The Vanishing Gold Truck Read online

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  DEDICATION

  BOOK I

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  BOOK II

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XI

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  Copyright © 1941, renewed 1969 by Harry Stephen Keeler.

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Wildside Press LLC.

  www.wildsidepress.com

  DEDICATION

  To

  Hazel Goodwin Keeler

  around whose beautiful little circus story

  “SPANGLES”

  first published in the Dell Publishing Company’s

  Best Love Stories Magazine

  and appearing herein

  I have woven

  this mystery novel

  of The Big Top.

  BOOK I

  CHAPTER I

  THIS SIDE OF NOWHERE!

  Jim Craney, driver for the MacWhorter’s Mammoth Motorized Shows, brought to a stop the huge lion cage on wheels in which, back of the gaudy gilt and crimson circus-wagon panels which covered it tightly, lay the show’s big lioness and her five newly born cubs. With one sunburned hand he peered, against the hot 2 o’clock afternoon sun, down the deserted hard dirt road along which his gas-driven cylinders had been impelling him, thence toward the lone dilapidated clapboard constructed and tar-paper thatched store that hovered by the godforsaken wayside.

  Desperately, Jim Craney, in his striking costume as a MacWhorter’s Shows driver, wondered whether this lonely store, standing defiantly in this region of vast distances, no habitations and virtually no people, had a tap-in on the local countryside telephone line which, but a short while ago today, he had learned was installed in a conduit, far under the surface of the road—a bit of constructive elaboration out of old W.P.A. days; and also did he wonder whether—if the store did have such a tap-in—did, in short, have a telephone!—he could possibly get connection on it with the one man in this entire desolate area who could make it possible for him to get this big cat and her 5 kittens to Foleysburg before the show closed tonight. And last but not least, Jim wondered helplessly whether this man—hard-boiled sheriff as the latter was—devout hater of all cats as he was also, as Jim had learned, less than 30 minutes ago—a man who, as Jim had likewise been informed at the same time, had even once been cruelly despoiled and injured by a member of the cat family—would go one single 64th of an inch out of his way to expedite the movement of one large cat and her 5 kittens.

  And unfortunately, as Jim realized with a heavy heart, unless he somehow, and some way, and in some miraculous manner, got to Foleysburg tonight before the show closed and went on to Spottsville, he had irrevocably and forever lost the one woman in the world he really loved—had ever loved—the woman who—

  And once more, before trying his luck on there even being a telephone inside such a ramshackle store, he took out the folded letter he had found under the seat cushion of his lion-cage wagon, atop his roadmaps, about the time he’d started this morning from Pricetown, and opened it out again. Written only in pencil, on several sheets of coarse paper, it spelled—for Jim Craney—the veritable end of his life. Unless this hard-boiled sheriff—this hater of all cats—this victim of cats—this—

  And gloomily and morosely Jim reread the letter.

  CHAPTER II

  “GYPSY’S” LETTER

  Jim:

  I’m frightfully sick of doing a palm-reading act as Gypsy Queen Rozequia in a small circus, and being engaged to a wagon-driver who’s so darned stubborn that even when he’s insulted a girl he refuses to apologize. You say your troubles and loneliness had gotten you down—and that you had “drunk a pint”—and that then, being jealous of a “certain man with waxed mustaches”—you had to get some certain bitter things off your chest. But even at that, Jim, a drunken man—or a drunken jealous man, so far as that goes—can be a cavalier.

  I was always loyal to you, Jim—I stuck to you, faithfully—even though chances of your ever getting a thousand dollars together, so that we could marry, and buy a chicken farm—and get out of this life—were just about zero. Indeed, you have today, Jim—as against your 35 romantic colorful years, including a few in Australia, and a few in South Africa—just $10 toward the farm, haven’t you?

  Well, Jim, that “man with the waxed mustaches”—as you call him!—or Mondaine, the Illusionist, as we bill him—loves me too; he has $1000 saved up—I’ve seen the bankbook—and it all means, Jim, a chance for me to escape this life—which I hate with all my heart and soul. Especially so with MacWhorter’s outfit—and Mr. MacWhorter’s almost insane superstition that to go from one state to another means a lucky performance—and his insistence (which is also based on another one of his wild superstitions) on always breaking show immediately at close of performance and starting out at midnight sharp—and his insistence also that, after—often—the most horrible of long journeys, every person in the show play next night as though he—or she—had rested on soft mattresses all day and night, instead of on hard, spring-less, trailer bunks, and trailer-bunk pads. Of course my speaking thus will be, to Mr. Jim Craney lese majesty!—which is a phrase, Jim, that means Disloyalty to the King. In this case, Jim’s King—whom he admires so much! And so let me say that I, too, admire Mr. MacWhorter—I admire, that is, his amazing genius for precision of show movement—the way he has trained his big-top crew to pull down, even while the platform show is holding one last showing to the lingering crowds—the ingenious mechanical devices and stunts Mr. MacWhorter has incorporated for swift pull-down and swift getaway—the manner in which good hot food is served to us, promptly and on the dot, at close of performance—all of those things. But those things, unfortunately, contribute only to MacWhorter’s superstitions—and we, God help us, who work for him and with him, and ride his hard bunks, and make our sleeping and waking hours comport to his weird schedules, are the ones who have to pay the price for his Scotch—and eccentric—and really false ideas. Not you, perhaps—for being a driver exclusively, those horrible jumps, and long travelings, insure you work—and plenty of it. But for us women in the show—

  But back to you and me again!

