to go about the Yard looking as if nothing was the matter, but Roger managed it.
He did not go to the inquest on Tony Brown, at which the verdict was Death by Misadventure. Eve’s evidence of Brown’s visit made splash headlines in several newspapers. He and Eve, Roger thought ruefully, were sharing press prominence. He checked every incident, everything new and old about Halliwell, his arson and frauds, and his associates; he checked the Raeburn manage closely; he had every stage of Eve Franklin’s life checked, and especially her recent activities. Nothing helped. Deliberately, he kept away from Tony Brown’s sister, but he had her watched, and he kept a sergeant at work on Brown’s activities.
Turnbull put in every spare minute he could on the case. Mark Lessing studied every report, and spotted nothing new.
Two days after the inquest, Roger was dealing with some routine work when the door was flung open.
“What’s all the hurry?” Eddie Day demanded, and when he saw Turnbull, he sniffed. “
Turnbull grinned at him as he strode across to Roger, and announced: “We’ve got a line.”
The way Roger’s heart pounded told how vitally important this case was to him; it was not only a personal challenge, with his future at stake, but at the back of his mind was fear of the great damage Raeburn was already capable of doing through his newspapers and with his money.
“It’s the man we saw coming out of Eve’s house when we called,” Turnbull went on. “We’ve got tabs on him at last. His name’s Tenby, and he’s got a record. How about that?”
“What’s he been in for?” Eddie’s curiosity overcame his annoyance.
“Counterfeiting, seven years ago. Since then he’s been fined a few times for passing betting slips. He was broke until a few months ago, but recently he’s started throwing money about, and he’s supposed to have a taste for practical jokes. Shall I have a go at him, or will you?”
“Who found him?” asked Roger.
“I’ve been through twenty thousand photographs in Records, and came across him there,” said Turnbull. “The minute I recognised him, I put Symes on to make a few inquiries, and I’ve just had his report.”
“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
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.
