“Think Symes can handle this?”
“He’s dead from the neck up. I—”
“You and I want to keep out at this stage,” Roger said. “We need a good, youngish chap. How about young Peel ? “
“He’ll do,” Turnbull conceded, reluctantly. “Never keen on using him, as his brother’s a CI, but you know them well enough to slap the young one down if necessary, don’t you?”
“He might not need slapping down,” Roger said. “Get him, will you?”
CHAPTER VIII
PEEL v. TENBY
THE LITTLE man named Tenby sat in a corner of the Red Lion, in the Fulham Road, with a whisky-and- soda in front of him and a blackened cigarette dangling from his lips. He was red-faced and long-nosed, with a habitually fretful expression. He looked searchingly at the dozen men and women in the saloon bar, rather as if he were sizing each one up.
Detective Officer James Peel stood against the bar, drinking beer from a tankard. He was tall, broad- shouldered, and slim-waisted, with narrow hips, and he looked in the pink of condition. His light grey flannel trousers were newly pressed, and his brown tweed sports coat hung open. He laughed easily, showing big white teeth. People were usually attracted to him on sight.
The barmaid was no exception.
“You’re not so busy tonight,” observed Peel.
“Busy enough,” retorted the barmaid. “We’ve got to keep our eyes open when there are people like you about, you know.”
Peel laughed, dutifully.
“Coming again?” she asked.
“I think I will.”
A large party came into the saloon bar, as a tankard was put in front of him. He paid for his drink, and moved away to make room for the newcomers. His gaze roamed about the room; he looked at and past Tenby, and then went over and sat near by.
Tenby’s bright eyes were turned towards him.
“Good evening,” said Peel, civilly.
“Evening,” said Tenby. “Better in than out.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad tonight.”
“Bad enough,” said Tenby. “Perishing.” To Peel’s surprise, he took a bag of chocolates from his pocket and popped one into his mouth, then began to sip his drink.
Peel took out a pipe and filled it. There were two other men from the Yard outside, ready to follow Tenby to his room, just off the Fulham Road. Peel had some idea how much depended on his success with this miserable-looking little man. As far as he could judge, Tenby was here simply to drink and enjoy himself. The crowd at the bar came over to the chairs, but there was not room for them all to sit together.
Peel stood up. “Mind if I join you, and make room?” he asked, and sat down by Tenby.
“Mixed crowd,” remarked Tenby, gloomily.
“Well, live and let live,” said Peel.
“That’s all very well, but why don’t they?” Tenby’s voice was thick, and he did not seem to know what he was saying. “Look at this,” he added, and tapped his glass. “Two-an’-a-kick for a bloody nip.”
“Got to pay for the peace,” said Peel.
“Peace? Who said anything about peace?” Tenby sipped again, and put down a nearly empty glass. “Don’t you come the old soldier over me. It’s nothing to do with peace or war, it’s the flicking government. Waste millions, don’t they? ‘S’awful, that’s what I say.”
“They ought to economise,” agreed Peel, solemnly.
“You’re right they should, but take it from me they won’t. Civil servants, look at the perishers, running around everywhere. Waste . . . and paper. Look at the waste paper. A lot less forms and a bit more progress, that’s what we want.”
“You’ve never said a truer word.”
“ ‘S’right,” said Tenby. “I never will, neither.”
He turned his head and looked straight at Peel for the first time. Behind his narrowed lids, his small blue eyes were very bright. They seemed to hold no expression, although their directness was completely at variance with his muddled talk and his wet cigarette.
“Have another?” he asked.
“Well—”
“On me this time.”
“Well, thanks.” This seemed like progress, Peel thought.
Tenby got up and waddled to the bar. He looked tipsy, but he had not been here long, and had made one drink last for over half an hour. Was he following up some hard drinking at home, or was he putting on an act?
He came back with a foaming pewter tankard for Peel, and his own short drink, and dumped them down on the table.
“Never mix me drinks,” he said earnestly. “Good rule.”
“None better,” agreed Peel.
“Talking of the government,” Tenby said, “what about the police?”
“Ah.”
“That feller West.”
“West?”
“ ‘Andsome, they call him,” said Tenby. “Don’t you read your papers? Shocking! Wastes a lot o’ government money—that’s our money, chum—an’ then he has a go at a girl in her flat. Shocking,” he added, shaking his head. “More in that than meets the eye, if you ask me. Ought to be slung out on his neck, that’s what.”
“You’re probably right,” agreed Peel.
Tenby leaned forward.
“You’d never believe it,” he declared, “but I’ve been inside.”
“You have?”
“ ‘S’right. I was framed. And I been fined. Twice. Betting slips. What harm does a bit o’ betting do a man, that’s what I want to know. The government has premium bonds, ain’t they? They’ve got the pools, ain’t they? Tote, too. But they has to pay a lot of big, fat, slab- sided coppers to go about picking on the likes of me for taking a few slips. If I had my way with the police, do you know what I’d do with them?”
“No.”
“Drown ‘em!” declared Tenby.
Peel chuckled. “A bit drastic, old man.”
“Maybe it is,” growled Tenby. “But it’s painless, that’s more than they deserve. The way they treated that girl, and the way they tried to pretend Raeburn was a crook when he’s a bit of all right—’Strewth, I know what I’d do with ‘em.” He looked straight into Peel’s eyes. “Drown ‘em,” he repeated, and sipped his drink.
“There are some poor coppers about,” Peel agreed.
“Poor!” Tenby exclaimed. “They get paid, don’t they? That’s more than some people. I was trying to keep body an’ soul together when they nobbled me. Don’t mind telling you, mister, I haven’t forgotten, and I haven’t forgiven them, neither. If I can do them a bit of dirt, that’s me—Bert Tenby’s the name.”
“I can’t say I blame you,” said Peel.
“I don’t care whether you blame me or not,” said Tenby. “Why, I’d be hard put to it to keep body and soul together, if it wasn’t for a bit o’ luck I had.”
“Ah,” said Peel.
Tenby opened his eyes wide. They looked so innocent, in spite of his manner, that Peel hardly knew what to make of him.
“You struck lucky, did you?”
“Penny pool, nearly five thousand,” announced Tenby, “and I didn’t pay no tax. A cool five thou’.” He gave a slow, childlike smile. “Bit of all right, eh? Do you know what? A rozzer come up to me in the street just afterwards. ‘Bert,’ he says, ‘I want to know where you got your dough from.’ ‘Dough?’ I says. ‘Dough,’ he says. ‘Well,’ I says, ‘you can bloody well find out, copper.’ That’s what I said, and walked away from him. Proper mad, he was. More pools and less policemen, that’s what I’d like to see.”
“Well, it’s all a matter of opinion,” Peel said.
“So what?” asked Tenby, and ate another chocolate.
Peel could find nothing more to say, and not altogether because he was now sure that this man was toying with him. It was something else, even more worrying. He felt hot—much too hot. There was a pricking sensation in his hands and feet, and his neck and face were beginning to tingle. He looked at Tenby, whose face seemed to be going round and round. The little bright eyes were staring.