Case with 4 Clowns

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Authors: Leo Bruce
just then, so I grabbed them one at a time by the scuff of the neck and pitched them into the lorry. The man was amazed. He just stood there looking at me.
    â€œ ‘Did you say you knew nothing about animals?’ he asked me when I’d finished.
    â€œ ‘Not a thing,’ I said, feeling very pleased with myself now that the job was over.
    â€œ ‘Then it must be instinct,’ said the chap. ‘I like people who have the right instinct with animals. Would you like a job with me? I’m a lion-trainer.”
    â€œAnd there the job was. Of course I took it. And as you have no doubt guessed, the gentleman who gave it to me was Herr Kurt, lion-tamer to Jacobi’s Circus.”
    As he finished his story Ansell picked up his shovel again and recommenced his work as if we did not any longer exist.
    â€œHe’s a rum sort of a bird,” commented Beef as we left the enclosure.
    â€œI think he’s very pleasant,” I said. “I like the grateful way he told the story of his job and about Kurt. He’s not the sort of man you’d expect to be grateful over anything.”
    â€œThat’s why he’s rum,” said Beef shortly.
    â€œBut surely,” I protested, “the fact that he sounded grateful to Kurt should make you revise your estimate of him?”
    â€œI know the type,” said Beef confidently. “He’s not really grateful to anyone, you mark my words. He’s got something up his sleeve, you’ll see. A man with an education like that just wasting his time pottering around in all sorts of jobs. Feeding animals. Grateful!” Beef ended scornfully. “Not him. I know the type.”

CHAPTER VIII
    April
27th
(
continued
).
    P ETE DAROGA , the wire-walker, was seated on the steps of his neat brown wagon bending over a length of wire. He was splicing the end with a concentration which prevented him from hearing us approach, so that I had time to study the man before Beef spoke.
    Although more than sixty years old, Daroga was still nearly six feet tall. He held himself upright, and had shrunk very little with age, unlike most people of his years. In his prime he must have been an unusually large man, for although now he was sinewy, his firm, wide frame seemed to have been little reduced by age, and one could see in the broad shoulders and steadily posied neck the signs of immense strength. His fingers, as they moved over the unraveled wire, were light and hooked, moving with pecking, finicky jerks as though the task were distasteful to him. He was the sort of man to whom inanimate objects offer no resistance, the small pieces of wire under his hand seeming to fall readily into place.
    His face was the almost unbelievable leathery brown of a Breton peasant, twisted and ugly and far too small for his large body. The deep-cut wrinkles, sinking almost to the bone, gave his face a cushiony appearance. And on it the long ugly scar which started on his right cheek-bone and ended at his misshapen ear seemed like a hasty darn in which the wrong shade of wool had been used.
    Becoming aware of Beef, Daroga looked up quickly, wrinkling his eyes as though trying to recognize the newcomer.
    â€œI’ve seen you about somewhere before, haven’t I?” he asked.
    Beef nodded. “S’right,” he said, and then almost shyly, likea small boy giving his name to the Mayor’s wife: “Sergeant Beef,” he volunteered.
    â€œOh yes, of course. You were just here in time for that little business between Helen and Anita, weren’t you?” said Daroga.
    Beef squatted down at the foot of the steps as if prepared for a long conversation. “Well, I don’t know about that,” he said. “I don’t think there was anything very serious in that. Though, mind you, it’s as funny a case as ever I came across. Nor I wouldn’t say it was over yet.”
    â€œWhat makes you think that?” asked Daroga

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