by Joyce Porter
When the doctor, sworn to secrecy, had gone, Dover permitted himself a rich chuckle of congratulation. He was more firmly convinced than ever that he was on the right lines. As was his wont, once he had made up his mind, very little, and certainly not contrary facts and contradictory evidence, could induce him to change it. MacGregor had frequently lamented this in the past. On this particular occasion, however, MacGregor was not going to be informed that Dover had all but solved the case. In the next few days whenever Dover saw his sergeant he listened attentively to that young man’s elaborate reports of the trails he was following, and said nothing of his own astonishing deductions. MacGregor might have been forgiven for thinking, as he did, that Dover was indulging even more luxuriously than usual in his favourite pastime of putting his feet up. But MacGregor would have been wrong.
As the days passed and as the fancy took him Dover sallied forth from time to time into the highways and by-ways of Wallerton to add a finishing touch or two. These finishing touches were added with a certain ham-fistedness, but then delicacy was never one of Dover’s strong points.
His usual technique was to roam the streets of Wallerton in search of ladies who were members of the Ladies’ League. Dover’s eyesight was not as good as it had been. The weather was nearly always inclement and plastic macs are not as transparent as all that. His habit of approaching close to middle-aged ladies and staring fixedly at their bosoms did not pass unnoticed. Some ladies, not sporting the blue ribbon for which he searched, were even more distressed when, having examined them in vain, the Chief Inspector uttered a disgusted ‘’Strewth!’ and hurried away.
Not that things were much better when he did spy his prey. He was then faced with the problem of engaging them in conversation. The respectable matrons of Wallerton were horrified to find themselves accosted by a large, fat and uncouth lout who, perhaps standing beside a shop window display of lingerie would address them with some such remark as ‘I’m surprised some of these young girls don’t catch their death wearing flimsy things like that, aren’t you? Ah, but that’s the younger generation all over. I don’t know what they’re coming to these days, straight I don’t. Take that young Sergeant MacGregor of mine, for instance. Got the morals of a randy bull, that lad …’
Sometimes he rested his feet in a café. Pretty Polly’s Parlour was a favourite place because everybody who was anybody went there for morning coffee. Dover would select his victim and, braving the black looks, would join her at her table. From there on he would play it by ear. The prey and her friends might well be admiring some nearby baby. Dover would leap in.
‘I wonder who’s paying the maintenance order for that one?’ he would ask jovially. ‘ Oh, you needn’t look surprised! There’s more born out of wedlock these days than in it, if you ask me. I don’t know what’s got into the younger generation, straight I don’t. Take that young Sergeant MacGregor of mine, for instance. Got the morals of a tom cat, that lad …’
Mrs Cadogan (known in the trade as Pretty Polly) couldn’t understand it – all these cups of coffee completely untouched or with only a mouthful taken out of them. Oh well, she thought philosophically, as she tipped the contents of the cups back into the urn, it helped to keep the overheads down.
Before the week was out MacGregor had acquired a reputation which Don Juan might have envied. (There was more than a soupçon of doubt about the Chief Inspector, too, but that’s beside the point.) As usually happens, the subject of the gossip remained in blissful ignorance of the calumny which was beginning to besmirch his name. MacGregor’s days were spent in dashing hither and thither round the countryside following lines of investigation which would, he was confident, lead him to the men who had mutilated the dead body of the late Mr Hamilton. His nights were spent, at Dover’s insistence, in living it up at the Country Club. The strain was beginning to tell. Dover noted with great satisfaction the increasing signs of exhaustion which were starting to show in MacGregor’s face. The lad was getting to look quite dissipated.
‘I do wish I didn’t have to keep going to that Country Club, sir,’ complained MacGregor one day when he had been granted a brief audience. ‘I really can’t see what good it’s doing. And it’s as dull as ditchwater, too.’
Dover raised his eyebrows. ‘I thought it was supposed to be a right old sink of iniquity.’
‘I dare say it is, sir, usually. But not when I’m there. They all sit around playing stud poker for matches. All I’m doing is ruining their trade. Why, last night Joey the Jock even offered me fifty quid to stay away from the place. He said I’d bankrupt him if I kept coming much longer.’
