Case with 4 Clowns by Leo Bruce

curiously.
    â€œI couldn’t exactly say,” said Beef mysteriously. “Now I can understand some people; Mr. Jackson, for instance …”
    â€œCan you?” said Daroga sharply.
    â€œCan I what?”
    â€œUnderstand Jackson,” answered Daroga impatiently.
    â€œWell, in a manner of speaking. I mean he’s a straightforward sort of chap when you know the type.” Beef suddenly seemed to realize that he was answering instead of asking questions, and quickly turned to his companion. “What do you think of him then?” he asked.
    â€œTreats everybody like dirt under his feet,” burst out the wire-walker suddenly, and then as if he had quickly controlled himself, he bent, and picking up the wire he had been splicing he shrugged his shoulders. “But he’s the boss around here, anyway,” he finished flatly.
    â€œDo you like him?” asked Beef.
    â€œWe get along,” said Daroga, and Beef sensed by his tone that he did not wish to pursue the subject any further.
    â€œYou know,” the Sergeant went on after a pause, “I like it here. Everybody’s so friendly and nice. Generally they behave a bit suspicious towards a policeman. Not that I’m in the Force any more, but you know what I mean.”
    If Daroga knew what he meant he did not take the troubleto show it, but remained silent, inspecting the length of wire in his hands.
    Beef tried again. “And this moving around,” he said. “You see a lot of the country, and so on. Gives you experience.”
    Daroga did not look up, and except for a slight grunt it was impossible to tell whether he had heard Beef at all. The Sergeant stood up.
    â€œWell,” he said, “I suppose you want to get ready for the show. I don’t want to get in anybody’s way.”
    A further grunt from the wire-walker was the only farewell which he received.
    â€œWonder what makes him so surly?” muttered Beef, but he appeared not to expect an answer, so I followed him on.
    The long converted bus which stood next to Daroga’s neat wagon was known as the Clowns’ Wagon. The long body, divided into three rooms, was often the meeting-place of many of the artists in the evenings after the show, but when Beef stood outside inspecting the peeling paintwork plastered with torn and faded circus bills, there were only two people inside it: Sid Bolton, known as “Tiny” in the ring, and Clem Gail, or “Archie.”
    Beef knocked cautiously and was greeted with a loud shout of “Come in.” Clem Gail was seated in front of the mirror, dressed already in his clown’s costume, and decorating his face with the traditional red and white grease-paint and sticking the fantastic pieces of hair on his chin and cheeks with spirit gum. It was difficult to recognize in this parody the handsome young man I had noticed about the grounds, and whom Albert Stiles had pointed out to me as Clem Gail. It was his voice that invited us in, and he looked up with comically squinting eyes.
    â€œHullo, Sergeant,” he said. “Will you join us?”
    Beef grinned. “Shall I be in the way here?” he asked. “Ijust thought I’d like to drop in for a bit of a chat before the show started.”
    â€œCome in and sit down,” said Clem Gail. “That is, if Sid isn’t using all the chairs.”
    Sid Bolton, thus referred to, waved Beef to the only unoccupied seat, while his other hand continued to rub cold-cream into his large gleaming face. In the restricted space of the wagon his huge bulk seemed more than usually oppressive. It seemed that there was no way of escaping him, that sooner or later, wherever one moved in the wagon, one was bound to collide with him. Even Beef, who was no stripling himself, looked as though he thought it would be unwise to move from the rickety stool on which he now sat.
    Yet “Tiny” Bolton was not the usual conception of