Dover Strikes Again

by Joyce Porter

  ‘Ah,’ said Dover, beginning to relax, ‘now you’re asking, aren’t you?’

  ‘I imagine you’ve made a good few enemies in your time,’ prompted the superintendent dryly.

  Dover preened himself. ‘Hundreds. Thousands, probably. It’s the penalty you have to pay for being successful. Why, half the crooks behind bars at this very moment are there because of me. And then there are all the ones who’ve done their time. Oh, the country must be swarming with villains who’ve got a grudge against me. You can’t really blame them,’ he added with phoney generosity. ‘If it hadn’t been for me outwitting ’em, they’d be walking around free as air.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow dubiously. ‘So you think it could be a bit of your past catching up with you?’

  ‘I wish I had a pound for every time I’ve been threatened with vengeance, by golly I do! I’d be a rich man now, I can tell you.’

  MacGregor listened with wide-eyed incredulity. During his association with the chief inspector — which was admittedly nothing like as long as it felt – you could number his successful cases on the fingers of one hand. Crooks who could claim that they’d been outwitted by Dover must be very few and far between. Of course, he had brought a few cases to a satisfactory conclusion but that only proved that there were some baddies who were even more thick-headed than he was. Oh, yes – MacGregor repressed a wicked grin – and there was that poor devil of a murderer who was so exasperated by Dover’s bumbling inefficiency that he’d actually confessed to put an end to it.

  MacGregor surfaced from his scurrilous reminiscences to find that Superintendent Underbarrow was looking at him. ‘Fm sorry, sir. Did you say something?’

  ‘I was just wondering if you could help us out with a few names, sergeant.’

  ‘Names, sir? Oh,’ – MacGregor squirmed in some embarrassment – ‘well, not offhand, sir.’

  ‘Most of ’em were before his time!’ snapped Dover before the superintendent could give expression to his evident surprise.

  ‘Yes, come to think of it, I suppose they would be.’ Superintendent Underbarrow scratched his chin thoughtfully. ‘Well, we’ll look into that aspect of it, of course, but I’d be surprised if we found any of your old sparring partners in Sully Martin. There aren’t many strangers knocking around and none of the local people have ever been mixed up in serious crimes, as far as I know. I suppose’ – he looked questioningly at Dover – ‘you’d recognize the fellow if you’d ever seen him before?’

  ‘Never forget a face,’ bragged Dover.

  Superintendent Underbarrow leaned back against the foot of the bed. ‘I must say I’d have thought we’d have done a bit better to start looking nearer home.’

  Dover’s heart missed a beat. Nearer home? God, why hadn’t he thought of that before? He went cold as he thought of the risks he’d been running. Talk about nursing a viper in your bosom! Of all the ungrateful young bastards!

  Superintendent Underbarrow was rather disconcerted to find that Dover was sliding down the bed towards him, pulling some very peculiar faces as he did so.

  ‘Get rid of him!’ mouthed Dover.

  ‘What?’

  Dover flapped his hands wildly and then tried to enjoin silence by placing one fat finger warningly across his lips.

  MacGregor, intrigued by the soft scuttlings going on behind him, turned round.

  Dover greeted him with a cheery smile. ‘Ah, sergeant,’ he said quickly, trying to look unconcerned, ‘there’s – er – something I want you to do for me.’

  ‘What’s that, sir?’

  The cheery smile ripened as Dover endeavoured to think of something. ‘Mrs Boyle’s handbag!’ he gasped desperately as he blurted out the first thing that came into his head.

  ‘Mrs Boyle’s handbag, sir?’

  ‘That’s right, sergeant.’

  MacGregor had schooled himself over the years to be surprised at nothing. If the old fool wanted Mrs Boyle’s handbag, presumably he could have it. ‘Very good, sir. Do you want me to get it now?’

  ‘Please!’ cooed Dover, so distraught that he didn’t even choke over the word.

  MacGregor left the bedroom and, as soon as the door was shut behind him, Dover flung himself on Superintendent Underbarrow.

  ‘Quick!’ he hissed. ‘Before he comes back!’