‘Fifty quid!’ said Dover with an envious whistle. ‘ You lucky devil!’
‘Naturally I didn’t accept it, sir.’
‘Oh, naturally!’ sniffed Dover. ‘You wouldn’t! Still, if the offer’s open tomorrow night, I should take it.’ ‘You’re not suggesting I should accept a bribe, are you, sir?’
‘It’s not a bribe,’ objected Dover. ‘As long as you take care he doesn’t hand it over in front of witnesses or give you marked notes or anything, you’re as safe as houses. I wish somebody’d offer me fifty quid on a plate like that!’
‘Does this mean that you don’t want me to go to the Country Club after tomorrow night, sir?’
‘Yes, just tonight and tomorrow and then you’re through. Wallerton’s grape vine’s dead efficient, and quick. A day and a half, say; that should be bags of time.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.’
Dover scowled at him. ‘ Hard luck, laddie,’ he said. ‘Still, never mind, you’ll understand all right in good time. Now, what’s today? Wednesday? Right, so you’ll go to that Country Club tonight, see? But on Thursday night you stop in here, in the hotel. Now, my guess is that somebody’ll try and contact you, during the evening probably. They may telephone or they may come round, I dunno. But, whatever they do, you fall in with it, see? They’ll probably want you to leave the hotel so don’t make any bones about it, you just go. Do whatever they want you to.’
MacGregor eyed Dover with a suspicion that was entirely justified. ‘But, where will you be, sir?’
‘Ah,’ said Dover with a happy grin, ‘that’s a good question, laddie. I’ll be around, never you fear.’
‘Is this going to involve me in any, er, danger, sir?’ asked MacGregor dubiously.
‘Don’t be daft!’ said Dover. ‘ Would I do a thing like that to you?’
Chapter Thirteen
MacGregor showed a marked reluctance to leave after this urbane piece of reassurance. He tried, without success, to find out precisely what Dover was up to. His appeals for clarification fell on wilfully deaf ears. It wasn’t often that Dover went to the trouble to work out an elaborate scheme like this and he wasn’t, as he himself put it, going to have it all buggered up at the last minute.
‘But, sir,’ said MacGregor who was getting extraordinarily uneasy about the whole thing, ‘I could play my part much better if I knew what it was all about.’
‘No!’ Dover’s bottom lip jutted out obstinately. ‘I want you to behave naturally.’
‘Look here, sir,’ said MacGregor taking his courage in both hands, ‘I’m not a bit happy about all this. I can’t imagine what good it’s going to do. Now, my own private investigations really are getting somewhere. There’s no doubt about it, Hamilton had been getting mixed up with some very dicey characters, and some that wouldn’t stop at violence, either. Not local layabouts but real full-time villains from all over the place. He’d been backing some pretty nasty, highly organized professional gangs. Now, if he double-crossed them, or they even thought he had, they’d fix him good and proper. And they’d fix Cochran, too. It’s my theory that one of these gangs, and I’ve a jolly good idea which one, got the idea that Hamilton had shopped them over their job. He’d financed them, you see, to the tune of a couple of thousand quid if my information is correct, and of course he knew all the details. Well, the job was a complete flop. The polic
e were waiting for them. Most of the big boys got away, but four or five of the small fry got themselves nabbed. There’s no doubt about it, somebody tipped the police off. It may or may not have been Hamilton. I think the gang thought it was. And they probably thought he’d told Cochran. Well, they gave Hamilton a real going over in the course of which he dies on them. Now, just look at Cochran’s position. He knows who it was who did for Hamilton. He knows they’ll be after him. They’ve got to save their own necks. He knows he’ll get no mercy from a vicious bunch like that so he hides in his lodgings for a week to keep out of their way. But on the Monday morning he’s got to go back to work. He can’t hide any longer. He’s got to put that uniform on and get back on the beat. He suddenly realizes that he’s just a sitting target. The gang can get him any time and he appreciates only too well what’s going to happen to him when they do. So, out of sheer desperation and terror, he cycles up to Cully Point.’
Dover opened his eyes. He stretched himself and yawned. Oh?’ he said, blinking. ‘Are you still here, laddie?’
‘I’m just going, sir,’ replied MacGregor coldly.
