“Nicotine took complete hold of his system. He is saturated with it, folks. His growth was not affected; nor was his constitution weakened. But his senses dulled. His craving for tobacco became a mania. Look at him; you see him as he is. In every waking moment, he demands a puff of the weed. Only when stupor seizes him does he cease from his perpetual smoking.”
As Guffy completed his blatant lecture, Cleed finished another cigarette. The glowing stump dropped from his hand. The attendant hastened to place a fresh cigarette between the pasty lips. Cleed puffed as though his life depended upon a new supply of smoke.
“Hokum,” growled someone in the crowd, as Guffy moved on to the next platform. “That story don’t go with me.”
“Maybe the fellow’s a dope fiend,” suggested another spectator. “It looks like something was wrong with him.”
“He’s been smoking steady ever since we came into the tent,” remarked a third spectator. “Looks like he can’t get along without puffing a cigarette.”
“Quiet, please!” came Guffy’s call. “Here we have Luke, the Tattooed Man. He is a living picture gallery, covered with works of art from head to foot—”
Cliff studied the tattooed man while Captain Guffy continued to spiel his story. No grumblers classed Luke as a fake. The man fitted the description that Guffy had given him: he was a living picture gallery.
Removing his shirt, Luke revealed a broad back that was covered with samples of tattooed art — huge designs in blue and red. Facing the spectators, he displayed a gold-toothed grin; then exhibited arms and legs to show smaller designs in permanent ink.
COMPLETING his lecture with the statement that Luke was a specialist in tattooing, Guffy proceeded to the next platform. Luke, still smiling, looked for customers among the crowd. Two men began to bargain with him. Cliff listened to their conversation; then strolled to the next platform in the line.
Here, Captain Guffy introduced a man who wore a tawdry dress suit. This was Professor Solva. The professor drew back a curtain; a tall, thin woman appeared to take a bow. She was introduced as Madame Solva.
The pair put on a mind reading act that lasted for several minutes. While they were selling horoscopes to the crowd, Guffy approached a pit. Cliff joined the early arrivals and saw a woman seated on a chair, a snake coiled about her arm.
“Princess Marxia,” introduced Guffy. “Queen of the Reptile World. No poisoned fangs can harm her. Man-killing snakes obey her word. Step this way, folks. Princess Marxia is about to begin her astounding performance.”
The snake charmer was a hard-faced woman. Her eyes carried a glare that seemed as venomous as the beady optics of the snake that writhed from her arm. After allowing several snakes to crawl about her head and shoulders, she cast the reptiles aside and lifted a box that lay in a corner of the pit.
The sharp crackle of a rattler came in immediate response. Princess Marxia stepped back and pointed to the coiled snake that had been beneath the box. She did her own talking to the crowd.
“The rattlesnake,” explained Marxia, in a harsh voice, “carries deadly poison in its fangs. The noise that you hear is its warning. It is a sign of death to any one who comes too close.”
With that, the woman approached the snake step by step. The rattler steadied its beady gaze; yet it did not strike. The charmer apparently knew the danger point; yet she deliberately persisted in her effort to arouse the reptile’s ire.
“The rattlesnake strikes quick,” came Marxia’s harsh announcement, “but those who know its ways can escape when it strikes. Watch me.”
The woman swung quickly toward the snake. A hiss came from the reptile. Its head shot forward with a swift stroke; but Marxia was speedier in her twist. While the crowd murmured in amazement, the snake charmer swung clear of the rattler’s vicious stroke.
Stepping away from the corner where the angry snake remained, Marxia opened another box. She reached in and began to draw out the form of a huge black reptile. The creature responded slowly; then its large head came into view. The snake began to coil lazily about the woman’s body.
“This is the terrible python,” declaimed Marxia. “Its coils can crush the body of a tiger. Human beings are helpless in its grip; but I have power over the python. It will obey me — this big snake from Ceylon.”
Cliff Marsland stared. The python was slowly uncoiling. Princess Marxia was forcing its twisted shape back into the box. The customers were moving toward the next exhibit, in response to Guffy’s call. Cliff, however, remained. He had heard the word for which he was waiting.
Ceylon!
That was the password that Beef Malligan had ordered Cliff to heed. It had come from the lips of Princess Marxia, the so-called snake charmer. All others had moved along. Cliff stayed. He knew that from Princess Marxia he would gain the order that he had come here to receive.
CHAPTER V
THE RED CIRCLE
“Where is Ceylon?”
Princess Marxia turned toward the front of the pit as she heard the question. She stared at Cliff Marsland, the person who had asked it.
“What was that?” demanded the woman, harshly.
“I heard you mention that the python came from Ceylon,” responded Cliff. “I wondered where Ceylon was. Somewhere near India, isn’t it?”
“Do you see that fellow over there?” questioned Marcia, pointing as she placed her elbow on the rail of the pit.
“You mean the tattooed man?” asked Cliff.
“Yeah,” stated Marxia. “Well, that guy’s been everywhere. His tattoo marks prove it. He’s been to Ceylon, along with other places. He can tell you all about it. Go over and talk to him.”
“Thanks.”
Princess Marxia grinned as Cliff strolled toward Luke’s platform. She looked up to observe Madame Solva staring at her. The snake charmer nudged her thumb in the direction that Cliff had taken.
“Another goof,” was Marxia’s comment. “Did you hear him?”
“I heard,” Madame Solva nodded. “What makes all those mugs ask about Ceylon? He ain’t the first that sprung that question. Seems like there’s been a half a dozen.”
“You can’t figure these hicks,” decided Marxia, eying the mind reader shrewdly. “I guess it’s the python that gets ‘em wondering where Ceylon is. Anyway, a lot of ‘em have asked me.”
“Why do you send them to Luke?”
“That guy kids ‘em,” replied Marxia, approvingly. “He’s got a gift of lingo, Luke has. He gets talking about places where he’s been and sells ‘em a tattoo job. You keep watching — you’ll see him do some needlework on that hick before the poor sap gets away.”
CLIFF, meanwhile, had reached Luke’s platform. The tattooed man was seated beside a table that bore his electrical equipment. He was arguing price with a prospective customer. The haggling reached its finish while Cliff looked on. The customer decided that he could do without tattoo marks.
“Well?” quizzed Luke, as he stared toward Cliff. “So you want some designs done?”
“I want to ask you something,” responded Cliff, quietly.
Luke stepped from his chair and dropped over the edge of the platform. He eyed Cliff as if The Shadow’s agent were another customer.
“Well?” questioned Luke.
“Tell me something,” requested Cliff, in an undertone. “Where is Ceylon?”
The effect of the question was electric. Luke made no immediate reply. Instead, he beckoned Cliff up to the platform. He pointed out a chair beside his own. Cliff sat down with the tattooed man.
“Who sent you to this platform?” asked Luke.
“Princess Marxia,” replied Cliff. “I asked her the question first.”