Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  NOTE SALIENT!

  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

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER XXIV

  CHAPTER XXV

  CHAPTER XXVI

  CHAPTER XXVII

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  CHAPTER XXIX

  CHAPTER XXX

  CHAPTER XXXI

  CHAPTER XXXII

  CHAPTER XXXIII

  CHAPTER XXXIV

  CHAPTER XXXV

  CHAPTER XXXVI

  CHAPTER XXXVII

  CHAPTER XXXVIII

  CHAPTER XXXIX

  CHAPTER XL

  CHAPTER XLI

  CHAPTER XLII

  CHAPTER XLIII

  CHAPTER XLIV

  CHAPTER XLV

  CHAPTER XLVI

  CHAPTER XLVII

  CHAPTER XLVIII

  CHAPTER XLIX

  CHAPTER L

  CHAPTER LI

  CHAPTER LII

  CHAPTER LIII

  CHAPTER LIV

  CHAPTER LV

  CHAPTER LVI

  CHAPTER LVII

  CHAPTER LVIII

  CHAPTER LIX

  CHAPTER LX

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  First published in 2003. Copyright © 2003 by the Estate of Harry Stephen Keeler. All rights reserved.

  *

  Published by Wildside Press LLC

  www.wildsidepress.com

  NOTE SALIENT!

  In this collaboration, Chapters XV and XVI are, both in conception and execution, solely the work of Hazel Goodwin, and carry her own individual by-line as in many previous collaboration works. The remaining chapters are in collaboration as to construction, but are written by Harry S. Keeler, so far as the original English version goes.

  CHAPTER I

  REPORT CONFIDENTIAL!

  “Well, Lura-Lora, the double-headed idiot girl, for whom we’d pay our souls around here to get hold of for a few minutes, is alive! A—L—I—V—E, and not dead and buried—as claimed. Nor merely dead, period, as recently hypothesized by—well, you know who! So what to do—now?”

  The reddish-haired, oval-faced man of 46 or so, in impeccable grey suit and tie, who listened to these words, from behind his desk in the small green-plush carpeted office high up in Washington, D.C., leaned forward over the glass-topped piece of mahogany furniture unbelievingly. Directing his words to the stocky, black-eyed man of 40 or so, in the brown suit and brown derby hat.

  “You mean—you mean,” the older man ejaculated, “that you have conclusive proof—that the double-headed idiot girl is alive? Absolute—proof? Why—why—why—”

  “Correct!” nodded the other man, with dignified satisfaction.

  “What is the—how did you get this proof?” demanded the man back of the desk.

  “Back-tracked—along his route. For what I just might be able to pick up. And, in a town called Mellingstown, he bought, from the town jeweler, two identical small-size crystal-bead necklaces, each with bangle, on one of which bangles he had engraved the name ‘Lura,’ and on the other ‘Lora.’”

  “Well, I’ll be—damned! Yes, she is alive all right, all right! And therefore has actually reached the amazing age of 7, not so? I say ‘amazing’ because the history of the few bicephalic infants born in the course of this world’s progress shows that the maximum life attained by any was about one year. Seven years old, and with a mental age of—well, we wouldn’t know that, would we? What an existence! Hers. Unable even to navigate about because of one head governing one leg, and the other the other leg, and— Well, what would you say he’d say if, with—ah—proper pressure put on him, we confronted him with the info that—”

  “Oh,” said the stocky brown-suited man deprecatingly, impatiently, “I can tell you right off the bat what he’d say. He’d say he bought the necklaces out of sentiment—probably to hang on their grave or what. As for ‘pressure,’ he’s just not the kind of guy who’d pay any attention whatsoever to pressure, or to—”

  “No, I believe you on that. From your earlier report on long-distance phone. Well, what would he say, do you think, if merely confronted with the fact of the purchased necklaces—in friendly but businesslike mien—”

  “Well,” offered the other, “when offered, back there, free keep and maintenance for the two-headed idjit girl for life—as coming from a charitable source, of course—he said, ‘No!’; when offered $1000 for her contract, which would be alive if she were alive—well, a contract, then, since it seems no contract exists in this case—well, he said she was dead; when offered $500 for just a single private showing—”

  “You made it clear it would not be to the Public?”

  “Right! Or to the medical profession, either. Nor to the newspapers, either.”