  The superintendent was an exceptionally well-adjusted man and he resolutely rejected the obvious explanation for this passionate assault. Very calmly and quietly he tried to loosen Dover’s grip on his arm. ‘Now, steady on, old chap! There’s nothing to get worked up about.’

  ‘Nothing to get worked up about?’ screamed Dover. ‘You great gibbering oaf! You let me get shut up in here all alone with a murderer and all you can think of is to tell me not to get worked up!’

  Superintendent Underbarrow continued to play it cool. ‘Now, suppose you just calm down and tell me all about it, eh?’

  Dover took the advice and a deep breath. You had to remember that these plough-boys weren’t as bright in the head as the rest of us. He caught Superintendent Underbarrow by the lapels and gave him a good shake. ‘MacGregor! You’ve got to do something about MacGregor! It’s your duty!’

  ‘Well, now, and what would you like me to do, eh?’

  ‘ ’Strewth!’ groaned Dover. He gritted his teeth. ‘I want you to arrest him, you silver-buttoned dummy! Damn it all, you’ve just said he was trying to kill me.’

  ‘I did?’

  ‘All right, all right,’ said Dover in the hope that a bit of soft soaping might do the trick, ‘it was very clever of you. It never crossed my mind, I’ll admit that. I knew he was a treacherous little brute but . . . The young bastard, I’ll bet he’s been planning this for years.’

  Superintendent Underbarrow took his time and thought it all over very carefully. Then he got it. ‘You old devil!’ he chuckled, digging Dover appreciatively in the ribs. ‘Tit for tat, eh? Paying me back in my own coin? Well, I suppose I asked for it. You’d certainly got me fooled there for a minute. Fancy trying to con me that your sergeant’s the murderer!’

  ‘Me? You bloody fool, you’re the one who said that.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Just now, for God’s sake. You sat there as large as life and twice as ugly and said I ought to look nearer home.’

  ‘Yes, but I didn’t mean Sergeant MacGregor,' protested Superintendent Underbarrow, beginning to feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Good heavens, it never even occurred to me.’

  ‘Well, who did you mean?’

  Superintendent Underbarrow got his handkerchief out and passed it slowly across his brow. 'The chap who murdered Walter Chantry, of course,' he explained. ‘It looks as plain as the nose on your face to me. A place as small as Sully Martin’s hardly likely to have two murderers running around loose at the same time, is it?’

  Ten

  MacGregor came trailing back up the stairs with Mrs Boyle’s handbag. He’d had quite a job getting hold of it as all the murdered woman’s belongings had already been inventoried by the efficient local police and placed under lock and key. Inspector Stokes, to whom the request had eventually been referred, had made a lot of difficulties. He’d only just finished putting the seals on the door of Mrs Boyle’s bedroom and had no intention of breaking them open again if he could possibly help it.

  ‘What on earth does he want it for?’ he asked, reluctandy fingering his penknife.

  MacGregor retreated behind a mysterious smile and shook his head.

  ‘Aw, come off it!’ pleaded Inspector Stokes. ‘We’re all on the same side, aren’t we? You see,’ – he gazed at the strips of tape and the sealing wax which he had affixed with such loving care – ‘I’ll have to put something in the report about why I opened the door again. It’d help if I had a proper sort of reason.’

  ‘How about “ Detective Chief Inspector Dover wished to examine Mrs Boyle’s handbag”?’ suggested MacGregor unhelpfully.

  ‘There’s a good shilling’s worth of seal
ing wax on there,' Inspector Stokes grumbled. ‘To say nothing of the tape. Money down the drain and my chief constable in the middle of an economy drive. You see how I’m fixed, don’t you? You’ll be back safe and sound in London while I’m on the carpet trying to account to the old man for two and ninepence worth of assorted items of expendable stationery.’

  ‘Sorry,’ said MacGregor.

  Inspector Stokes opened his penknife and inserted the blade tentatively under one of the seals. He paused. ‘Here, your boss isn’t on to something, is he?’

  ‘He’s waiting for that handbag sir.’

  Inspector Stokes removed the blade from under the seal. ‘I don’t get this,’ he said. ‘I thought we were all agreed that Mrs Boyle was killed by mistake. Well, if she was, what’s so important about her handbag?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say sir.’

