Catch a Falling Clown: A Toby Peters Mystery (Book Seven) by Stuart M. Kaminsky Read Free Book Online Page B

in blue, rather tall, or something about the person seeming tall.”
    “Man, woman?” I tried.
    “A man-woman,” he mused. “No, I don’t think so. I should surely have noticed that.”
    I couldn’t tell if he was joking, but he must have been. What I surely couldn’t decide was whether the joke was on me or a private entertainment.
    “I’m sorry,” he said. “I react rather badly when disaster strikes anywhere but on a studio set.”
    “I forgive you,” I said, wondering how to get out of this polite, droll conversation and get murder back to the people where it seemed to belong. “Tall figure, blue?”
    “Correct,” he nodded, looking at the posters. “I never realized how frightening a circus could be.” Instead of looking frightened, he looked quite pleased. “Do you think it would be all right if I stayed today and possibly tomorrow? My friend lives in Mirador. He drove me over this morning.”
    “I guess so,” I said, giving up and lying down on the cot. “I suggest you stay away from the Mirador police.”
    Hitchcock rose slowly with a distinct grunt. He looked even fatter standing than he did sitting.
    “As I have indicated,” he said, “I have a morbid fear of the police, dating back to my childhood days when my father had a policeman put me in jail for an hour to teach me what happens to bad boys. I have endeavored since that moment to be a good boy and stay away from policemen.”
    “I’ll run off copies of that philosophy and send it to a few hundred friends of mine who could use it.”
    “Good afternoon,” Hitchcock said politely, moving to the door.
    “If you remember anything more about who was standing near that harness, let me know,” I said, closing my eyes. “I’ll be around.”
    “I shall,” he said and left the wagon.
    Thomas Paul, the “businessman” from Mirador, was the next person ushered into the wagon-office by Peg. When I heard the door open I sat up, and it’s a good thing I did.
    I hadn’t had a good look at the man in the business suit who had run into the tent an hour earlier. I knew he was big, but his face had been covered by a hat. That hat was still on, but it couldn’t hide the scar on his face, a purple scar that split his face in half. The right side was sharp-eyed and smiling with a secret joke. The left side was pulled down, distorted by what seemed pain or sorrow. He was a Janus who couldn’t be read, happy and sad at the same time. The scar cut across the corner of his mouth, so his speech was slightly distorted.
    Grotesqueness was no sign of guilt, just of fascination. I shook his hand and pointed to the chair. He took it. With some stretch of the imagination, his suit might be taken for blue, but it was more black than blue. Paul didn’t seem a good bet for a killer. Whoever did it was probably tied in to the death of the elephants for the past few years and was affiliated with the circus.
    “Why have I been asked to come in here?” he said, his voice slurred.
    “Won’t take a minute,” I said reassuringly, trying to make up my mind if it would be more polite to avoid looking at him or to force myself to keep my eyes on him.
    “My visage makes you uncomfortable, Mr….”
    “Peters,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
    “I assure you that it is an even greater source of discomfort to me,” he said, the one side of his face amused, the other even more in agony from its opposite grin. “War accident. The Ardennes. Shell exploded. I have a feeling that even more will suffer in our current confrontation with the Huns.”
    “We don’t call them Huns anymore,” I said. “Nazis.”
    “It is your war,” he said, sitting back. “Call them what you like.”
    “This is a routine investigation for the insurance company,” I said, not liking Mr. Paul. “May I ask you a few questions?”
    “You may ask,” he said, his eyes never leaving me. “I will decide whether or not I wish to answer.”
    I found a pencil and began to doodle on a