‘Well, don’t forget what I told you. Tomorrow evening you stop in the hotel and wait for the summons. And don’t worry, laddie! I’ve got it all planned out. You’ll be as safe as houses.’
When MacGregor had gone Dover bestirred himself with a most unusual display of energy. He rummaged around in his suitcase until he found the pile of headed writing paper that he had already pinched from the hotel lounge. He selected the grubbiest sheet and then began to search for a pen. He eventually unearthed a rather nasty ball-point bound together with sticking plaster. Lamenting, not for the first time, that finders can’t be choosers, he sat himself down on the edge of his bed and began laboriously to compose a letter to the Chief Constable.
It took him a long time as he was rather out of practice when it came to putting pen to paper. Nowadays he shoved all that sort of menial drudgery on to MacGregor. However, he got to the end at last and read the epistle through. Clear as daylight. Any fool could understand what he was getting at. He crossed out the odd word here and there, which didn’t improve the general appearance. With some regret he addressed one of his envelopes. He’d only been able to collect ten of them and it seemed a pity to use one. Still, the letter was highly confidential and the sacrifice must be made. He licked, the sticky stuff and stuck the flap down, leaving a perfect thumb print on the back as he did so.
With a considerable sense of martyrdom Dover trudged off to make arrangements for the delivery of his letter. On the way he saw a little notice pointing to the railway station. He looked at it thoughtfully. He supposed he might as well go there first. He turned in the indicated direction and found himself thirty seconds later at a complicated road juncture and completely lost. Being a great believer in using his head to save his legs, he grabbed the nearest passer-by and, detaining him by brute force, demanded to be told where the bloody station was.
Six passers-by later Wallerton’s Central Station was actually in sight. Dover was glad. He was getting worn out manoeuvring the conversations he had forced upon perfect strangers from a simple request to be put on the right way to an elaborate account of how he and MacGregor were going to shake the dust of Wallerton off their heels in a couple of days’ time. Some of the perfect strangers had been resigned and listened to. All this rigmarole with kindly indulgence. Other perfect strangers got highly obstreperous and objected strongly to being detained in the cold and the pouring rain. Dover had had quite a job with some of them, being obliged to clutch them firmly by the collar or by the arm. However, the Chief Inspector stuck to his self-appointed task, priding himself quite erroneously that, having put his shoulder to the wheel, he was not the man to turn back.
He staggered into the booking hall at the railway station and flopped down on the nearest bench. While he recovered his strength he stared sullenly at posters of semi-naked lads and lassies romping on sunlit beaches. The edges were already peeling in the damp. There were very few people about and those that were looked as though they were sheltering from the rain.
Dover pulled himself to his feet and went across to the ticket office. He bent down and peered through the glass partition which is placed there to prevent travellers breathing germs on the booking staff.
There was nobody there.
Dover waited a full fifteen seconds before his patience gave out. He hammered on the glass and bellowed through the little slit at the top.
Eventually a young man appeared. He had long flowing locks which he was combing tenderly with a pink pocket comb held in his left hand. In his right hand he clutched a partially eaten bar of chocolate.
He looked at Dover. ‘Hello, darling!’ he said cheerfully, ‘where do you want to go? Or don’t it matter, eh? I ’spect you’re like me, eh? It don’t matter as long as it’s far far away from Squaresville here. And to think I come for the surfing! I shoulda gone to the North Pole. Well, now, Daddy-o, we’ve got some real pretty tickets for Sudley Burbiton and all points east. You pays your money and you takes your choice.’
‘I don’t want to buy a ticket,’ snarled Dover.
‘Oh, just come for a chat, have you, darling? Well, I’d like to oblige but I’m already spoken for. We could never be nothing more than good friends, see?’
Dover took a grip on himself. ‘I want to make inquiries about trains to London.’
‘Ah, well,’ said the young man triumphantly, ‘you’ve come, to the wrong hole, haven’t you, darling? The inquiry office is over there, see?’
‘Is it open?’ demanded Dover suspiciously.
‘Oh, you’re a clever puss, aren’t you, darling? It’s not exactly what you’d call open and it’s not exactly what you call closed. I’m supposed to be in there but the fire’s gone kaputt, see? So I come in here where it’s warmer. What can I do for you, darling – in the way of transport, natch?’