  ‘Can’t or won’t?’ Inspector Stokes jabbed crossly at the seals and prised them off. ‘Well, I’ll have something to say about this in my report and I shan’t mince my words. Two can play at being uncooperative and you can tell your chief inspector that with my compliments.’

  ‘If I don’t get that handbag soon, sir,’ said MacGregor, ‘he’ll be down here and you can tell him yourself.’

  Inspector Stokes turned the key in the lock. ‘I shall subject that handbag to a thorough examination,’ he announced with dignity, ‘before I surrender it.’

  And he did. MacGregor, who was consumed by an equal curiosity, helped him. Neither of them were one whit the wiser when they’d finished.

  ‘It’d be a help,’ observed Inspector Stokes tartly as he shovelled the contents back in, ‘if we knew what we were looking for.’ He shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why do you think she was carting five pairs of scissors round with her?’

  ‘Sentimental value, sir?’ suggested MacGregor, getting his hands on the bag at last and snapping it shut. ‘Well, thank you very much.’

  ‘Just a minute!’ said Inspector Stokes. ‘I want a signature first.’

  As soon as he got back to Dover’s bedroom., MacGregor sensed that things were a bit fraught. The two senior police officers were sitting in grim silence and studiously avoiding looking at each other. MacGregor gave Dover the handbag.

  ‘Well,' said Superintendent Underbarrow with a painfully unnatural casualness, ‘I think I’d better be running along.’ He stood up and addressed a painting of Lake Windermere in autumn which was hanging on the wall. ‘You’ll let me know if there’s anything you want doing?’

  Dover emptied the contents of Mrs Boyle’s handbag out on the bed and began poking through them. Now – what was it that Kettering woman had said?

  MacGregor waited a fraction too long to see if Dover was going to answer the question. ‘Yes, of course, sir,’ he gabbled hurriedly as Superintendent Underbarrow’s blood pressure rose. ‘Thank you very much indeed, sir. We’re most grateful for your co-operation.’

  ‘I’ll see you get copies of all our reports,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow stiffly, ‘and our chaps’ll finish off the routine investigations they’re doing.’

  Dover’s fat hands closed greedily on a bottie which, according to its home-made label, contained cough mixture. His face broke into a gratified smile as the memory of Miss Kettering’s words came flooding back to him.

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’ Out of the corner of his eye MacGregor watched the superintendent surreptitiously watching Dover.

  ‘We’ll have to clear it with the chief constable first,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow absently as Dover removed the cork from the cough mixture with his teeth, ‘but I think you can take it as definite that the investigation is now your responsibility.’

  MacGregor murmured his appreciation without really taking in what was being said. He was far more interested in Dover, who now tipped the bottle up and poured a generous quantity of the contents down his throat.

  ‘Oooowagh!’ gasped Dover, wiping his lips appreciatively on the back of his hand. ‘That hit the spot, all rightie!’

  The aroma of fine old Scotch whisky wafted gently through the room.

  Superintendent Underbarrow took his leave.

  ‘And good riddance to bad rubbish!’ sniggered Dover as the superintendent’s footsteps faded away down the stairs. ‘He should stick to waggling his arms at motor cars, that one, and leave the detective work to them that’s got the brain for it.’

  ‘What exactly did he mean, sir, when he said that the investigation’s now our responsibility?’

  ‘What do you think he meant, moron?’ asked Dover, apparently quite unmellowed by Mrs Boyle’s medicinal whisky. ‘They reckon the two cases are linked, don’t they? Whoever tried to murder me was the same one that did for Chantry.’ He took another swig out of his bottle and smacked his lips with gusto.

  ‘I see, sir.’

  Dover’s eyes wandered idly over the contents of Mrs Boyle’s handbag and came to rest with an almost audible click on a nicely bulging wallet.

  MacGregor put a stop to that before the temptation proved irresistable. ‘Excuse me, sir, but all the money and everything’s been very carefully counted.’

  Dover withdrew his hand and tried to look as though the idea had never entered his head. That was the trouble with police work these days, he thought indignantly – too much checking and counter-checking.

