Assistant Commissioner of Police T. X. Meredith did not occupyoffices in New Scotland Yard. It is the peculiarity of publicoffices that they are planned with the idea of supplying themargin of space above all requirements and that on theircompletion they are found wholly inadequate to house the variousdepartments which mysteriously come into progress coincident withthe building operations.

　　"T. X.," as he was known by the police forces of the world, had abig suite of offices in Whitehall. The house was an old onefacing the Board of Trade and the inscription on the ancient doortold passers-by that this was the "Public Prosecutor, SpecialBranch."The duties of T. X. were multifarious. People said of him - andlike most public gossip, this was probably untrue - that he wasthe head of the "illegal" department of Scotland Yard. If bychance you lost the keys of your safe, T. X. could supply you (sopopular rumour ran) with a burglar who would open that safe inhalf an hour.

　　If there dwelt in England a notorious individual against whom thepolice could collect no scintilla of evidence to justify aprosecution, and if it was necessary for the good of the communitythat that person should be deported, it was T. X. who arrested theobnoxious person, hustled him into a cab and did not loose hishold upon his victim until he had landed him on the indignantshores of an otherwise friendly power.

　　It is very certain that when the minister of a tiny power whichshall be nameless was suddenly recalled by his government andbrought to trial in his native land for putting into circulationspurious bonds, it was somebody from the department which T. X.

　　controlled, who burgled His Excellency's house, burnt the locksfrom his safe and secured the necessary incriminating evidence.

　　I say it is fairly certain and here I am merely voicing theopinion of very knowledgeable people indeed, heads of publicdepartments who speak behind their hands, mysteriousunder-secretaries of state who discuss things in whispers in theremote corners of their clubrooms and the more frank views ofAmerican correspondents who had no hesitation in putting thoseviews into print for the benefit of their readers.

　　That T. X. had a more legitimate occupation we know, for it wasthat flippant man whose outrageous comment on the Home OfficeAdministration is popularly supposed to have sent one HomeSecretary to his grave, who traced the Deptford murderers througha labyrinth of perjury and who brought to book Sir Julius Waglitethough he had covered his trail of defalcation through the balancesheets of thirty-four companies.

　　On the night of March 3rd, T. X. sat in his inner officeinterviewing a disconsolate inspector of metropolitan police,named Mansus.

　　In appearance T. X. conveyed the impression of extreme youth, forhis face was almost boyish and it was only when you looked at himclosely and saw the little creases about his eyes, the setting ofhis 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 writtena slight volume of "Woodland Lyrics," the mention of which at thislater stage was sufficient to make him feel violently unhappy.

　　In manner he was tactful but persistent, his language was at timesmarked by a violent extravagance and he had had the distinction ofhaving provoked, by certain correspondence which had seen thelight, the comment of a former Home Secretary that "it wasunfortunate that Mr. Meredith did not take his position with theseriousness which was expected from a public official."His language was, as I say, under great provocation, violent andunusual. He had a trick of using words which never were on landor sea, and illustrating his instruction or his admonition withthe 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 achair at the other side of his desk.

　　"But, T. X.," protested the Inspector, "there was nothing to befound."It was the outrageous practice of Mr. Meredith to insist upon hisassociates calling him by his initials, a practice which had earntdisapproval 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 tostart back in alarm.

　　"Listen," said T. X., grasping an ivory paperknife savagely in hishand and tapping his blotting-pad to emphasize his words, "you'rea pie!""I'm a policeman," said the other patiently.

　　"A policeman!" exclaimed the exasperated T. X. "You're worse thana pie, you're a slud! I'm afraid I shall never make a detectiveof you," he shook his head sorrowfully at the smiling Mansus whohad 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 aBaby with the grubbiness of a County Parson - you ought to be inthe choir."At this outrageous insult Mr. Mansus was silent; what he mighthave said, or what further provocation he might have received maybe never known, for at that moment, the Chief himself walked in.

　　The Chief of the Police in these days was a grey man, rathertired, with a hawk nose and deep eyes that glared under shaggyeyebrows and he was a terror to all men of his department save toT. 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 friendKara?"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 donot perform miracles in this department, Sir George, nor can wepick 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 israther absurd to talk about one's best when you know so little ofwhat you want."Sir George dropped heavily into the arm-chair, and stretched outhis long thin legs.

　　"What I want," he said, looking up at the ceiling and putting hishands together, "is to discover something about one RemingtonKara, a wealthy Greek who has taken a house in Cadogan Square, whohas no particular position in London society and therefore has noreason for coming here, who openly expresses his detestation ofthe climate, who has a magnificent estate in some wild place inthe Balkans, who is an excellent horseman, a magnificent shot anda passable aviator."T. X. nodded to Mansus and with something of gratitude in his eyesthe inspector took his leave.

　　"Now Mansus has departed," said T. X., sitting himself on the edgeof his desk and selecting with great care a cigarette from thecase he took from his pocket, "let me know something of the reasonfor 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," hesaid. "That is to say I want to know a great deal about abnormalpeople. We have had an application from him," he went on, "whichis rather unusual. Apparently he is in fear of his life from somecause or other and wants to know if he can have a privatetelephone connection between his house and the central office. Wetold him that he could always get the nearest Police Station onthe 'phone, but that doesn't satisfy him. He has made bad friendswith some gentleman of his own country who sooner or later, hethinks, will cut his throat."T. X. nodded.

　　"All this I know," he said patiently, "if you will further unfoldthe 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 SouthLondon and I don't want a repetition of that sort of thing. Ifpeople want to have blood feuds, let them take them outside themetropolitan area.""By all means," said T. X., "let them. Personally, I don't carewhere they go. But if that is the extent of your information Ican supplement it. He has had extensive alterations made to thehouse he bought in Cadogan Square; the room in which he lives ispractically 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 roofare reinforced concrete, there is one door which in addition toits ordinary lock is closed by a sort of steel latch which he letsfall when he retires for the night and which he opens himselfpersonally in the morning. The window is unreachable, there areno communicating doors, and altogether the room is planned tostand a siege."The Chief Commissioner was interested.

　　"Any more?" he asked.

　　"Let me think," said T. X., looking up at the ceiling. "Yes, theinterior of his room is plainly furnished, there is a bigfireplace, rather an ornate bed, a steel safe built into the walland visible from its outer side to the policeman whose beat is inthat neighborhood.""How do you know all this?" asked the Chief Commissioner.

　　"Because I've been in the room," said T. X. simply, "having by anunderhand trick succeeded in gaining the misplaced confidence ofKara's housekeeper, who by the way" - he turned round to his deskand scribbled a name on the blotting-pad - "will be dischargedto-morrow and must be found a place.""Is there any -er -?" began the Chief.

　　"Funny business?" interrupted T. X., "not a bit. House and manare quite normal save for these eccentricities. He has announcedhis intention of spending three months of the year in England andnine months abroad. He is very rich, has no relations, and has apassion for power.""Then he'll be hung," said the Chief, rising.

　　"I doubt it," said the other, "people with lots of money seldomget hung. You only get hung for wanting money.""Then you're in some danger, T. X.," smiled the Chief, "foraccording to my account you're always more or less broke.""A genial libel," said T. X., "but talking about people beingbroke, 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 Roumaniangold swindle, and by his general gloom, which only comes to a manwhen he's in love (and he can't possibly be in love since he'smarried) or when he's in debt, I fear that he is still feeling theeffect 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 departingcommissioner, "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 iswrong 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. "Ihave shot a man, killed him!"T. X. gasped.

　　"Good Lord," he said, "you are a silly ass!"