  “And of course he wanted to know why, oh why, oh why, a showing would be neither to the Public or the Medical Profession—nor to the Newspa—”

  “No. She was dead, he said. And added: ‘Kindly leave, now. I won’t discuss it further.’”

  The man back of the desk was thoughtful for a long time.

  “What a situation! He, and he alone in all the world—except, of course, whoever is helping him out—knows where this double-headed idiot girl is—is being kept ‘on ice’ at this moment. And doesn’t have to tell. Any more than he has to even tell where she’s putatively buried. Due to the—the ‘legal relationship’ to her he succeeded in achiev—”

  “Have you thought at all, Chief,” cut in the other man, “—I mean re-thought!—since all the new blockings and new developments such as I’ve just brought in are in—have you thought of shooting the works—yes, putting all the cards—our cards—right on the table—taking him in on the set-up all the way—”

  “Impossible—impossible, you dumbbell! As I’ve implied before. No, shown definitely before. Can’t you absorb—grasp—the utter impossibility of revealing to him, of all the people in the world, the slightest suggest—even more, of asking, in this affair, the tiniest bit of cooperation—”

  “I nod my dome in pure contrition, Chief!” said the derby-hatted man dryly, but at the same time humbly. “I agreed to all that once—and saw all those angles once—agreed to all that, yes—and have no right now to start cooking up fanciful solutions based on—”

  “Quite. None whatever. As was perceived by both of us, right off the bat, when this whole set-up began to shape up.”

  There was momentary silence now.

  The brown-suited man was half reminiscing now, half speculating again.

  “And there ain’t any charges in the world, either,” he said, “by which he could be made to spill. Unless one of murder—which would require the—ah—‘fix’—of some local district att—”

  “Be quiet, you blockhead. Charges! Murder! To do anything like that, we would have to put our cards on the table. With a fourth person—the ‘fixee’ himself! And not only would our man—our obdurate, lip-fixed man—in such a patently raw affair, tighten up tighter than ever, but the thing would literally pour forth into the Press—and bing!—the fat would be in the fire so bad that—No, we dare not let a single peep on this affair—the inside of it, yes—get out. For if it repercusses back onto you and me—specially such kind of handling—we are known, don’t forget, you and I, and—”

  “Yeah, I know. At least you certainly are. And two and two and two makes six—to those who can add.”

  “Quite correct.”

  The reddish-haired man continued to sit back of his desk, troubled, thoughtful.

  The other spoke. Impatiently.

  “Well, what now? The girls—or the girl—whatever one calls a single-bodied pair of heads like that, is alive. And we don’t have ex–actly forever, you know!”

  “Right, right, right and right! That’s where the danger lies. Time! If we don’t get action—no, not action, but results—before the date of—”

  The reddish-haired man lapsed into thinking silence.

  Spoke once. Saying only:

  “Hm?”

  Remained further silent. Spoke again.

  “Well, all right. Our next move is clear, I think.”

  “Same—being what?”

  “A double play now! To play, first, against his need of money. As you apparently managed to elicit before you played what cards you did play. For he does need money badly, from what you tell me about held checks, and credit on such things as—And secondly, to assure him we’re not show-people—which we’re not—nor medical people—which also we’re not. Nor newspaper or news syndicate people, which again we’re not. In sh
ort, to offer him, this time, $3000 cash for a single private ‘showing,’ of 10 minutes or so duration, of the idiot girls or—or girl—and to offer to give a bond of $200,000—$100,000 insuring her return to him, if he goes so far as to let us have her—and $100,000 insuring that the showing will be purely and absolutely 100-percent secret and private.”

  “I see,” nodded the other, though dubiously. “Well, money talks awful’ loud sometimes. And that bond stuff—that might—well, do you want me to frame the wire?”

  “Yes, I want you, knowing his psychology, both from hearsay about him, and actual contact with him, to write it out. Leaving to me the editing of your final draft of it.”

  “And its signature?”

  “What else,” said the reddish-haired man, almost pityingly, “but our dummy sig—that we use? The phony ‘lawyer firm’ ‘in Chicago’—that doesn’t exist—other than to—”

  “—rickychay answers to us? Right.”

  And the derby-hatted man went into the next room to frame the wire that might produce a double-headed idiot girl—for reasons only two men in the entire world knew.

  CHAPTER II

  REPLY TO A WIRE

  Angus MacWhorter, owner and proprietor of The Biggest Little-Circus on Earth, touring America’s great Southwest, re-read, for what he hoped would be the last time, the perplexing wire that had come to him this afternoon.