‘Is there a train to London a Thursday evening?’ said Dover, determined to get this over as soon as possible.
‘There is indeed, darling,’ agreed the young man. ‘Thirty five minutes past six of the clockio, change at Sudley Burbiton.’ ‘Sudley Burbiton? Where in God’s name is Sudley Burbiton?’
‘You might well ask, darling! Well, it ain’t the centre of the universe, that I can tell you. It’s a dopey little burg about an hour away from here by the courtesy of British Rail.’
‘An hour? Does the train stop anywhere else between here and this Sudley Burbiton?’
‘It stops everywhere, darling, and three times in between,’ said the young man, finishing off his chocolate and swopping his comb for a nail file.
‘What’s the first stop?’
‘The first stop, darling? Let’s see … ‘ He tapped the nail file thoughtfully against his front teeth. ‘Well now, the mighty iron horse that breathes smoke and fire will grind to a shattering halt at Abbots Brook.’
‘Right,’ said Dover, making tip his mind in a rush because the thought of shelling out his own money was painful. ‘Give me a single to Abbots Brook.’
‘Second class, of course, darling?’ The young man disappeared out of sight. A second or two later he was back again. ‘ Look, darling, it’s taking the food out of my mouth but I’ve taken a fancy to you, see? You don’t want to go to Abbots Brook by train. Not from here. The station’s miles away from the village. You want to go by bus. Everybody goes to Abbots Brook by bus.’
Damn and blast it! fumed Dover to himself. It’ll be all round the blooming town now that I’m going to Abbots Brook! He searched miserably through his pockets. If this part of his plan was going to work he’d have to make the supreme sacrifice.
‘Give me a single to London,’ he said hoarsely.
The young man shrugged his shoulders. ‘I wish you’d make up your mind, darling,’ he said crossly. ‘If they was all like you I’d be kipping here. Three pounds seventeen and fourpence.’
Dover went white. ‘Three pounds seventeen and fourpen
ce?’ he yelped. ‘It’s highway robbery!’
‘I couldn’t agree more, darling. I always go by scooter myself.’
Shattered, Dover handed four crumpled pound notes over and left the railway station, a sadder but wiser man. After years of never lifting a finger for himself – he maintained a wife and a sergeant for that sort of thing – he was just beginning to discover how the other half lived. And it was grim. The money it was costing him! For a moment the thought of chucking the whole thing up crossed his mind. But then he remembered MacGregor and the prospect of putting the wind up that young gentleman good and proper was too attractive to resist. No, the show must go on! He could always get a refund for the ticket.
At the police station he caught Sergeant Veitch taking things easy and refreshing himself with a mug of tea.
‘What on earth are you doing here, sir?’ asked the sergeant, quickly slipping a book confiscated from a local newsagent under the pile of Police Gazettes. ‘The Chief Constable’s just this minute gone round to your hotel. I made sure you’d be there at this time in the morning.’
‘Well, I’m not,’ said Dover, lifting up the flap of the counter and heading for the nearest chair. ‘What does he want, anyhow?’
‘Well, he wanted to see you, sir. He seemed a bit upset that he hadn’t had any progress reports from you.’
‘Old fool!’ said Dover.
‘I’ll ring up the hotel and see if I can catch him, shall I, sir?’
‘Wafor?’
‘To tell him you’re here, sir.’
‘I can see why you never got beyond sergeant,’ Dover observed pleasantly. ‘Now, how about nipping up to the canteen and getting me a cup that cheers but does not inebriate?’
‘Eh?’
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ snapped Dover. ‘A cup of tea, you fool!’
‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir. I’ll send Jimmy here.’
‘You won’t send “ Jimmy here”, you’ll go yourself! The exercise’ll do you good. I want to have a word with “ Jimmy here” myself – private. So I don’t want to see your ugly mug for another ten minutes. Now, push off! And four lumps of sugar in mine!’ he bawled as the station sergeant unhappily moved off in the direction of the canteen. ‘Right, laddie!’ Dover eyed the bright young police cadet who instantly snapped, quivering, to attention. ‘So you’re “Jimmy here”, are you?’
