________________________________________________
_ Assistant Commissioner of Police T. X. Meredith did not occupy
offices in New Scotland Yard. It is the peculiarity of public
offices that they are planned with the idea of supplying the
margin of space above all requirements and that on their
completion they are found wholly inadequate to house the various
departments which mysteriously come into progress coincident with
the building operations.
"T. X.," as he was known by the police forces of the world, had a
big suite of offices in Whitehall. The house was an old one
facing the Board of Trade and the inscription on the ancient door
told passers-by that this was the "Public Prosecutor, Special
Branch."
The duties of T. X. were multifarious. People said of him - and
like most public gossip, this was probably untrue - that he was
the head of the "illegal" department of Scotland Yard. If by
chance you lost the keys of your safe, T. X. could supply you (so
popular rumour ran) with a burglar who would open that safe in
half an hour.
If there dwelt in England a notorious individual against whom the
police could collect no scintilla of evidence to justify a
prosecution, and if it was necessary for the good of the community
that that person should be deported, it was T. X. who arrested the
obnoxious person, hustled him into a cab and did not loose his
hold upon his victim until he had landed him on the indignant
shores of an otherwise friendly power.
It is very certain that when the minister of a tiny power which
shall be nameless was suddenly recalled by his government and
brought to trial in his native land for putting into circulation
spurious bonds, it was somebody from the department which T. X.
controlled, who burgled His Excellency's house, burnt the locks
from his safe and secured the necessary incriminating evidence.
I say it is fairly certain and here I am merely voicing the
opinion of very knowledgeable people indeed, heads of public
departments who speak behind their hands, mysterious
under-secretaries of state who discuss things in whispers in the
remote corners of their clubrooms and the more frank views of
American correspondents who had no hesitation in putting those
views into print for the benefit of their readers.
That T. X. had a more legitimate occupation we know, for it was
that flippant man whose outrageous comment on the Home Office
Administration is popularly supposed to have sent one Home
Secretary to his grave, who traced the Deptford murderers through
a labyrinth of perjury and who brought to book Sir Julius Waglite
though he had covered his trail of defalcation through the balance
sheets of thirty-four companies.
On the night of March 3rd, T. X. sat in his inner office
interviewing a disconsolate inspector of metropolitan police,
named Mansus.
In appearance T. X. conveyed the impression of extreme youth, for
his face was almost boyish and it was only when you looked at him
closely and saw the little creases about his eyes, the setting of
his straight mouth, that you guessed he was on the way to forty.
In his early days he had been something of a poet, and had written
a slight volume of "Woodland Lyrics," the mention of which at this
later stage was sufficient to make him feel violently unhappy.
In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at times
marked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction of
having provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen the
light, the comment of a former Home Secretary that "it was
unfortunate that Mr. Meredith did not take his position with the
seriousness which was expected from a public official."
His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent and
unusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on land
or sea, and illustrating his instruction or his admonition with
the quaintest phraseology.
Now he was tilted back in his office chair at an alarming angle,
scowling at his distressed subordinate who sat on the edge of a
chair at the other side of his desk.
"But, T. X.," protested the Inspector, "there was nothing to be
found."
It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon his
associates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earnt
disapproval in the highest quarters.
"Nothing is to be found!" he repeated wrathfully. "Curious Mike!"
He sat up with a suddenness which caused the police officer to
start back in alarm.
"Listen," said T. X., grasping an ivory paperknife savagely in his
hand and tapping his blotting-pad to emphasize his words, "you're
a pie!"
"I'm a policeman," said the other patiently.
"A policeman!" exclaimed the exasperated T. X. "You're worse than
a pie, you're a slud! I'm afraid I shall never make a detective
of you," he shook his head sorrowfully at the smiling Mansus who
had been in the police force when T. X. was a small boy at school,
"you are neither Wise nor Wily; you combine the innocence of a
Baby with the grubbiness of a County Parson - you ought to be in
the choir."
At this outrageous insult Mr. Mansus was silent; what he might
have said, or what further provocation he might have received may
be never known, for at that moment, the Chief himself walked in.
The Chief of the Police in these days was a grey man, rather
tired, with a hawk nose and deep eyes that glared under shaggy
eyebrows and he was a terror to all men of his department save to
T. X. who respected nothing on earth and very little elsewhere.
He nodded curtly to Mansus.
"Well, T. X.," he said, "what have you discovered about our friend
Kara?"
He turned from T. X. to the discomforted inspector.
"Very little," said T. X. "I've had Mansus on the job."
"And you've found nothing, eh?" growled the Chief.
"He has found all that it is possible to find," said T. X. "We do
not perform miracles in this department, Sir George, nor can we
pick up the threads of a case at five minutes' notice."
