It was a bitter draught for Mr Teal to get past his uvula, but he managed it, even though his gorge threatened to suffocate him. Perhaps it was one of the most prodigious victories of self-discipline that he had ever achieved in his life.
"That's what I want," he said, with a superhuman effort of carelessness that made him look as if he was about to lapse into an apoplectic coma. "Why should we go on fighting each other? We're both really out for the same thing, and this is a case where we could work together and you could save yourself getting into trouble as well. I'll be quite frank with you. I remembered everything you said at Windlay's place, and I made some inquiries on my own responsibility. I've seen a verbatim report of the Kennet inquest, and I've talked with one of the reporters who was there. I agree with you that it was conducted in a very unsatisfactory way. I put it to the chief commissioner that we ought to consider reopening the case. He agreed with me then, but yesterday evening he told me I'd better drop it. I'm pretty sure there's pressure being put on him to leave well alone — the kind of pressure he can't afford to ignore. But I don't like dropping cases. If there's anything fishy about this it ought to come out. Now, you said something to me about the Sons of France, didn't you?"
"I may have mentioned them," Simon admitted cautiously. "But—"
Chief Inspector Teal suddenly opened his baby-blue eyes and they were not bored or comatose or stupid, but unexpectedly clear and penetrating in the round placidity of his face.
"Well, that's why I came to see you. You may have something that puts the whole puzzle together. Bravache and Dumaire are Frenchmen." Mr Teal paused. He fashioned his gum once into the shape of a spindle, and then clamped his teeth destructively down on it. "And I happen to have found out that John Kennet was a member of the Sons of France," he said.
VI
How Mr Fairweather opened his mouth,
and Mr Uniatz put his foot in it
1
"Kennet was a member of the Sons of France?" Simon repeated. "Are you sure?"
"Yes. His mother was French, and he was brought up with French as a second language. He spoke it perfectly. I told you I'd been making inquiries. I've established the fact that he joined the Sons of France six months ago under the name of Jean de la Paix. Incidentally, he was also a member of the French Communist party." Teal went on watching the Saint searchingly and with a glint of malice. "I thought you'd have known that."
The Saint blew a geometrically faultless smoke ring across the table. His face was tranquilly uncommunicative, relieved from blankness only by a faint inscrutable smile; but behind the mask his brain was running like a dynamo.
"I might have guessed," he said.
"Did you?"
"I'm a good guesser. 'Jean de la Paix,' too — he had a sense of humour, after all. And guts. For a registered member of the French Communist party to join the Sons of France at all was guts, and he must have got further than just joining. That would only be another reason why he had to be cremated."
"What was the first reason?"
Simon looked down at his fingernails.
"You want to know a good deal," he said, and looked up again.
"Of course I do."
"Well, so do I." The Saint thought for a while, and made up his mind. "All right, Claud. You asked for it, and you can have it. For about the first time in my life I'll be perfectly frank with you. It'd be worth while if it only meant that I could get on with my job without having to cope with all your suspicions and persecutions as well as my own troubles. But I don't suppose it'll do any good, because as usual you probably won't believe me… You see, Claud, the fact is that I don't know any more than you do."
Teal's face darkened.
"I didn't come here to waste my time—"
"And I don't want you to waste mine. I told you you wouldn't believe me. But there it is. I don't know any more than you do. The only difference is that not being a policeman I haven't got so many great open spaces in my brain to start with, so I don't need to know so much."
Mr Teal's spearmint, under the systematic massage of his molars, became in turn a sphere, an hourglass and something like a short-handled frying pan.
"Go on," he said lethargically. "Make allowances for my stupidity, and tell me how much I know."
"As you like. Let's start with Comrade Luker. As you know, he is the current top tycoon of the arms racket."
"I suppose so."
"Comrades Fairweather and Sangore are his stooges in a couple of British armaments firms which he controls."
"I don't—"
"Call them what you like, and they're still his stooges. Between them, those three are running a combine that practically constitutes a monopoly of the arms industry in this country. Their only job is manufacturing engines and instruments and gadgets that kill people, and the only way they can make good money is in having a good demand for their products. I shall also ask you to grasp the idea that one customer's money will buy as much champagne and caviar as another's, whoever he wants to kill. But under the laws we suffer from there's nothing criminal in any of that — nothing that you could take any professional interest in. If a man gets drunk and kills somebody with his car, it's your job to put him in jail; but if he organizes the killing of several thousand people they make him an earl, and it's your job to stop the traffic when he wants to cross the street. The technical name for that is civilization. Correct?"
"Go on."
The Saint poured out some more coffee.
"Now let's go to France. There they have a political Fascist organization called the Sons of France. It may or may not be illegal. I seem to remember that they passed a law not long ago to ban all organizations of that kind, and the old Croix de Feu was disbanded on account of it. The Sons of France may have found a way to get round the law, or the law may not give a damn, or they may have too much pull already, or something; or they may just be illegal and proud of it, and even if that's the case it's nothing to do with you. It's a matter for the French police."
"I'm listening."
"That's something. Well, from one indication and another it seems pretty clear that Luker is backing the Sons of France. That's natural enough. Dictators always go in for rearmament in a big way, and therefore Fascist regimes are good for business. Besides which, if you can get enough synthetic Caesars thumping their chests and bellowing defiance at each other it won't be long before you have a nice big war, which means a boom for the armourers. But it isn't a crime to finance a political party, or else half the titled people in England would be in the hoosegow. Unless the Sons of France are an illegal organization, in which case it's still a matter for the French police and not for you."
"You haven't got down to Kennet yet," Teal said sluggishly.
"Kennet was a pacifist, a Communist, and all kinds of idealistic — ist. He thought he could do a lot of good by showing up the arms racket. Old stuff. Dozens of people have done it before, and everybody says 'How shocking!' and 'Why can't something be done about it?' and then they go off and forget about it. But Kennet went on. He joined the Sons of France. And by some fluke he must have found out something that really was worth finding out; so he had an accident. But you still can't do anything about it."