The Manual of Detection: A Novel - By Jedediah Berry Page 0,54

rending the fabric, then split it to the ground with one downward stroke.

The Rooks’ steam truck was approaching on the road beyond. It bounced over potholes and tossed black clouds from its smokestack, its headlights throwing twin yellow beams into the rain. He ran along behind until the truck slowed to round a corner. Then he hopped onto the rear bumper, opening his umbrella and swinging it over his head. He kept hold of the tailgate with his free hand.

Behind him Miss Greenwood stood in the middle of the road with the remnants, her raincoat bright amid those drab, disheveled men. She watched him go until the truck turned again, passing a row of old theaters on its way into the heart of the Travels-No-More.

DETECTIVE SIVART’S FIRST BRUSH with Caligari’s occurred soon after the carnival arrived, months before the events surrounding the Oldest Murdered Man case. Reports coming into the Agency at the time indicated that the ringmaster might have represented a threat to the city. He was wanted in over a dozen states for crimes ranging from robbery to smuggling, blackmail to fraud. It was said that even his name was stolen—from a forebear in the trade, one who retired in infamy.

Sivart was one of several information gatherers assigned to investigate. He had taken a leisurely stroll along the midway, then slipped into a small pavilion in a remote corner of the fairgrounds. There an eight-foot-tall woman was bent over a worktable, measuring and mixing foul-smelling powders from barrels and bowls.

They need to get this gal a bigger room, Sivart wrote in his report. Hildegard, he discovered, oversaw the troupe’s pyrotechnic displays and also served as the resident giantess. We got along like old pals, and after a while we were sharing a drink. Well, “sharing” isn’t the right word, since she emptied my flask with one swig. I went to find something more and brought back a cask of fancy stuff, paid for with Agency funds, thank you. If I have to drink on the job, I’m not going to pay for it.

The two sat together for hours. She seemed to know what he was doing there but did not mind telling him about her time with the carnival, where they had traveled, the sights she had seen. While they talked, she poured her black-powder mixtures into the tubes of rockets and fixed fuses to them. When Sivart got too close to her work, she just pushed him back with one huge hand.

Nicest girl I’ve talked to in months, Sivart wrote. The air must be clearer up there.

Only when Sivart tried to turn the conversation to Caligari himself did the giantess grow reticent. The cask was almost empty, so he had to try a more direct approach. Was it true that the carnival served as a haven for criminals and outlaws? That Caligari was responsible for corruption and ruination wherever he went?

The giantess was silent. She went back to work, ignoring him.

That’s when I put a cigar in my mouth, tore the end with my teeth, and raised a lighter to the tip. Before I could spark the flint, she had my fist closed up in hers. I showed her my best grin and said, “I can understand your not wanting to talk about it, angel. So maybe I should speak to the man himself ?”

Though Sivart’s report from this investigation belonged to no particular case, it was significant as the only documented account of an agent’s meeting with Caligari. The ringmaster was in the tent where the elephants were stabled. According to the detective’s description, he was a quick-moving, gray-bearded man in an ancient, moth-eaten suit, his eyes blue behind round, wire-rimmed spectacles. He told Sivart he had come just in time to help with the cleaning.

A little girl, about seven years old, handed the detective a brush and said, “They like it when you scrub them behind the ears.”

From the report:

Apparently, Caligari and his young assistant do the dirty work themselves, almost every day. It is not fun and does not leave you smelling wholesome. If I’m ever feeling down, clerk, remind me not to run away and join the circus.

“The ears,” the girl reminded me. I’d been sudsing the big guy’s back, and she held my ladder steady while I worked, which was a good thing, what with my belly full of swill.

“Yeah, sure,” I said to her. “The ears.”

The three of us talked, and Caligari fed me a nonsense sandwich or two. He told