Page 31 of The Midnight Carousel
The Grand Ringmaster of the carousel is a natural suspect, but it quickly becomes evident to Laurent the reason why the Bureau discounted Arnold.
Numerous witness statements backed up his claim that at no time was he out of sight.
Laurent has been observing the ride ever since returning from the department store thirty minutes ago, and can see this for himself.
Either the man is dancing around the platform, or announcing the next ride, or talking to the visitors.
Laurent has also learnt that Arnold does not enter the central cylinder to start the ride. Instead, he stands at the narrow opening with his back turned to the interior. In theory, someone could lurk inside without his noticing.
He watches Arnold shoo away a young man from the vicinity of the horse covered in blankets.
From his observations, he has discerned that no one is allowed near enough to disturb the covering accidentally.
And he is more convinced than ever that the commotion of the fairground provides a useful distraction for an abductor to slip in and out unnoticed.
He waits for Arnold to take a break. Keen to speak to the man at last, Laurent pushes through the throng around the platform.
He reflects that Maisie was right about his outfit.
Laurent now looks like all the other gentlemen here.
His pulse races as he thinks of the pleasant hours that they spent together earlier.
Visibly shaking when Laurent explains his concern, Arnold follows him across the platform. The blankets are in place with the retied knot, just as Laurent left it yesterday evening.
‘Are you absolutely certain that you did not rearrange the protective covering? Or that you did not see anyone else doing so?’
Arnold shakes his head. ‘Not a soul, Detective. And I make sure no one rides that horse.’
Laurent notes the information. ‘Could you please delay the next ride until I’ve checked something?’ he requests. Seeing Arnold’s concerned expression, he adds, ‘It won’t take long.’
As Arnold sits on the edge of the platform, Laurent uncovers the horse.
The bright colours shine. He is not certain what he is looking for– a strand of hair, an item that a would-be accomplice might have dropped– but his fingers move over the paintwork, examining the stirrups and the grooves of the mane.
Finding nothing after several minutes, he secures the blankets as usual and descends the platform.
Next, he asks the neighbouring stallholders whether they unfastened the knot or witnessed anyone doing so, but his enquiries are met with a succession of head shakes and shrugs.
Why is nothing ever straightforward with this case?
Convincing Beau Armitage’s ex-business partner to grant him an interview was no mean feat.
‘As I explained to the Bureau, I want to put all that behind me,’ Mr Jeremiah Swain had initially told Laurent before slamming down the telephone.
Frustrated by the case after speaking to Arnold yesterday, Laurent had made a follow-up call, employing his most persuasive tactics before the man could get a word in edgeways.
Wouldn’t Mr Swain wish to see the industrialist brought to justice if the pair had parted on unfriendly terms?
And now here Laurent is in the lobby of his hotel with Mr Armitage’s ex-business partner sitting opposite him.
‘When I first met Beau, I was dazzled by his promises to make me a very rich man,’ Mr Swain admits, rubbing the back of his neck.
‘It was only after he stole my idea for an electronic television and claimed it as his own that I realized it was the other way around. It was me who was going to make him even richer.’
Laurent tuts in sympathy. ‘I think you are not the only person to have crossed swords with the man. I have spoken to three ex-secretaries, but none of them was able to tell me if Mr Armitage has ever visited France.’
Mr Swain squints. He has a habit of screwing up his eyes just before he speaks, Laurent has perceived.
‘He never mentioned visiting France to me. Then again, Beau is the kind of man who tells you only what he wants you to know about him,’ he says.
‘He once suggested a business trip to Frankfurt, though, some sort of trade fair to drum up interest in my inventions. I was all packed and ready to go when I discovered his betrayal,’ he explains. ‘I pulled out, naturally.’
Laurent’s interest is sparked. Once in Europe, it would have been simple enough for Mr Armitage to travel between countries.
‘Did he still go?’
Mr Swain shakes his head. ‘No. There was no point without me. He couldn’t explain the technicalities to potential investors on his own, you see.’
As he thanks Mr Swain for his assistance, Laurent attempts to quell a rising sense of despondency that he is approaching the halfway point of his time in America, and he has drawn another blank.
He is no closer to understanding the significance of the horse, or finding any connection that Beau Armitage might have to Victor Cloutier.
Meanwhile the Bureau has made yet another step forward: Billy Wadham’s family has been found living in Philadelphia– minus Mrs Wadham, who having never recovered from the loss of her son, passed away last year.
Agent O’Connell has rushed off to question them.
Up until now, Laurent has been ambivalent about the industrialist being the accomplice, but, as the Bureau potentially close in, Laurent is left with an uncomfortable feeling that he is lagging behind.
