lightly. “Oh, he’s just an old friend who rode down with me. I don’t like driving alone at night. For that matter, I don’t like circuses, either. I hate the very smell of the place!” Her pretty nose wrinkled fastidiously. “Well, as I was saying about Vonny and her grandiose ambitions—”
    “I wish,” Rook interrupted wearily, “that you two would stop trying to cast suspicion on each other. Suppose Vonny did have a financial motive? The police—and they aren’t fools—would have thoroughly investigated that angle. Can you honestly stand there and tell me that you think Vonny could be the murderer?”
    Mavis hesitated. “No, I guess I can’t. In spite of her fearful temper. Besides, she never fired a gun in her life; she was afraid of them, even on camping trips. And she wouldn’t have elephant dirt on her shoes, would she? No, I guess my original hunch was right, and we have to look for somebody who’s with the circus.”
    “Speaking of that,” Rook pressed, “did your husband ever do any legal work for anybody from the circus?”
    She shook her head. “No, not that I know of.”
    “Did he have any law cases where he might have made enemies—anything like that?”
    Again she shook her head. Rook went on. “What about that stabbing on Skid Row some ten years ago, when he helped to deport some sailors off a Greek ship who got into trouble?”
    “Huh?” Mavis looked blank. “Oh, you mean the Finn case! A man named Finn got stabbed or something—Mac has a transcript of the trial in his library. But there wasn’t anything in that to make anybody want to kill him ten years later or any time; he was just doing a routine job, that’s all.”
    Rook shrugged wearily. “Another blind alley. Well, my dear lady, it’s been a long hard day, and I suggest that you run back to the city and let me work at this in my own way.”
    She looked faintly annoyed for a moment, and then she smiled. “Of course. You’re right, and I mustn’t interfere. I’m only in the way here. But telephone me the moment you’ve found out anything, won’t you?” She pressed his hand warmly, and turned away—but Rook caught up with her in two strides.
    “I’ll walk you to your car,” he said. “It’s late, and there may be some rather rough characters hanging around.”
    “I can take care of myself,” Mavis said firmly.