John Creasey - Triumph For Inspector West

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.

“You okay?” asked Tenby, leaning forward.

“I—I—yes, I’m all right.”

“You look bad,” said Tenby, interestedly. “Take it easy.”

Peel felt that he could not get up from his chair if he were paid for it. The tingling had become a scorching sensation, his face and head seemed to be on fire, and his back and chest were burning. He knew that he was beetroot red, and people were staring at him.

Tenby’s voice seemed to come from a long way off. “Sure you’re all right?”

Peel did not answer, just stared at him.

Tenby’s lips were parted, showing uneven, discoloured teeth in an expression which was more leer than grin; obviously, he was thoroughly enjoying himself. His face seemed to come very close to Peel, and then to recede to an immense distance. The saloon bar was going round now; the murmur of voices was louder in Peel’s ears. He tried to sit upright, but could not.

He had been poisoned. He had let Tenby get those drinks; watched him, believing he was doing well, and he had been poisoned.

He tried to think logically and coolly. No one would poison him fatally like that; it wouldn’t be safe; if anything happened to him, Tenby would be under suspicion immediately. But there was Tenby grinning like a cat, and the other people staring at him.

The barmaid came across. “Are you feeling okay?” She sounded anxious.

Tenby said smoothly: “He came all over like that just before he finished his drink, he did. Looks bad, don’t he?”

“He looks terrible.”

“Better get a doctor,” Tenby suggested.

Peel forced himself to shake his head. He was actually feeling better, not right, but better. His arms and legs seemed more normal, and only his face and head were troubling him.

“He looks a bit less red,” remarked Tenby, judicially.

“I’m—I’m all right,” insisted Peel. “Don’t worry about me.”

The barmaid obviously agreed, and went back to serve her customers, while Peel sweated, and Tenby sipped his drink.

“You’ll be right as ninepence soon, chum,” he declared.

“Yes,” muttered Peel. “Thanks.” His thoughts were clearer, and one thing was certain: he must get the rest of the beer in the tankard analysed. Tenby’s trick could be turned into a boomerang. He stretched out his hand for the glass.

“That’s the ticket,” said Tenby, “another little drink won’t do you any harm. Hair of the old dog, eh?” He giggled. “Lemme help you.” He grabbed at the glass, and it fell to the floor.

“Cor strike me!” gasped Tenby.” Look what I’ve done !”

Peel glared, but did not speak, while Tenby popped another chocolate into his mouth.

Mark Lessing was with Roger and Janet at Bell Street when Peel telephoned his report. A doctor had told him that he had been dosed with nicotine, but had fully recovered. Tenby, the practical joker, had won another round for Raeburn.

But supposing that poison had been lethal?

Was it another, deadlier warning?

Would Raeburn kill again, if he were goaded too far? Would he kill any Yard man who seemed to get too close? Could any man be as ruthless as that?

Only a man who believed that he could really put himself above the law would be. Did Raeburn think he could?

CHAPTER IX

WARRENDER v. RAEBURN

WHEN WARRENDER entered the study of the Park Lane flat, Raeburn did not look up from his desk. War- render walked slowly towards an easy chair and stood by it, watching his employer closely. Raeburn was reading Ma Beesley’s diary of events, leaning forward, and turning the pages with his right hand. The movements of his hand were curiously graceful; he was smiling, and now and again he chuckled to himself; it was a studied poise, and he had a film-star handsomeness.

Warrender’s face was expressionless.

Raeburn seemed determined to keep him waiting. He reached the last entry, read and reread it, then turned back to an earlier page. Still Warrender did not move.

At last Raeburn looked up. “Well, George, what are you after?”

“I’m sorry if you’re so busy,” Warrender said, heavily.

“Must we have sarcasm?”

“If that was sarcasm, we need it. Paul, I work my guts out for you, and the least you can do is to listen when I give you advice.”

“I don’t always like your advice.”

“It’s time you learned to listen to things you don’t like,” Warrender retorted. “And stop grinning at me like a god; you’re made of flesh and blood, and you’re not infallible.”

Raeburn closed the diary, and stood up.

“I’m glad you admit that I’m human,” he said, still smiling. “George, we’re both busy men, and we both need relaxation. I take enough, but you don’t. Just now I like going about town with Eve Franklin. The girl did me a good turn, and there’s no reason in the world why I shouldn’t show my gratitude. You’re worrying too much because you work too hard, and your nerves are on edge. Why don’t you take a holiday?”

“I was thinking exactly the same thing about you,” Warrender retorted.

Raeburn was startled into silence.