his mobile, reflecting that he was sure to get a dressing down for this from Carmichael later in the day.
“But he probably would have been just as upset if I hadn’t,” he murmured to himself, and turned his attention to finding a taxi. He had heard of Carmichael, of course, as the chief inspector and his nearly miraculous clear rate was often spoken of reverently at the Yard, but last night had been Davies’s first personal encounter with him. The meeting, in his opinion, had hardly been a favorable one, and he felt as though he would forever be associated in Carmichael’s mind with the injury of a favorite sergeant. But there was no help for that, and he could only hope that the circumstance would not harm his career.
He met Colin James at 1 Lombard Street, an elegant establishment in the City and a favorite haunt of the investigator’s, whom the atmosphere in 1 Lombard’s dining room fit like a glove. James was a man who enjoyed his food. In fact, James enjoyed most things in life with gusto, and there could hardly have been a greater contrast between Davies’s quiet manner and the robust enthusiasm of James.
He was a big man who worked to keep his figure and had thus far succeeded, with only the shadow of a bulge at his waistline. At forty-two, his hairline had receded sharply and in consequence he wore the fair hair that was left him clipped very short against his skull. He welcomed Davies eagerly, his gray eyes twinkling with good humor, and waved him into the chair opposite his own at the table.
Davies sat down and immediately felt the tension begin to ebb out of him. He was exceedingly glad James had offered to take him to lunch; an hour spent in James’s comfortable, elegant world was just what he needed.
“Try this,” James urged, pouring from the bottle of white wine that stood ready in a cooler. “It’s a new discovery of mine, and really quite excellent, considering its price.”
Davies raised a brow. “Not your usual extravagance, I take it?”
“Not a bit of it, my dear man,” said James, setting the bottle back in the cooler and raising his own glass. “Cheap, in a word, positively cheap. Here’s to confounding the criminals!”
Davies lifted his glass to the toast and tasted the wine, a light, crisp draught on his palate.
“Very good,” he pronounced, though he knew James hardly needed his opinion.
“Yes, I thought you’d like it.” James was eyeing him narrowly; he was a keenly observant man. “You don’t look quite as alert as usual,” he said. “Did you and Mrs. Davies overindulge last night? And it a school night, too.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.
“Not exactly.” Davies found himself curiously reluctant to broach the subject he had come about. “Something rather disturbing happened last night. Sergeant Gibbons was taken to hospital and had emergency surgery. He’d been shot, you see.”
The good humor was instantly wiped from James’s face and his eyes went steely cold.
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” he said. “Will he recover?”
“Early days, but they believe so,” answered Davies. “It was touch-and-go last night, though.”
James shook his head and leaned back. “I rather wondered why I was seeing you today,” he said. “I had thought perhaps you were checking up on young Gibbons’s progress, and I was prepared to issue a conservatively glowing report. I never imagined anything had happened to the lad.” He paused for a moment, reaching for his glass. “I expect,” he added, “you want to know if I think the Haverford case could be connected with this attack?”
“Yes,” answered Davies with a smile. He was used to being anticipated by James and had come to rather enjoy it. “And, more than that, I want to know if he told you where he was going when you parted yesterday.”
James looked puzzled. “But I thought you said Gibbons was going to be all right?” he asked. “Surely if that’s the case, he should be awake
“But he probably would have been just as upset if I hadn’t,” he murmured to himself, and turned his attention to finding a taxi. He had heard of Carmichael, of course, as the chief inspector and his nearly miraculous clear rate was often spoken of reverently at the Yard, but last night had been Davies’s first personal encounter with him. The meeting, in his opinion, had hardly been a favorable one, and he felt as though he would forever be associated in Carmichael’s mind with the injury of a favorite sergeant. But there was no help for that, and he could only hope that the circumstance would not harm his career.
He met Colin James at 1 Lombard Street, an elegant establishment in the City and a favorite haunt of the investigator’s, whom the atmosphere in 1 Lombard’s dining room fit like a glove. James was a man who enjoyed his food. In fact, James enjoyed most things in life with gusto, and there could hardly have been a greater contrast between Davies’s quiet manner and the robust enthusiasm of James.
He was a big man who worked to keep his figure and had thus far succeeded, with only the shadow of a bulge at his waistline. At forty-two, his hairline had receded sharply and in consequence he wore the fair hair that was left him clipped very short against his skull. He welcomed Davies eagerly, his gray eyes twinkling with good humor, and waved him into the chair opposite his own at the table.
Davies sat down and immediately felt the tension begin to ebb out of him. He was exceedingly glad James had offered to take him to lunch; an hour spent in James’s comfortable, elegant world was just what he needed.
“Try this,” James urged, pouring from the bottle of white wine that stood ready in a cooler. “It’s a new discovery of mine, and really quite excellent, considering its price.”
Davies raised a brow. “Not your usual extravagance, I take it?”
“Not a bit of it, my dear man,” said James, setting the bottle back in the cooler and raising his own glass. “Cheap, in a word, positively cheap. Here’s to confounding the criminals!”
Davies lifted his glass to the toast and tasted the wine, a light, crisp draught on his palate.
“Very good,” he pronounced, though he knew James hardly needed his opinion.
“Yes, I thought you’d like it.” James was eyeing him narrowly; he was a keenly observant man. “You don’t look quite as alert as usual,” he said. “Did you and Mrs. Davies overindulge last night? And it a school night, too.” He shook his head in mock disapproval.
“Not exactly.” Davies found himself curiously reluctant to broach the subject he had come about. “Something rather disturbing happened last night. Sergeant Gibbons was taken to hospital and had emergency surgery. He’d been shot, you see.”
The good humor was instantly wiped from James’s face and his eyes went steely cold.
“I’m very sorry to hear it,” he said. “Will he recover?”
“Early days, but they believe so,” answered Davies. “It was touch-and-go last night, though.”
James shook his head and leaned back. “I rather wondered why I was seeing you today,” he said. “I had thought perhaps you were checking up on young Gibbons’s progress, and I was prepared to issue a conservatively glowing report. I never imagined anything had happened to the lad.” He paused for a moment, reaching for his glass. “I expect,” he added, “you want to know if I think the Haverford case could be connected with this attack?”
“Yes,” answered Davies with a smile. He was used to being anticipated by James and had come to rather enjoy it. “And, more than that, I want to know if he told you where he was going when you parted yesterday.”
James looked puzzled. “But I thought you said Gibbons was going to be all right?” he asked. “Surely if that’s the case, he should be awake
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