Just then a hand caught my arm and I turned. Of course, I
knew the fellow at once. It was Harry FarrFarr and Rix, a top-
line patter act till Rix died. Harry tried to go on but one-half of
an act is the same as one right-hand glove or one left-foot shoe.
I took quick stock of the jaunty check suit, the aging straw hat,
and the dingy teeth in the spry old face. But when I automatically
fingered my wallet, Harry stopped me, told me he was all right,
minding the hoop-la with Maisie. I was glad they'd stuck to-
gether. There was a time when Rix said if Harry didn't throw
Maisie out, he'd break up the act, but Harry stood by her and Rix
had to give in.
We arranged to have a drink. But both of us knew it was a
promise that belonged in the never-neverland. I've no time for
drinks outside the ten percent. Harry understood that.
We shook hands warmly enough and then I looked for Learoyd.
He'd disappeared. I found him peeking into a van, a van that
more than likely housed a freak. I legged it hard toward him.
They're touchy, these people. They don't mind being stared at in
public, but they hate it in private.
When Learoyd saw me he put his finger to his lips, stepped
aside, and indicated the chink between the curtains at the win-
dow. I shook my head. Then I saw that his eyes glittered, that his
skin wore a sudden sheen, and I knew what it meant. Years of
dealing with newspapermen has taught me to know them.
Learoyd had a story.
I felt an odd chill and the hairs on the back of my neck begin-
ning to tingle. Those hairs act like an alarm bell to me. Thinking
I'd better assess the damage, I took Learoyd's place, looked be-
tween the curtains into the van, and then I gaped.
There she sat on the edge of the bed, the bearded freak, disdain-
ful, indifferent, for all the world like a lady of fashion attended by
a chic French maid. And as her beard was combed and brushed,
carefully, tenderly, she turned her head and yawned.
I knew at once the cause of Learoyd's professional excitement.
For the hand that held the brush was tattooed, and the face bent
over hers was green, gray, blue. Awhole eagle. The king of birds.
I shivered, straightened, came away from the van and looked at
Learoyd. His eyes seemed larger and he was sweating.
"I suppose it's the imperfection in each that makes the bond,"
he said. His voice was husky, stimulated.
I told him sharply that the down payment had been given to
publicize the American, the cat man, then I took him back to the
circus.
Learoyd listened, watched, made his notes, asked me the correct
questions, all with the right amount of considered attenti-on; but I
wasn't fooled. I knew he hadn't forgotten the bearded lady, and a
fair-sized worry began to cloud my mind.
So I stayed at his heels, then drove him home, and we discussed
Papa Gaudin, the circus, the American, and cats in general. But
it's the last thing a man says that counts and when I dropped him
