A Gun for Sale

       No one even knew his age, unless perhaps his dentist; the Chief Constable had an idea that you could tell the age of a man by his teeth. But then they probably were not his teeth at his age: another gap in the records.

       'Well, we shan't be leaving them to their drinks, shall we?' Mrs Calkin said in a sprightly way, rising from the table and fixing her husband with a warning glare, 'but I expect they have a lot to talk about together.'

       When the door closed Sir Marcus said, 'I've seen that woman somewhere with a dog. I'm sure of it.'

       'Would you mind if I gave myself a spot of port?' the Chief Constable said. 'I don't believe in lonely drinking, but if you really won't—Have a cigar?'

       'No,' Sir Marcus whispered, 'I don't smoke.' He said, 'I wanted to see you—in confidence—about this fellow Raven. Davis is worried. The trouble is he caught a glimpse of the man. Quite by chance. At the time of the robbery at a friend's office in Victoria Street. This man called on some pretext. He has an idea that the wild fellow wants to put him out of the way. As a witness.'

       'Tell him,' the Chief Constable said proudly, pouring himself out another glass of port, 'that he needn't worry. The man's as good as caught. We know where he is at this very moment. He's surrounded. We are only waiting till daylight, till he shows himself...'

       'Why wait at all? Wouldn't it be better,' Sir Marcus whispered, 'if the silly desperate fellow were taken at once?'

       'He's armed, you see. In the dark anything might happen. He might shoot his way clear. And there's another thing. He has a girl friend with him. It wouldn't do if he escaped and the girl got shot.'

       Sir Marcus bowed his old head above the two hands that lay idly, with no dry biscuit or glass of warm water or white tablet to occupy them, on the table. He said gently, 'I want you to understand. In a way it is our responsibility. Because of Davis. If there were any trouble: if the girl was killed: all our money would be behind the police force. If there had to be an inquiry the best counsel... I have friends too, as you may suppose...'

       'It would be better to wait till daylight, Sir Marcus. Trust me. I know how things stand. I've been a soldier, you know.'

       'Yes, I understand that,' Sir Marcus said.

       'Looks as if the old bulldog will have to bite again, eh? Thank God for a Government with guts.'

       'Yes, yes,' Sir Marcus said. 'I should say it was almost certain now.' The scaley eyes shifted to the decanter. 'Don't let me stop you having your glass of port, Major.'

       'Well, if you say so, Sir Marcus, I'll just have one more glass for a nightcap.'

       Sir Marcus said, 'I'm very glad that you have such good news for me. It doesn't look well to have an armed ruffian loose in Nottwich. You mustn't risk any of your men's lives, Major. Better that this—waste product—should be dead than one of your fine fellows.' He suddenly leant back in his chair and gasped like a landed fish. He said, 'A tablet. Please. Quick.'

       The Chief Constable picked the gold box from his pocket, but Sir Marcus had already recovered. He took the tablet himself. The Chief Constable said, 'Shall I order your car, Sir Marcus?'

       'No, no,' Sir Marcus whispered, 'there's no danger. It's simply pain.' He stared with dazed old eyes down at the crumbs on his trousers. 'What were we saying? Fine fellows, yes, you mustn't risk their lives. The country will need them.'

       'That's very true.'

       Sir Marcus whispered with venom, 'To me this—ruffian—is a traitor. This is a time when every man is needed. I'd treat him like a traitor.'

       'It's one way of looking at it.'

       'Another glass of port, Major.'

       'Yes, I think I will.'

       'To think of the number of able-bodied men this fellow will take from their country's service even if he shoots no one. Warders. Police guards. Fed and lodged at his country's expense when other men...'

       'Are dying. You're right, Sir Marcus.' The pathos of it all went deeply home. He remembered his uniform jacket in the cupboard: the buttons needed shining: the King's buttons. The smell of moth-balls lingered round him still. He said, 'Somewhere there's a corner of a foreign field that is for ever... Shakespeare knew. Old Gaunt when he said that—'

       'It would be so much better, Major Calkin, if your men take no risks. If they shoot on sight. One must take up weeds—by the roots.'

       'It would be better.'

       'You're the father of your men.'

       'That's what old Piker said to me once. God forgive him, he meant it differently. I wish you'd drink with me, Sir Marcus. You're an understanding man. You know how an officer feels. I was in the army once.'

       'Perhaps in a week you will be in it again.'

       'You know how a man feels. I don't want anything to come between us, Sir Marcus. There's one thing I'd like to tell you. It's on my conscience. There was a dog under the sofa.'

       'A dog?'

       'A Pekinese called Chinky. I didn't know as 'ow...'

       'She said it was a cat.'

       'She didn't want you to know.'

       Sir Marcus said, 'I don't like being deceived. I'll see to Piker at the elections.' He gave a small tired sigh as if there were too many things to be seen to, to be arranged, revenges to be taken, stretching into an endless vista of time, and so much time already covered—since the ghetto, the Marseilles brothel, if there had ever been a ghetto or a brothel. He whispered abruptly, 'So you'll telephone now to the station and tell them to shoot at sight? Say you'll take the responsibility. I'll look after you.'

       'I don't see as 'ow, as how...'

       The old hands moved impatiently: so much to be arranged. 'Listen to me. I never promise anything I can't answer for. There's a training depot ten miles from here. I can arrange for you to have nominal charge of it, with the rank of colonel, directly war's declared.'

       'Colonel Banks?'

       'He'll be shifted.'

       'You mean if I telephone?'

       'No. I mean if you are successful.'

       'And the man's dead?'

       'He's not important. A young scoundrel. There's no reason to hesitate. Take another glass of port.'

       The Chief Constable stretched out his hand for the decanter. He thought, with less relish than he would have expected, 'Colonel Calkin', but he couldn't help remembering other things. He was a sentimental man. He remembered his appointment: it had been 'worked', of course, no less than his appointment to the training depot would be worked, but there came vividly back to him his sense of pride at being head of one of the best police forces in the Midlands. 'I'd better not have any more port,' he said lamely. 'It's bad for my sleep and the wife...'

       Sir Marcus said, 'Well, Colonel,' blinking his old eyes, 'you'll be able to count on me for anything.'

       'I'd like to do it,' the Chief Constable said imploringly. 'I'd like to please you, Sir Marcus. But I don't see as how... The police couldn't do that.'

       'It would never be known.'

       'I don't suppose they'd take my orders. Not on a thing like that.'

       Sir Marcus whispered, 'Do you mean in your position—you haven't any hold?' He spoke with the astonishment of a man who had always been careful to secure his hold on the most junior of his subordinates.