  I might have fought on, and waited, and waited, and waited, Jim, for the impossible—the hopelessly impossible—to happen for us: a bit of money to start a different kind of life on—but there just is no use waiting, Jim, for a man who is stubborn—a man who is simply unable to apologize when he is in the wrong. Our life would only be a fizzle. And so, Jim, if you haven’t apologized in person to me for your most terrible words by the night that the show pulls out from that godawful town west of the hills, Foleysburg—which we’ve now learned is, for some reason not given us, completely minus both telegraph and telephone service!—I’m leaving with Mondaine—to try our luck in getting int
o a big-city vaudeville or night-club act together. For if he and I are to jump the show, Jim—we have to do it at Foleysburg—or never. For 6 miles west of there, with a good hard dirt road to walk there on, there’s a jerkwater single-track railroad with a train on it at 2 A.M., bound northward, that will stop for passengers if and when flagged with a red lantern; along that road, moreover, there’s no less than 3 preachers, who will marry people, at any hour of the day or night, for whatever the people care to give, be it $1 or be it 25 cents, for, you see, in the state where Foleysburg is, neither licenses nor residence are needed to get married. And marriage Mondaine insists on, Jim—even as do I—if he and I are to travel together. Thus you can see, I guess, that if he and I postpone our show-jumping beyond Foleysburg, we’re just hamstrung in every way. For the show goes on, as you of course know, to Spottsville, 100 miles further south—through the worst kind of railroadless territory—into a region that exceeds even this in the matter of downright—though, merciful heavens, what kind of a weird region is even this one we’re coming through now?—America’s West!—but without any herds of cows to justify a single cowboy—a mild edition of—of—of Yellowstone Park, no less, but without a single volcano, hot spring, glacier, geyser, or anything like that to break its—its blighted deadness—yet, at the same time, because of its geography, America’s South!—but without a single magnolia tree or a cotton plant—a Mississippi-bottoms district in more ways than one, except that through it runs neither Mississippi River nor practically any other kind of a river—hillbilly region, no less, but without either a Kentucky or a Tennessee mountain looking down on it—a region where people speak a weird Western-Southern-riverbottom-hillbilly dialect so outlandish that I, at least, have never heard it before on land nor sea—not that, of course, Jim, I’ve seen all of either as you have!—but!—Spottsville!—100 more miles straight into region that is this region, only worse!—oh, merciful heavens and earth, how MacWhorter’s eternal stepping out of states makes it hard for us who work for him, since—but anyway, once in the Spottsville region, the show will be further than ever, for Mondaine and me, from the big-city booking offices at—well, in this case—Southwest City to the north. So, Jim, it’s Foleysburg or nothing, for my getaway; and show-closing hour—11 P.M. sharp—or never—for that getaway. For that’s the hour when Mondaine and I would have to start on foot—just, however, as Mondaine and Florette Smith—to reach—but now as Mr. and Mrs. Cecil Mondaine!—that jerkwater railroad—the last road back to civilization—in safe, ample time.

  And so, Jim, it’s just up to you, you see. To make things right—before that hour I speak of. For once it has passed—and you haven’t yet done so—I’m as much out of your life, Jim, as though I had never been in it. For even my own mother warned me once, when she was alive, never to—but skip it!

  So now you have it all clear, I hope, Jim? Or shall I restate it—and underline it, even? All right! I’m still with the show, as I write this—and will remain with it—waiting on you, of course—till 11 o’clock of the night it leaves Foleysburg—but not one minute later than that: that hour marks the absolute and ultimate extent of my stay with it. Unless, of course, you’ve apologized to me before that time.

  And so, Jim, to repeat—once more and again—what I said a dozen lines or so back, it’s up to you, you see. To make things right—before that moment I speak of above.

  But I know—I practically already know in advance, Jim, I’m sorry to say—exactly what you’ll do! You’ll just “solve” your duty and obligation of apologizing by purposely not catching up with the show by either the hour of break-up at Foleysburg, or, so far as that goes, by even the hour of pullout—and then overtaking it afterward between Foleysburg and Spottsville. Or even only at Spottsville. And I’m just not going, Jim, to let you take care of your moral obligations by a subterfuge like that. You’ll have to come in and face your duty—disagreeable as it may seem to you—or else.

  Oh, I’m so sorry—to seem to have to give out an ultimatum like this, Jim. But aren’t you being awfully unchivalrous and unkind—to make me? But whether or no, Jim, I’m giving it out. Even more than that: preparing—if needs must be—to put my life and destiny in the hands of a man who loves me, regardless of what my full feelings, right now, may be for him. For stubbornness such as you’ve displayed would wreck your and my love, and your and my life, if we married—hence my desire to get out from under everything—this hateful, detestable life included—before it’s all too late.

