Inspector Teal was that unusual type of man who literally takes both pride and pleasure in his employment. Mr. Teal loved talking shop, and would do so for hours on end if he found a listener on whom his enthusiasm was not wasted.
He was never off duty. His leisure hours would always find him sauntering round the preserves of other divisions, listening to gossip in public houses and at coffee stalls, entering queer and unregistered "clubs," and paying friendly calls on eccentric gentlemen not unknown to the Records Office. Criminals, to him, were a race of children--interesting, amusing, and completely human, but occasionally in need of sharp correction. And when necessity demanded that they be chastised, he haled them to their punishment without resentment.
It was his boast that he knew every bad man in London, and he was probably right.
The morning following his discovery of the Alpha Triangle (already, with that queer instinct for the dramatic which few would have suspected beneath his prosaic exterior, he spelt it with capital letters) Inspector Teal flowed--there is no other word for his peculiar method of locomotion--in the direction of Kensington, for on the left-hand side of Church Street, behind a door over which hung three golden orbs, lived Mr. Eddie--more commonly known as "Snooper"--Brome.
He was a big, florid, shock-headed man with an alarming taste in fancy waistcoats. Also the reputation of being a receiver of stolen goods.
Mr. Teal considered himself lucky to find him in residence, for Snooper was a man of erratic habits and rarely attended to his business in person.
"Good morning, Snooper," said Mr. Teal affably. "How's trade?"
"Not too bad," said Snooper--trade, with him, was always either "not too bad" or "not too good"--"Have a cigar?"
The sample he offered was undoubtedly a weed of great price, and Mr. Teal sniffed at it suspiciously.
"Who gave you this?" he asked, and Snooper shook his head.
"I cannot," he said unhappily, "get rid of the idea that you suspect me of being a receiver."
"You might have made a worse guess," said Mr. Teal. "Quite easily. How are the crooks? Or is 'clients' the correct term? Comrades Lew and Gat are heading for trouble, you know."
"Don't know 'em," said Eddie.
"Interesting people, very," said Mr. Teal. "Especially the educated Gat. He has the most cherubic blue eyes. You'd love him." He stirred in his chair sluggishly. "By the way, Snooper, there's a friend of mine I'd like to bring along to meet you one day, if you'll let me know when you're at home. He's interested in criminals."
Mr. Brome shrugged.
"I'm afraid my acquaintance with the criminal fraternity won't help him. Still," he admitted, "like all pawn--er--financial agents, I have had stolen property offered to me. Naturally, I immediately notified the police."
"On two occasions," supplemented Mr. Teal. "And the total value of the stuff was exactly two pounds five shillings and ten pence."
"I can't help that. I wish it had been more," said Eddie piously.
"I believe you," said Mr. Teal.
He glanced round the room, his heavy-lidded eyes taking in afresh every familiar detail of unostentatious comfort--even luxury. There was no suggestion of wealth, but more than a hint of solid well-being. Looking merely at Snooper's waistcoats, one would never have suspected their inhabitant of possessing so artistically furnished a room.
"You do rather well out of pawn--er--financial agenting," remarked Teal absently, and went off at an abrupt angle. "Are you the philanthropist who's financing Birdie Sands?"
"Birdie's hands?" inquired the puzzled Mr. Brome.
"Birdie Sands," Mr. Teal enunciated clearly and distinctly. "Strange as it may seem, I was once educated."
"I have met a Mister Sands. Who's this 'Birdie' Sands?"
"A gentleman," said Mr. Teal, "who used to be on the whizz."
"On what?" demanded the startled Snooper.
"A pickpocket," explained Mr. Teal patiently. "Do you know him?"
If Mr. Brome did not squawk derisively, his elevated archidiaconal eyebrows rendered such a lamentable exhibition unnecessary.
"A low criminal?" he protested. "Now, I ask you, Mr. Teal, is it likely?"
"Taking things all round, I should say it is. Birdie Sands," went on the detective, apparently for his own benefit, "is, or was, the best whizzer operating in London. He was inside up--to about six weeks ago--that's about twice the time you've been financial agenting, isn't it, by the way? Since then we've had nothing on him, and he seems to have all the money in the world."
