The Lazy Detective

I

“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.