The lazy detective

"And remember, Labar, you don't bluff me." The Chief Constable, who had been through the game himself, tapped the string of figures that lay upon his desk with an aggressive forefinger. "You're lazy--damned lazy. If things don't clear up in your division in the next month or so you can count on something happening. That's all. Think it over."

"Thank you, sir," said the other, with the smooth suavity of a man who had received a compliment, and swung on velvet toes from the room.

After all, what was the use of arguing? Divisional Detective Inspector Labar was under no illusions about himself. He was lazy. All Scotland Yard knew it. Particularly did Winter, Chief Constable of the Criminal Investigation Department know it, for in some sort Labar was a protégé of his. Yet that shrewd old veteran reckoned that even the quality of indolence had its uses. It could make a brilliant man concentrate fiercely on his work, in order to save time for his own purposes. The amount of time taken by a detective on an individual job is largely a matter on which his superiors must accept his word. Some men slog laboriously, while others get their results quickly. In minor positions there is always someone around to see that the work is done.

All this, however, does not apply in the same degree to a detective inspector. Such a one gives, more often than he receives, orders. As an executive Labar felt himself a failure. Well, well, a man must have a little time for golf.

A heavy hand fell with mathematical accuracy between his shoulder blades, and he flung round with a delicate shudder.

"One of these days, Moreland, someone's going to slap you hard on the wrist, slog you on the jaw, and kick you where it hurts most. You're too boisterous for the society of gentlemen."

Moreland, of the Flying Squad, grinned cheerfully. "Behold the infant phenomenon of Grape Street, as the apostle of gloom," he said, walking round Labar with mock awe. "Behold his shiny boots and well-creased trousers, and mark his creased forehead and frowning countenance. No, don't speak. Let me apply my well-known powers of deduction." He put his hand to his brow. "He has--yes he has been on the carpet."

A slow rueful smile broke on Labar's face. "You guessed it," he said. "If you want promotion there's the job of divisional inspector at Grape Street liable to be vacant some time. Better write out your application."

Moreland's levity vanished. "The old man's bitten you as bad as that? Cheer up, and pull yourself together. Come and tell papa all about it." He pulled Labar into an adjoining room, adjusted himself on a tall stool and lit a pipe. "Shoot," he ordered.

Harry Labar shrugged his shoulders. "There's nothing to it," he declared. "Winter says things are too loose in the division. I've got to tighten them up, or----"

"The shelf, eh?" Moreland eyed his friend whimsically. "That'll be a new record for you. The youngest man to be promoted divisional inspector, and the youngest divisional inspector to retire. Well, why don't you tighten them up?"

"Blah, all blah. Easy talk. Look here, Moreland, my percentages of unsolved crime are up--but you know why. Curse it all, Winter knows as well as I do that Larry Hughes is operating in my district. No one, not even the old man himself, has ever pinned anything to Larry. I'm to be the goat. Why didn't they give me an easy division when they promoted me, instead of the wealthiest in London, infested by all the slickest crooks in the world? What right has the old man to be sore at me?"