"He may be going straight," suggested Eddie.
"Go straight?" jeered Teal drowsily. "It's a physical impossibility. That man's a human corkscrew with all the twists case-hardened. He's a born crook--his mother was a crook and all his fathers were crooks, and Birdie was brought up as a crook, Borstal trained. Why, if you shot him out of a gun he'd tie knots in the barrel."
"What happened to the gun you were shot out of when you got that face?" inquired Mr. Brome vulgarly, but Inspector Teal failed to bite.
He heaved himself laboriously from his chair.
"I'm interested," he said, "because when a born-an'-bred crook earns a lot of honest money, it just ain't natural. I've got a nose for dirty work, and that same nose is worrying me now. When shall I bring my friend along?"
"Shall we say Sunday?" invited Mr. Brome. "At eight? Suit you? Splendid. Good-bye."
But he stopped Teal at the door.
"I hope you won't put any ideas into his head," he said anxiously.
Mr. Teal regarded him thoughtfully.
"What I'm afraid of," he replied, "is that he'll put ideas into yours."
With that his projected programme was exhausted, but he was destined to have an interesting morning.
On his way back to the Yard he dropped in at Walton Street police station, near the Brompton Road, for a chat with the divisional-inspector. While he was there a lank, saturnine man entered jauntily.
"James Mattock--convict on licence. I've come to report."
Inspector Teal surged across (as I have said, one has to use extraordinary words to convey his ponderous mode of progression).
"Hullo, Mattock," he said. "When did you come out?"
"A fortnight ago."
Mattock's manner did not encourage further conversation, but it took a lot to put off Mr. Teal.
"What are you doing now?"
The man's thin lips twisted.
"Working. Do you want to get me the sack by telling them my past record?" he sneered. "Because if so, you're too late. I thought I'd get in with it before you busies got a chance."
"I suppose you picked up that word in Wandsworth," said Teal. "Getting the slang already--a pity. Who are 'them'?"
"Raegenssen's. I'm head clerk and in practice semi-manager. They haven't got much of a staff."
"That's a pity, too," murmured Mr. Teal. "Temptation never did anybody any good; and you weren't built for a crook, Mattock."
"I'm glad of that," said Mattock, surveying Mr. Teal's girth pointedly.
Teal fingered his chin, his eyes on the other man's face. It was a refined face, lined bitterly. The man was educated--Teal knew that, for he himself had arrested Mattock for his first and only crime. Teal also knew what the court that sentenced Mattock for forgery never knew--why the crime was committed.
"Let's see," mused Teal. "Hannassay put you away."
"That's true."
"A cheque--you were his private secretary, weren't you? And he saw to it you got the full stretch--not even a first offender's chance. That's right, isn't it?"
"It is."
Mr. Teal's contemplative fingering of his chin continued. He would have been better pleased if Mattock had been stung to a storm of abuse and threats, for the only dangerous criminal is the one who hugs his grievances.
"You don't love him much, do you?"
"Would you?" countered the other.
"Possibly not," admitted Mr. Teal. "Did they ever recover the money you drew on that cheque? Six thousand, wasn't it? You must have a tidy bit put away--why go clerking? Or did Joan throw you over?"
"That's my business," said Mattock icily. "What exactly are you trying to do, Teal--rub in my disgrace, or persuade me to commit another crime so that you can make me a thorough old lag?"
Mr. Teal shrugged. His sleepy eyes were nearly closed.
"I'm sorry you're such a fool, Mattock," he drawled. "What I'm trying to do is to save you from making an utter mess of the rest of your life."
"Thanks," said Mattock curtly. "And now do you mind going and preaching to someone else?"
"I will," promised Mr. Teal. "Come along and have lunch, Mattock, and let's talk things over."
He rolled in to report progress to Storm later, and told of an unsatisfactory conversation.
