The Detective Wore Silk Drawers

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Sergeant Cribb sat with his pint of Bass East India moodily watching the froth disperse. A glass at the Ratcatcher, supped in solitude after work, was his usual antidote for a hard day. Murder or arson, rape or robbery, he would seldom allow duty to break the routine. At the bar he was recognized as a regular. The ale was drawn for him between entry, bowing under a low beam and arrival at the counter. He would then produce twopence, nod to Ada and look about for an empty table. For twenty minutes or more he was anonymous. The station knew where he was, all right-poor bobbies they’d have been if they hadn’t-but heaven help the orderly who disturbed him now.

“Punch cartoon coppers.” That was typical of Jowett. A calculated insult, delivered with a curl of the lip, and no doubt who was meant. Sitting there under his halo of pipe smoke, pontificating about the new style of detective. Cribb had known this would happen as soon as rumours began to emanate from the Yard about the new Director’s ideas. If one thing was predictable in these uncertain times, it was that Inspector Jowett would embrace the current orthodoxy.

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