He looks at his watch. His next meeting with another of Beau Armitage’s associates is not until late this afternoon, which gives him ample hours to recheck the caramel horse. Once more, he finds himself drawn back to Silver Kingdom.
There are no further leads at the carousel, however. After studying the horse and speaking to Arnold again, Laurent leaves behind the crowds and wanders to the shore.
‘No wonder you failed,’ he can imagine his father bellowing.
As an only son– an only child– Laurent had been expected to follow in his father’s footsteps and enter politics.
The clergy would have been an acceptable alternative, he was told.
Laurent shakes his head at the idea of himself as a priest. He would have found it difficult to maintain the chastity vow.
Not only that, but he cannot contemplate ever being satisfied with any employment that does not involve detective work.
Logic and clues, solving mysteries, give him a solid foundation, a sense of purpose.
His hands behind his back, he stares at the lake.
This is a quiet spot away from the commotion of the entertainments.
In a place like this, he can hear himself think in a way he is unable to in the chaos of a police precinct or the manic streets of Paris.
His mind drifts towards the vast body of water, stirring distant memories of splashing and a blood-curdling scream.
‘Perhaps you’re looking in all the wrong places.’
Laurent turns around. A woman of around his own age is watching him. Large eyes sit in a ruddy face, unblinking. Her attire is eye-catching. Scarlet fabric is wrapped around her hair like a turban and she wears a long, flowing scarlet robe.
‘And where should I be looking?’ he asks.
She smiles, and with a flourish indicates a red tent perched all alone in a prominent position forty feet away. ‘I know the perfect place.’
As though he is helpless to refuse, Laurent follows the woman inside the tent.
The small interior is a deep ruby, womblike, and it takes his eyes several moments to adjust sufficiently to perceive that a glass sphere the size of a football sits on a table, surrounded on both sides by a mismatched assortment of wicker chairs.
‘Sit,’ she says, and he obeys.
She lights a thin stick balanced on a small dish, then pours him a cup of tea. Soon the exotic pungency of cinnamon dances with the smell of stewed water.
‘Drink up,’ she tells him.
Gingerly, he takes a sip, and is pleasantly surprised by the refreshing taste. He finishes the drink, and she takes the cup from him. Her eyes dart between its contents and the crystal globe.
The things he does in the pursuit of a case.
Once, Laurent found himself on the nasty end of a magic guillotine trick while investigating the Great Magician Ronaldo, Pierre Rochet to his friends, who claimed he had played no part in the malfunction of the mechanism that caused the gruesome death of his business manager.
Presently, she holds out her palm. ‘Madame Rose has learnt over these many, many years that a pure message can come only after an adequate exchange.’
Naturally. Digging in his pockets, Laurent hands over a collection of American currency without understanding its value. Seemingly satisfied, Madame Rose tucks the bills in her turban and places her small hands on the ball. Her already huge eyes widen, her nostrils flare.
‘Yes, yes…’ She breathes heavily. ‘Yes, there are answers you seek. Many, many answers.’
Laurent fidgets in his seat. He should have known as much. This will be a vague amble through a predetermined list of statements in the hope of stumbling on to something relevant to his personal life or work. Vowing to give nothing away, he stays quiet.
‘I see great turmoil for those you love. And hidden clues.’
He perks up at the mention of clues, then he remembers that, by now, probably half of the employees of Silver Kingdom are aware that he is a detective from France. And a person who makes a living from noticing things will be especially observant.
‘Anything else?’ he asks pleasantly.
She strokes her fingers across the sphere, her eyes staring into its depths.
For close to three minutes, Laurent watches Madame Rose muttering under her breath.
With eight days remaining, he has no time for this.
He has paid up, and he has learnt his lesson.
Her gaze is so focused on the glass ball that she doesn’t even notice Laurent scraping back his chair and making for the exit.
‘And the young woman who creeps into your thoughts of late…’ a voice behind him whispers.
He freezes. He is caught between turning back to hear more and avoiding any more flimsy pronouncements.
Through the tent flap, he can see life at Silver Kingdom continuing as normal: the Ferris wheel is in full rotation; customers are lined up to ride the carousel; and the popcorn stand is doing a roaring trade; and, finally, there is Maisie.
She is laughing as she talks to an older woman by the burger stall.
As he watches, a breeze lifts from the lake, tousling her hair.
Laurent is transfixed. It is the first time he has seen a tendril of hair move in slow motion, its dance calling to something inside him.
‘What young woman?’ he asks quietly, rooted to the spot.
The breeze ripples through the tent.
Laurent cannot tell if it is Madame Rose’s voice, his own voice, his imagination or the wind itself, that answers: There is a reckoning ahead if you do not take more care with this one.