  ‘And you agree with Superintendent Underbarrow, sir?’

  ‘What about?’

  MacGregor prayed for patience. ‘About the two cases being connected, sir.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Dover, through a jaw-cracking yawn. ‘It’s the only logical explanation.’ He finished off the rest of the whisky and gave vent to his appreciation with a loud belch. ‘Besides, it’ll keep that bunch of muck-spreading clod-hoppers out of our hair.’*He stuck the cork back in the empty bottle and tossed it down on the bed.

  ‘You intend to handle the investigation yourself, sir?’

  Dover’s eyelids began to droop. ‘What else?’ he replied sleepily. ‘I’m the one who was damned near murdered, aren’t I?’

  ‘But sir . . .’

  Dover began to get fractious. ‘I do wish you’d stop yacking for five minutes,’ he whined. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and push off for a bit? I’ve had a very disturbed night, you know.’

  MacGregor wasn’t exactly a worm but even he had his turning point. If he didn’t do something drastic he could see himself mouldering on in Sully Martin until he was eligible for his pension. The idea of Dover, who was as near to solving the murder of Walter Chantry as he was to flying to the moon, blithely taking on a second case was almost more than flesh and blood could endure. No, subservience and deference were all very well in their way but the time had come when Dover must be saved from himself. Surely even he would be grateful to be spared the humiliation of not catching his own murderer?

  There was a cold glint in MacGregor’s eye as he glanced at the recumbent lump on the bed. Sometimes you had to be cruel to save your sanity. He turned resolutely on his heel and marched out of the bedroom.

  Ten minutes later he was back again, with a large mug of strong black coffee. He put the mug down on the dressing-table while he flung the bedroom window open to its widest extent and then soaked the bit of old rag Dover apparently used as a facecloth in cold water. This done, he stormed over to the bed, shook Dover until his dentures rattled, dragged him into a sitting position and slapped the ice-cold cloth over his face.

  ‘Oh, heck!’ moaned Dover, flapping feebly as MacGregor retreated out of range. ‘What’s going on?’

  MacGregor was back at the bed-side again. He whipped the damp cloth off Dover’s face and plastered it across the top of his head. ‘Drink this!’ he shouted.

  Dover goggled at the steaming cup which was thrust under his nose. ‘Warisit?’ he enquired.

  ‘Never mind what it is! Drink it!’

  Thoroughly cowed, Dover did as he was told. I It’s horrible!’ he complained.

&
nbsp; MacGregor turned a deaf ear. He was too busy arranging a hard upright chair squarely in the path of the young gale that was blowing through the open window. When this was settled to his satisfaction, he swept across to the bed again.

  ‘Finished?’

  Dover gulped down the last mouthful and the mug was snatched from his hands. 'Here,’ he began as MacGregor got him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him off the bed, what the blue blazes do you think you’re . . .’

  ‘You’ll be much more comfortable over here, sir,’ panted MacGregor, manhandling his chief inspector over to the window and dropping him unceremoniously on the waiting chair. You and I are going to have a little conference.’

  ‘A conference?’

  ‘That’s right!’ MacGregor pulled up another chair and sat down facing Dover. ‘It’s what detectives have from time to time, particularly when their investigations grind to a complete halt.’

  ‘Hey, watch it, laddie!’ growled Dover, rallying a bit as the fresh air and black coffee started getting through to him. 8 I’ve no objection to you showing a bit of initiative for once in your life but don’t start coming the old sarcastic with me.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, sir,' apologized MacGregor, ‘but I do feel we’ve got to do something. We’ve got two murders on our hands now – Walter Chantry and Mrs Boyle – and we just aren’t getting anywhere with either of them. I’m merely suggesting that we try and work out some plan of action.’ Dover turned his coat collar up. ‘Well, we’re not going to bust a gut avenging Walter Chantry, for a start. It’s the joker who tried to get me that matters. I’ll make him rue the day he was born, don’t you worry!’

  MacGregor sighed. It was like trying to quarry through solid granite with a toothpick. ‘I thought we’d already agreed, sir, that the same person was responsible for both crimes.’