  The wire, now on the square deal table standing under the oil lamp burning in the roof of the trailer, and lighting up the sparse, ascetic furnishings therein, began:

  ANGUS MACWHORTER

  BIGGEST LITTLE-CIRCUS ON EARTH

  PEEBLESVILLE

  and of course carried the name of the state. It went on to say:

  ON BEHALF OF A CLIENT, WE OFFER $3000 CASH FOR PERMISSION TO HAVE A SINGLE PRIVATE SHOWING, OF NO MORE THAN PERHAPS 10 MINUTES OR SO DURATION, OF LURA-LORA, THE 2-HEADED IDIOT GIRL. THE SHOWING WILL NOT BE IN ANY WAY A SHOWING TO “THE PUBLIC”, MUCH LESS TO THE MEDICAL PROFESSION, EVEN MUCH LESS TO THE NEWSPAPER PRESS. WE WILL POST $100,000 BOND, IF REQUESTED—PROVIDED YOU HAVE TO TRANSPORT HER FOR THIS SPECIAL SHOWING—THAT SHE WILL BE RETURNED SAFELY TO YOU OR TO WHEREVER SHE IS BROUGHT FROM, AND WITHIN ANY GIVEN NUMBER OF HOURS; AND WE WILL POST AN ADDITIONAL $100,000 BOND THAT THE SHOWING WILL BE ABSOLUTELY PRIVATE, TO TWO “SPECTATORS” ONLY. WIRE AT ONCE, IF POSSIBLE, SO THAT WE MAY ALL START MAKING DETAILED ARRANGEMENTS. IF WE DON’T HEAR FROM YOU IMMEDIATELY, WE WILL ASSUME THAT YOU ARE THINKING IT OVER PRO AND CON, CON AND PRO, IN ALL ITS ANGLES. BUT WE MUST ADVISE YOU THAT TIME, TO SOME EXTENT, IS OF THE ESSENCE HERE. AND THE THING CANNOT HANG FIRE INDEFINITELY. WE AWAIT YOUR ANSWER. SOON, WE HOPE.

  KIMPTON AND SWAZEY, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW, 14 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET, SUITE 827, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS.

  MacWhorter stroked his chin helplessly. It was an hour after the close of the show here in Peeblesville, and it would be moving on, in a couple of hours, to tomorrow’s play-stop. MacWhorter himself was still in his ringmaster’s costume which he always wore when conducting the final bareback riding act. His frock coat seemed like something out of 1865; his grey-black tie against his white shirt matched the grey-black sideburns coming far down his long, heavily-lined solemn face; the grey-black hair on his head belied his age of near 70. Close by him stood his ever-friend and “guard”, his gnarled blackthorn stick with which he had scattered many a bunch of rowdies bent on mischief, and even occasional sneakthieves bent on pilfering.

  He was studiedly thoughtful for a moment. Shook his head dubiously. Now drew open the drawer of the table and took from it a stout cardboard box all prepared for mailing, label included, except that its flap-end was hanging free and needed only to be sealed with gummed paper. He pulled out from it some white tissue paper, then two little necklaces of crystal beads, each with a gold bangle attached, one bangle reading “Lura” and one “Lora”. He gazed on them paternally, benignly. Then stuck them back in. Shoved in the flapping end, and, with a strip of gummed paper he took from the drawer, sealed the box.

  He bent over it now to study the stamps attached. The stamps that would ensure it traveling first class. Enough! He placed it back in the drawer to be posted immediately on arrival at the next show-stop.

  Now he took from his breast pocket the long wire he had typed out in the office-trailer, just before the evening show, to be sent from Peeblesville here before show pull-out towards Wentrytown, where there would be no wire-service whatsoever.

  He read it carefully, ever so carefully. It ran:

  KIMPTON AND SWAZEY, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW

  SUITE 827, 14 SOUTH DEARBORN STREET

  CHICAGO.