"He thawed after a bit, but since he was liquid air to start with he wasn't much better than an iceberg even then. A card--he was a gentleman all right, once, and still talks like one. One of the Somerset Mattocks--they had pots of money once, and then went bust. Mattock fell in with Joan Sands, Birdie's sister. She got very ill. The docs. said the only way to save her life was to operate and then send her to the south of France for a long rest. Mattock couldn't pay, and Birdie was in stir and never had much money anyway. He was defiant and insolent in court, otherwise he might have got off a bit lighter, in spite of all the fuss Hannassay kicked up at the time about making examples and so on. He's the hottest man in the country on crooks, and they all hate him like a pussyfoot hates beer. My own idea is that Mattock begged Hannassay to help him out and was turned down. Hannassay's as hard as tungsten, in any case."
"What about Snooper?" asked Storm.
Teal flicked his chewing gum through the window and replaced it with a fresh slab.
"The flavour doesn't last," he remarked with irrelevant irritation. "Oh, Snooper. We don't know much about him--he's a success so far. We don't even know where he lives. We had him shadowed once, to find out, and he spotted the tail and came storming in here swearing he'd bring a suit against us if it happened again. He'd have won his case, too--we can't tail people unless we've got anything definite to justify it. He's only been in business for about three months, and as far as anyone can prove he's as innocent as the day. What I know 's another matter--and that is that in three months he's become the first fence in London."
Storm nodded and pulled out a drawer, from which he took an envelope.
"Some more souvenirs have come in," he said.
One by one he spread out three small white caras on the desk. Each bore the same symbol in the centre, but the inscriptions differed.
One said simply, "Harchester."
"That's your pal Blaythwayt's."
On the second was written, "March 23rd, 1897."
"That was received this morning by the Home Secretary, Sir John Marker," said Storm.
The third similarly bore a date: "December 2nd, 1899."
"That one went to John Cardan, editor of the Record." Storm's faint smile played about his lips. "What do you make of it, Teal?"
Inspector Teal shook his head.
"Give me time, sir," he murmured. "A French-English stock-jobber, a bank manager, a Cabinet Minister, and a newspaper editor. And just dates, except one which has the name of a place. Where were they posted?"
"In different parts of London. There's not even a threat, you notice. Just dates and places, which obviously mean something to the man who sent 'em, and may mean something to the men who got 'em. I want you to push off on that trail for the moment, Teal. It mayn't lead anywhere, but it may. Find out what happened to Marker on March 23rd, 1897, anything important that happened to Blaythwayt at Harchester, and anything Cardan can remember about December 2nd, 1899."
Inspector Teal sighed.
"That sounds like a lifer to me," he groaned, and picked up his hat wearily.
He concluded an unproductive round of investigations by spending the evening at a house in the Finchley Road, where dwelt Joe Blaythwayt, manager of the Lombard Street branch of the City and Continental Bank.
Joe Blaythwayt was nearly as rotund as himself, but shorter by six inches. And, whereas Mr. Teal's eyes always seemed to be struggling with an overpowering desire for sleep, Blaythwayt's were always alert and twinkling.
These evenings, during which they played piquet and discussed crime and criminals, detectives and detection (these are four different subjects) were among the relaxations of Mr. Teal's life. Joe Blaythwayt had a crimson taste in fiction, and absorbed Mr. Teal's practical knowledge eagerly.
It is, of course, unusual for a policeman to be the especial friend of a bank manager; but then, Inspector Teal's friends were a queerly mixed crowd.
Blaythwayt was reading a novel with a distinctly intriguing cover, but he put it away on Teal's arrival.
"That book," he said, jerking a disgusted thumb in the direction of the offending volume, "that book is supposed to deal with the exploits of a master criminal, and already he's made four mistakes which even a policeman couldn't miss."
Teal grinned languidly and took his usual chair.
"You'd better write a book yourself and show 'em how to do it."
"I've started!" announced Joe. "Two minds, etcetera. It'll be the greatest detective story ever written. Everyone will buy it."
"Will anybody publish it?" inquired the practical Mr. Teal.
"How do you get a book published?" asked Blaythwayt.
"Send it to a publisher and enclose enough stamps to pay for him sending it back," pronounced the detective, and Joe's round face lengthened as he visualised the sordid difficulties of a literary career.
But he soon brightened up.
"It'll be great," he enthused. "I'm writing it in the first person, and I shall commit impossible crimes. I shall never be caught."
