Sir Frederic Wilberforce Swales. Harley tipped his hat back in surprise.
‘Bugger me!’
The General kept his face set in mild consternation as he released a small aromatic cloud of pipe smoke up to the ceiling.
Quigg glanced at Swales, then at the Chief Inspector, and then back at Swales, trying to ascertain the mood of his two superiors.
Harley shook his head in disbelief.
‘ FW? Don’t tell me they made you the new Commissioner.’
This was too much for Quigg, who now launched himself across the room and started to bundle Harley out of the door.
‘ Wait! ’ roared General Swales.
He slowly removed his pipe and placed it in a large onyx ashtray on the desk. ‘At ease, Inspector,’ he said, lowering his voice with a small nod at the policeman. ‘Bring him back, if you would.’
‘With respect, Sir Frederic—’ began Quigg.
‘ Sir Frederic?’ said Harley. ‘Impressive!’
Quigg turned to Harley, incredulous at his impertinence. He took a moment to compose himself.
‘With respect, sir, this man … this man is an impudent scoundrel, with Bolshevik tendencies. You’ll get nothing but insolence from him. He has set himself up as some kind of champion of—’
Swales put his finger up to silence Quigg.
‘With respect to you , Detective Inspector, I don’t recognize your rather defamatory description at all. I know this man as Corporal George Harley DCM. That’s the “Distinguished Conduct Medal” if you’re not au fait with the terminology—a superior decoration awarded to this particular soldier for—amongst other things—rescuing three wounded comrades during a trench-raiding sortie; with complete disregard for his own safety. One of those wounded comrades, I might add, is now sitting before you as your new Commissioner. And, alas, that wasn’t the only opportunity this “impudent scoundrel” had of saving my life. My experience of Mr. George Harley, Detective Inspector …’ Swales consulted a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. ‘… Quigg , is of a man of integrity and intelligence. And if certain reports are to be believed, those are two qualities that the Metropolitan Police Force could do with holding in a little higher regard.’
Harley diplomatically hid his smirk behind a quick rub of his chin.
‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ continued Swales, turning to Quigg’s superior. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the exclusive use of your office for twenty minutes or so—I have a little confidential business with Harley here.’
‘Of course, Sir Frederic,’ said the Chief Inspector, ushering the astonished Quigg towards the door. ‘Come on, man! You heard the Commissioner—stop dallying about!’
Once they were alone Swales stood up and offered his hand across the table, beaming at Harley.
‘George Harley—my God! How long has it been?’
‘Seven years—or there abouts.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Sir? So it’s sir now, is it? In front of the ranks it’s FW this and FW that.’
‘Yeah, well I’m sorry about that—it was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘I mean— sir —not exactly living up to your reputation now, are you George? How did he put it? Bolshevik tendencies , wasn’t it?’
‘Well,’ chuckled Harley. ‘As you well know, you’ve earned my respect.’
‘And you mine George, and you mine. So since we’re alone, let’s revert to FW, shall we? I like it—it’s … nostalgic . Now, sit down man. Sit! Sit! One thing I’ve learnt in my brief term as Police Commissioner,’ continued the General, beginning to hunt through the desk drawers, ‘is that one can usually find a … Ah—here we are!’ He produced a bottle of Dewar’s and two glasses. ‘Scotch?’
‘A small one,’ said Harley, pulling up a chair.
‘To the Thirteenth Battalion!’
‘The Thirteenth!’
Swales savoured his mouthful of whisky, making his generous moustache dance a little, and then relaxed back into his chair.
‘I
‘Bugger me!’
The General kept his face set in mild consternation as he released a small aromatic cloud of pipe smoke up to the ceiling.
Quigg glanced at Swales, then at the Chief Inspector, and then back at Swales, trying to ascertain the mood of his two superiors.
Harley shook his head in disbelief.
‘ FW? Don’t tell me they made you the new Commissioner.’
This was too much for Quigg, who now launched himself across the room and started to bundle Harley out of the door.
‘ Wait! ’ roared General Swales.
He slowly removed his pipe and placed it in a large onyx ashtray on the desk. ‘At ease, Inspector,’ he said, lowering his voice with a small nod at the policeman. ‘Bring him back, if you would.’
‘With respect, Sir Frederic—’ began Quigg.
‘ Sir Frederic?’ said Harley. ‘Impressive!’
Quigg turned to Harley, incredulous at his impertinence. He took a moment to compose himself.
‘With respect, sir, this man … this man is an impudent scoundrel, with Bolshevik tendencies. You’ll get nothing but insolence from him. He has set himself up as some kind of champion of—’
Swales put his finger up to silence Quigg.
‘With respect to you , Detective Inspector, I don’t recognize your rather defamatory description at all. I know this man as Corporal George Harley DCM. That’s the “Distinguished Conduct Medal” if you’re not au fait with the terminology—a superior decoration awarded to this particular soldier for—amongst other things—rescuing three wounded comrades during a trench-raiding sortie; with complete disregard for his own safety. One of those wounded comrades, I might add, is now sitting before you as your new Commissioner. And, alas, that wasn’t the only opportunity this “impudent scoundrel” had of saving my life. My experience of Mr. George Harley, Detective Inspector …’ Swales consulted a piece of paper on the desk in front of him. ‘… Quigg , is of a man of integrity and intelligence. And if certain reports are to be believed, those are two qualities that the Metropolitan Police Force could do with holding in a little higher regard.’
Harley diplomatically hid his smirk behind a quick rub of his chin.
‘Now, Chief Inspector,’ continued Swales, turning to Quigg’s superior. ‘If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like the exclusive use of your office for twenty minutes or so—I have a little confidential business with Harley here.’
‘Of course, Sir Frederic,’ said the Chief Inspector, ushering the astonished Quigg towards the door. ‘Come on, man! You heard the Commissioner—stop dallying about!’
Once they were alone Swales stood up and offered his hand across the table, beaming at Harley.
‘George Harley—my God! How long has it been?’
‘Seven years—or there abouts.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m afraid so, sir.’
‘Sir? So it’s sir now, is it? In front of the ranks it’s FW this and FW that.’
‘Yeah, well I’m sorry about that—it was a bit of a shock, that’s all.’
‘I mean— sir —not exactly living up to your reputation now, are you George? How did he put it? Bolshevik tendencies , wasn’t it?’
‘Well,’ chuckled Harley. ‘As you well know, you’ve earned my respect.’
‘And you mine George, and you mine. So since we’re alone, let’s revert to FW, shall we? I like it—it’s … nostalgic . Now, sit down man. Sit! Sit! One thing I’ve learnt in my brief term as Police Commissioner,’ continued the General, beginning to hunt through the desk drawers, ‘is that one can usually find a … Ah—here we are!’ He produced a bottle of Dewar’s and two glasses. ‘Scotch?’
‘A small one,’ said Harley, pulling up a chair.
‘To the Thirteenth Battalion!’
‘The Thirteenth!’
Swales savoured his mouthful of whisky, making his generous moustache dance a little, and then relaxed back into his chair.
‘I
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