Sir George Haley grunted.
"Mansus has done his best," the other went on easily, "but it is
rather absurd to talk about one's best when you know so little of
what you want."
Sir George dropped heavily into the arm-chair, and stretched out
his long thin legs.
"What I want," he said, looking up at the ceiling and putting his
hands together, "is to discover something about one Remington
Kara, a wealthy Greek who has taken a house in Cadogan Square, who
has no particular position in London society and therefore has no
reason for coming here, who openly expresses his detestation of
the climate, who has a magnificent estate in some wild place in
the Balkans, who is an excellent horseman, a magnificent shot and
a passable aviator."
T. X. nodded to Mansus and with something of gratitude in his eyes
the inspector took his leave.
"Now Mansus has departed," said T. X., sitting himself on the edge
of his desk and selecting with great care a cigarette from the
case he took from his pocket, "let me know something of the reason
for this sudden interest in the great ones of the earth."
Sir George smiled grimly.
"I have the interest which is the interest of my department," he
said. "That is to say I want to know a great deal about abnormal
people. We have had an application from him," he went on, "which
is rather unusual. Apparently he is in fear of his life from some
cause or other and wants to know if he can have a private
telephone connection between his house and the central office. We
told him that he could always get the nearest Police Station on
the 'phone, but that doesn't satisfy him. He has made bad friends
with some gentleman of his own country who sooner or later, he
thinks, will cut his throat."
T. X. nodded.
"All this I know," he said patiently, "if you will further unfold
the secret dossier, Sir George, I am prepared to be thrilled."
"There is nothing thrilling about it," growled the older man,
rising, "but I remember the Macedonian shooting case in South
London and I don't want a repetition of that sort of thing. If
people want to have blood feuds, let them take them outside the
metropolitan area."
"By all means," said T. X., "let them. Personally, I don't care
where they go. But if that is the extent of your information I
can supplement it. He has had extensive alterations made to the
house he bought in Cadogan Square; the room in which he lives is
practically a safe."
Sir George raised his eyebrows.
"A safe," he repeated.
T. X. nodded.
"A safe," he said; "its walls are burglar proof, floor and roof
are reinforced concrete, there is one door which in addition to
its ordinary lock is closed by a sort of steel latch which he lets
fall when he retires for the night and which he opens himself
personally in the morning. The window is unreachable, there are
no communicating doors, and altogether the room is planned to
stand a siege."
The Chief Commissioner was interested.
"Any more?" he asked.
"Let me think," said T. X., looking up at the ceiling. "Yes, the
interior of his room is plainly furnished, there is a big
fireplace, rather an ornate bed, a steel safe built into the wall
and visible from its outer side to the policeman whose beat is in
that neighborhood."
"How do you know all this?" asked the Chief Commissioner.
"Because I've been in the room," said T. X. simply, "having by an
underhand trick succeeded in gaining the misplaced confidence of
Kara's housekeeper, who by the way" - he turned round to his desk
and scribbled a name on the blotting-pad - "will be discharged
to-morrow and must be found a place."
"Is there any -er -?" began the Chief.
"Funny business?" interrupted T. X., "not a bit. House and man
are quite normal save for these eccentricities. He has announced
his intention of spending three months of the year in England and
nine months abroad. He is very rich, has no relations, and has a
passion for power."
"Then he'll be hung," said the Chief, rising.
"I doubt it," said the other, "people with lots of money seldom
get hung. You only get hung for wanting money."
"Then you're in some danger, T. X.," smiled the Chief, "for
according to my account you're always more or less broke."
"A genial libel," said T. X., "but talking about people being
broke, I saw John Lexman to-day - you know him!"
The Chief Commissioner nodded.
"I've an idea he's rather hit for money. He was in that Roumanian
gold swindle, and by his general gloom, which only comes to a man
when he's in love (and he can't possibly be in love since he's
married) or when he's in debt, I fear that he is still feeling the
effect of that rosy adventure."
A telephone bell in the corner of the room rang sharply, and T. X.
picked up the receiver. He listened intently.
"A trunk call," he said over his shoulder to the departing
commissioner, "it may be something interesting."
A little pause; then a hoarse voice spoke to him. "Is that you,
T. X.?"
"That's me," said the Assistant Commissioner, commonly.
"It's John Lexman speaking."
"I shouldn't have recognized your voice," said T. X., "what is
wrong with you, John, can't you get your plot to went?"
"I want you to come down here at once," said the voice urgently,
and even over the telephone T. X. recognized the distress. "I
have shot a man, killed him!"
T. X. gasped.
"Good Lord," he said, "you are a silly ass!" _
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