He opened the clothes cupboard cleverly concealed behind the paneling and hung up his London-tailored overcoat. His reflection in the full-length door mirror restored his good humor. The image before him was indeed something to be regarded with unrestrained approval: a tall, straight-backed figure, glossy black hair with a chiseled parting, commanding eyes, a neatly clipped military mustache, and a complexion glowing with health and good living. And to set. it off, the immaculate fit of the police uniform, its buttons winking and gleaming, the creases lethal, and the shoes, black mirrors. At forty-two years old he looked more like a successful stockbroker than a superintendent of police controlling an area of some thirty-eight square miles and 100,000 inhabitants.
The cupboard door closed and became once again part of the wall paneling. Something caught his eye. On his desk, tucked into the corner of the blotting pad, an envelope. The typing, in red capitals, said "Strictly Private and Confidential". He slit it open with his stainless-steel paper knife, slipped on his horn-rimmed glasses, and read it. His eyes hardened. He dropped down into his chair and read it again.
It was trouble. A complaint against one of his officers, Detective Inspector Frost.
He thudded the satin mahogany with a clenched fist. Damn the man; nothing but trouble from the start. He'd have him out of the division tomorrow if he could. He looked at his watch. Nearly time for the briefing meeting; Frost would have to wait. The letter was refolded along its original creases, replaced in the envelope, and locked in the top right-hand drawer of his desk.