Accordingly, he marched out through the main office and on to the rarified corridor where Galsworth had his office.
“Ah, Harris,” said Galsworth, looking up from whatever he was reading. It might have been a report, although Harris’s theory was that no real work ever passed the superintendent’s desk. Only that could explain its tidiness. “Got a bit of a knotty problem for you. What do you know about a firm called Silver and Grey?”
“They undertake private inquiries, sir,” Harris said warily, for though he disapproved of the firm’s existence on principle, he actually quite liked them in person.
And they had been useful in the past. Sort of.
“Honestly? Who the devil are they?”
“I have found them to be honest,” Harris said carefully. “It’s something of a side interest for Grey, who’s quite a magnate of the shipping world, amongst other things.”
“And the woman?”
“What about her, sir?” If Galsworth didn’t already know, Harris was not about to tell him that Constance Silver was a high-class madam.
“What’s her background?” Galsworth demanded. “How does she come to be married to a fellow like Grey?”
“She is very beautiful, sir,” Harris said uncomfortably.
Galsworth scowled. “Is she, by God? I have reason to doubt her honesty.”
Harris could not imagine them ever meeting. “You do, sir? In what way?”
“She’s harassing a friend of mine—poor fellow’s only just buried his wife and came home to find this Grey woman kneeling in front of his desk, actually breaking into a drawer with a lockpick! Outrageous, Harris!”
“Indeed it is, sir,” said Harris, just as if he hadn’t done similar things himself. The trouble with Galsworth was that he was too far removed from the investigation of criminals.
“I want you to go and have a word with her,” Galsworth. “Frighten her off. Threaten her with arrest and prosecution. Can’t have her harassing decent gentlemen in mourning, can we?”
Certainly not when they’re friends of yours, Harris thought cynically. Aloud he said, “Very well, sir.”
“Might warn the husband what she’s up to, too. Daresay he wouldn’t stand for it.”
Harris, who had a sudden urge to laugh, coughed to cover the fact. “I daresay he wouldn’t, sir.”
“Well, off you go, then. Make it your priority, Harris. Do it now.”
It was already five o’clock and it was his eldest’s birthday.
“Go yourself, mind,” Galsworth warned. “I want her to know the full force of the law is watching her. She’s not to go near Digby Montague or his house, ever again. Understood?”
“Perfectly, sir,” Harris said calmly, and walked smartly out of theoffice. He’d do it too, but not at the expense of his son’s birthday tea. He was going home. Tomorrow morning, he might let Silver and Grey laugh at him.
Returning to his office, he found Flynn still there.
“What do you know about a fellow called Digby Montague?”
Flynn thought, tapping a pencil against his cheek. “Married to the Italian opera singer, Caterina di Ripoli. Or he was. She died last week.”
“Foul play?” Harris asked.
“No, weak heart, apparently.”
“Then what the devil are Silver and Grey doing poking around the widower’s house?”
Flynn’s eyebrows flew up. “You think there’s more to her death, then?”
“Silver and Grey would appear to think so. Or someone’s paid them to entertain the idea. And someone else, presumably the husband, has pulled the ‘old boys’ strings to have them seen off.”