  GENTLEMEN: I AM IN RECEIPT OF YOUR WIRE OF THIS AFTERNOON. OBVIOUSLY, YOU HAVE INSIDE INFORMATION—OR WHAT YOU DEEM INFORMATION!—AS TO THE EXISTENCE OF THE THING YOU WIRE ABOUT, PERHAPS BY COMBING MY ROUTE BACKWARDS AND FINDING OUT ABOUT A CERTAIN PURCHASE; BUT, WHATEVER THE SOURCE, YOU HAVE THE PRESUMED INFORMATION, AS OTHERWISE YOU WOULD NOT HAVE MADE A CASH OFFER RIGHT OFF THE BAT, AND COLD-TURKEY AT THAT. BADLY AS I NEED MONEY, I WOULD NOT BE ABLE TO GRANT A PRIVATE, OR PUBLIC, OR ANY OTHER KIND OF A SHOWING OF THE THING YOU HAVE IN MIND, AT LEAST NOT IN THE WAY OF THE GENERAL UNDERSTANDING OF THAT WORD “SHOWING”; BUT I MIGHT BE WILLING THAT IT SHOULD BE “VIEWED” FOR SOME TIME PRIVATELY BY A “COMMITTEE” OF NOT MORE THAN TWO PERSONS. THOUGH WHETHER I WOULD ASK, OR DEMAND, ANY BOND OR BONDS, IS HARDLY DETERMINABLE AT THIS MOMENT; CERTAINLY, NOBODY ON EARTH IS GOING TO STEAL A MONSTROSITY OF WHOM I ONLY HAVE LEGAL AND TECHNICAL OWNERSHIP, MUCH LESS MURDER IT TO HELP OUT A RIVAL SHOW, SINCE IT IS NOT, AND NEVER WILL BE AGAIN, A SHOW-FEATURE. HOWEVER, MY LEGAL FRIENDS, WHO REPRESENT I DO NOT KNOW WHOM, THERE IS ONE MORE THING INVOLVED WHICH YOU MAY NOT BE ABLE TO GRANT! IT IS THAT I AM TO BE INFORMED, IN ADVANCE—AND TO THE LAST JOT AND TITTLE!—AS TO WHY THIS STRANGE PRIVATE “SHOWING” IS BEING EFFECTED—RATHER, IS TRYING TO BE. FOR IF THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG UNDERNEATH IT ALL—I.E. ILLEGAL, ILLEGITIMATE, ETCETERA—I WILL NOT COOPERATE IN IT TO THE SLIGHTEST, MICROSCOPIC DEGREE.

  MACWHORTER

  He sighed.

  Shook his head firmly.

  Drew open the drawer of the table and took out a tin pie pan. Laid both wires on the plate, shoving them well away from each other. Abstracted a match from his frock coat pocket, and lighting it on the underside of the table, ignited each wire in turn, where it bellied up slightly off the tin. Extinguishing his match and tossing it away, he watched the two wires burn, to the last vestige of ash in each.

  “There’s skullduggery abroad,” he said, shaking his massive shaggy head. “As otherwise they’d never have made offer of the nature they did—and put on the rush-act, to boot. God knows that, with my $2500 equipment-money mortgage five days overdue now, I need three thousand dollars like—like a starving man needs bread. But—” He shook his head again. “—I can’t deal in the dark—like this. No! This is something that should be privately investigated by me first—before any deal is entered into, or arrangements worked out. The question then would be: Who—who could go to Chicago for me and secretly investigate these people whose names are signed to that wire—and get something concrete as to what may be back of it. And who. Yes, who?”

  There came a knock at this moment on the trailer door. A curious knock, consisting of three long knocks—and two short ones.

  “Brock!” he said, recognizing the knock immediately. “Brock Colburn. As now today he is. The man. The very man. The—”

  “Come in, Brock!” he called out relievedly.

  CHAPTER III

  DANGEROUS COMISSION

  The trailer door opened, showing a flash of the “lot” outside, though tonight considerably off and away from the trailer, with vehicles and other trailers all over the area, and, in the distance beyond it, the “Big Top” coming down by light of gasoline torches. Now a man of about 30 came in—he could have been but 29, though—dressed as show-people might be expected to dress, for he was clad in a white and black checked suit, fitting him impeccably, however, and revealing a blue soft shirt with blue tie to match, and with, on his head, a straw sailor hat carrying a plaid band that, by the time this month of September was half gone, would not be further wearable, at least according to the laws “governing” straw hats!

  His eyes were brown, and he wore a single wide thin-line black mustache that made his already wide mouth seem even wider—also his lean face. When he raised his hat in a jaunty jocular gesture as Charlie Chaplin in the long ago used to raise his derby, the newcomer’s hair could be seen to be raven black, and to carry a slight “cowlick” coming down over the forehead.