Free The Case Against Paul Raeburn by John Creasey Page A

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?”
    “’And some, 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,