  Florette

  CHAPTER III

  OLD TWISTIBUS

  Unhappily Jim Craney put the letter away in the breast-pocket of his rainproof jacket which lay on the seat beside him. Ironically, he gazed at himself—gay, yet penniless, bird of plumage as he was—with his striking driver’s costume of short-sleeved green flannel shirt, belted into black trousers with red stripes on edges, the legs of the latter buckled into shin-high thong-laced yellow cowhide boots, his short bullwhip—mere symbol, no more, of old circus-wagon days—swinging, by a snap-catch, from his side; then tilting back on his head the flat broad-brimmed Australian-like grey hat, with brim rolled up one side, that was part and parcel of the costume, he swung his troubled gaze in a great arc across the desolate countryside region where the wagon stood—a region of uncultivable knolls, becoming apparently bigger and bigger toward the south, or left of him, with here and there, in all directions, patches of malignant-looking weeds, and here and there, too, clusters of scrub oak—and more patches, like actual woods of the same, in the distance, left, right, and forward—and no fences anywhere, because of apparently nothing that had to be kept in or out; after which troubled surveyal, he dourly regarded the lonely store that stood off from his wagon.

  Such an isolated godforsaken thing it was, he reflected, its existence unjustified by even the usual crossroads; a thing of clapboards, covered with tarpaper, and its very godfor-sakenness further emphasized by the many indications that its keepers had to live right in it; for the store was unduly long from the roadway back, a rickety tin chimney, well toward the rear, was right now giving off a faint wisp of smoke that smelled pungently of wood; a pig rooted about in a small pen to one side of the rear corner, and a woman’s bicycle, of most ancient type, leaned against one of the front corners. Over the narrow doorway that faced on the roadside, on a long white-painted wood panel, were the red-painted words

  ELUM’S STORE

  with, underneath them, on a white pine plank nailed below the panel—as though to answer all questions!—a further sign, more crudely lettered in black paint, which ran:

  NO!—the 8-9-10-jak-kweenaway AIN’T opened yit an WONT be open fur nuther week.

  Now Princess, back inside the cage—back, indeed, of the short open black cab in which Jim rode, virtually over the engine, disturbed evidently by the deep silence of the countryside—or else the long-persisting stopping of that gentle swaying motion which had been proceeding all morning—or else because one of her new precious kitten-lionesses And gotten a few inches out of paw reach, let out a low, gentle, throaty grumble—a sort of combination 1/3 purr and 2/3’s rumble, that, despite the proportion of purr in it, yet held in it much of both captious query and deep irritation. And then, perhaps having scooped her blind, straying kitten back closer to her, promptly subsided again. While Jim, gently grumbled and rumbled, as it were, back to life and action, by the characteristic sounds coming around into the open cab, stood up, preparing to climb down and make certain exceedingly vital inquiries. Except that, now standing, but with his head well above the window that was customarily just back of it, he took occasion to peer through a small 1-inch hole drilled in the back of the cab, straight through another like hole drilled, a few inches lower down, in the red-and-gilt panel comprising the cage’s entire front end, to the occupant of that cage. And thanks to plentiful light trickling in over the tops of the closely fitting side panels, was able to assure himself that all was well. The big cat was now,
indeed, at peace with the world again, no matter what had been wrong a few seconds ago. Luxuriously, she lay on her side, her great tawny body arched backward, her eyes closed in delight, her kittens all lustily attached to her, her great front paws alternately making convulsive, spasmodic-like motions in which the digits, first stretching wide apart, with claws sticking far out, compressed into round fur balls, then relaxed again—first one—then the other—an exact reproduction, that action of sheer delight, of her motions when she too had been a kitten, and with alternate kitten-fists had pressed fiercely against the source and font of what then had been the most precious thing on earth: warm milk. And Jim, satisfied now by her low purr—her closed eyes—and her steady production of “ecstasy mitts”—that she was drinking deep of pure cat contentment, climbed hastily down from his cab, allowing the entire combination vehicle to stand right where it was, and entered the store.

  He realized that he would have been a picturesque figure indeed, entering the store—except that the whole MacWhorter Shows had passed this point early, very early this morning—not that there was such a thing as “early” in these districts, for people all got up at dawn, and the day commenced then and there!—had even, as Jim was able to read from certain indisputable signs, those signs being discarded paper 2-pint cups and oily spots in the dried mud of the roadway, stopped along this very stretch of road for axle and gas inspection, and the ladling out of hot coffee to the drivers. And those same drivers—including several pairs of clowns riding in pairs, and spelling each other off every hour at the wheel—plus a few handymen and roustabouts doing the same thing—had been, to the extent of every single driver—and one out of every pair of impromptu ones—dressed, for publicity purposes, exactly like Jim Craney himself was now dressed; and thus he was enabled to realize that neither himself nor his gilt-and-panel-covered conveyance outside would probably prove to be much of a novelty.