"Let's hope not," grunted Teal. "I'd hate having to arrest you. Besides, crooks are only romantic characters in fiction."
"It'll be in the form of a diary, and----"
"Where are the cards?" asked Mr. Teal slumbrously.
During the intervals of the game, he recounted his experiences of the day, for Blaythwayt was a great student of contemporary crime. Also, he delighted his friend by telling him that a real live criminal had consented to be at home when they called.
"I think you must peeve Snooper," said Blaythwayt. "You do try the magazine detective stunt--trying to make people think you know everything."
"Nearly everything," corrected Teal modestly.
"If you know everything you know nearly everything," said Joe sententiously, and Mr. Teal stared at him.
"You've been going to one of these modern plays," he accused.
"I've been studying the stage with a view to dramatising my book. That sort of thing goes well. Look at Raffles."
"You didn't write Raffles," said Mr. Teal crushingly.
They played out two more hands in silence, and then Blaythwayt looked up brightly.
"At least," he said, "I can stump you."
"Carry on," suggested Teal.
"Who is Christopher Arden?"
"My chief, pro tem. He got into Special Branch through the Assistant Commissioner, and he's all right--you can take that from me. He's one of these tough young soldiers of fortune. He'll never settle down. He joined up in the ranks at sixteen, and came out at the end of the war a captain. Ever met him?"
"No."
"You'd like him. He's big, and strong as they're made. He talks like a quick-firing gun, and he's got a nerve that'd make a refrigerator look like a quiet corner in hell. He's one of these cool, casual devils who could get on to a bus politely during the rush hour--and get on first!"
"That's off the point," said Blaythwayt, "I know all that. You've told me about him once before. I didn't ask what he is, but who he is."
"Christopher Arden," said Mr. Teal.
Blaythwayt smiled triumphantly.
"That stumped you! I came across it quite by accident, and if you hadn't mentioned the name I shouldn't have done anything about it. I scented a coincidence and I got one. Someone took him out of a workhouse at the age of two, but who put him in?"
"I'll buy it," said Teal.
"He's got a good bit of money, too, hasn't he? Well, he may have picked up a bit on his travels--according to you, he's tackled a few risky and paying jobs--but you can't go pearling or bootlegging or running revolutions without capital."
"I know that one," murmured the somnambulous Teal. "An uncle died and left him ten thousand. The solicitors traced him somehow."
"What was the name of the uncle?"
"I don't know, and it isn't my business," said Teal bluntly. "If Kennedy says a man's all right, he is all right. What are you getting at, Joe?"
"You ought to play about a bit in Somerset House," said Blaythwayt.
Mr. Teal blinked. It was the only evidence he gave that he was interested.
On his way home to his modest lodging near Victoria he dropped in at the Albany to report his discoveries, such as they were. He found Storm arrayed in a suit of wonderfully jazzed silk pyjamas and a staggering silk dressing-gown, seated in a comfortable armchair in front of the open window, his bare feet propped up on the sill and a slim volume of Kipling on his knees.
"What news, Teal?"
Mr. Teal pulled up a chair and accepted the proffered cigarette.
"Very little," he confessed. "Joe Blaythwayt says he never made an enemy at Harchester--in fact, he was very popular. Harchester's a great Rugger school, and Joe used to be a star three-quarter before he put on weight. Cardan can't remember a thing. Marker's the only man who could remember anything at all, and all he knew was that in March, 1897--he can't swear to the exact date--he got into Parliament at the Clayston bye-election, and got married a week later on the strength of it."
"It isn't much to go on," Storm admitted ruefully. "I'll talk to Marker to-morrow. I suppose we can look up who opposed him at Clayston, though I don't suppose there's much in that. Now look here."
He reached out for an envelope that lay on the table beside him, and from it he drew a card which he laid in Teal's hand.
"That came round from the Yard after dinner. Raegenssen brought it in--got it this afternoon."
The card and the sketch were by this time familiar to Mr. Teal. Underneath was the legend, "April 1st, 1928."
Inspector Teal shook his head.
"There's been a mistake," he said. "That one ought to have come to me. April the First is my birthday!"
