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isn’t it? A
sgian-dubh
? Isn’t a black knife meant to be worn in a
boot or long stocking?”
“Yes, sir,” he said through clenched teeth. “But that’s only
good if you’re wearing a kilt. Not much use to me if I’ve got to
fumble.”
“And the hip is better?” Battle said.
Doyle couldn’t tell from the inspector’s tone what he thought.
Knives were against regulations. So was his Webley, for that mat-
ter. “Not the way the uniform’s designed, no sir.” He chewed
over how best to say this, then just came out with it. “I modified
the coat. Picked the stitching of the pocket.”
“Ah. Transformed it into a slit then.” Battle cocked his head.
“So you could reach your blade without having to unbutton your
coat.”
“That’s right, sir.” He’d done the same with the right, too,
the better to get at his truncheon in its long trouser pocket. In
his opinion, whoever’d designed this uniform ought to be hung.
Too many buttons, and except for his bull’s-eye—his policeman’s
brass lantern which sported one huge lens that focused light to a
tight beam and which could be strapped to a belt—he was forced
to cart his cuffs, rattle, keys, and snips in pockets. By the time he
might pull his truncheon or rattle, any self-respecting criminal
would be long gone.
“Very resourceful, Constable.” Kramer showed a sliver of a
smile that revealed the man’s blue grub of a tongue. “Black dog,
black knife . . . your young man’s full of surprises, Battle. Scal-
loped filework here is first-rate. Wicked sharp. Something your
father bequeathed, Doyle?”
Yeah, you could say that.
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, quite the useful tool.” Handing the knife to Meme,
