‘Obviously,’ he said, ‘there’s a bit of friction and frustration; it’s natural between professionals and amateurs, but we could never police the country areas in the way that they do – they’ve got what amounts to a complete Secret Service out there in the cotils – and their, ah, summary way of sorting out minor felonies saves us an enormous amount of time and trouble. Every time one of my officers has to testify in court I have to change the whole bloody duty-roster, do you realize that? But I can’t interfere in Parish affairs without being asked, any more than Scotland Yard can send men down to a country murder until the local flatfoots admit they’re baffled. Having trodden all over the evidence first,’ he added bitterly.

Then I told him about our proposed vigilante scheme, carefully omitting to mention our first, abortive try. His brow darkened a bit but he admitted that, there again, it wasn’t his business.

‘Unless, of course,’ he said distinctly, ‘anyone was foolish enough to carry weapons on such an expedition.’

We raised hands in horror at the very thought.

Then I broached the real subject of our visit: what we were going to do that night – and what we wanted him to do about it. He laughed at first, then he scowled, then he went a bit purple and raised his voice. I cannot truthfully say that he raved, but he certainly threw himself about a goodish bit. I just went on remorselessly reiterating the logic of the plan, the trifling harm it could do, the possible prophylactic effect, the willingness of the Honorary Police to cooperate if he would join in, the credit which would redound to his Force. He began to see reason; he was not really an unimaginative man. He stuck at one thing, however; he had to have a better indemnity for himself. It was, after all, his career, you understand.

That was when George surprised me – not for the first time.

‘Use your phone?’ he asked. ‘Thanks. Hullo? No, not his secretary, thanks. No, nor his aide-de-camp. Just say it’s George Breakspear and that it’s urgent. What? Ah, hello, Porky, sorry to wake you up, ha ha; look, you remember that nonsense I told you we were thinking of trying on? Well, Mortdecai’s got a man over who understands all about such rubbish and we’re all set but the Commander of Detectives here quite naturally feels he needs a bit of higher clearance. Would you have a word with him?’

He had a word with him. The Commander did not actually stand to attention but one felt that, had he been alone, he might have done so. His end of the conversation consisted of seventeen ‘yessirs’, eight ‘of course, sirs’ and three ‘thank you, sirs’. Then he hung up the telephone and looked at us sternly.