Dover One

by Joyce Porter

  ‘To breathe! Do you mind?’

  ‘But suppose the blasted money goes while you’re up here?’

  ‘Let it.’ Sergeant Kempton was not interested.

  ‘You’re supposed to be on duty!’

  ‘Duty?’ snorted Sergeant Kempton. ‘I’ve had some pretty lousy jobs in my time but nothing, I repeat, nothing like this! God, it’s worse than cleaning up after a post-mortem! Ugh, the stink down there!’

  Tor God’s sake, woman, it’s no time to be squeamish! Get back down there and get on with the job!’

  Sergeant Kempton sighed. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but I’m sending Smith up for a break – that is, if she’s still conscious.’

  ‘All right,’ snapped Dover, ‘you can give her a couple of minutes, but no more! By the way,’ he added curiously, ‘how come you’ve changed your coat?’

  Sergeant Kempton smirked. ‘Rather a good idea, don’t you think? It’s in case anybody pays two visits down there. They’re much less likely to recognize me on the second trip if I’m wearing a different coat.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ grunted Dover, ‘this one makes you practically invisible! But how did you take it in with you? I didn’t see you carrying a parcel.’

  ‘It’s one of these reversible ones, see?’ Sergeant Kempton flung the coat wide open to show the lining to Dover and three-quarters of the Market Square. ‘My red’s inside. Clever, isn’t it?’

  ‘Very,’ said Dover without much conviction. ‘Well, it’s time you got back on the job. Get moving! Just another five hours and you can knock off.’

  ‘Here,’ demanded Sergeant Kempton as she saw him preparing to move off, ‘where are you going?’

  ‘Not that it’s any of your business,’ replied Dover pompously, ‘but I’m going to the Gents.’

  ‘The Gents?’ repeated Sergeant Kempton with a curt and unkind laugh. ‘Well, I hope they let you in!’ Chuckling merrily to herself she beat a diplomatic retreat back down the stone steps.

  At six o’clock Miss Mathilda’s Tea Shoppe closed and Dover and MacGregor finished their vigil outside. At five past six a town council employee arrived to lock up both the gendemen’s and the ladies’ conveniences for the night. Sergeant Kempton and W.P.C. Smith, their faces ashen white, staggered out.

  ‘What do you want doing about the money?’ Sergeant Kempton asked. ‘It’s still there.’

  ‘Leave it,’ said Dover. ‘I’ll have a man stationed outside all night in case they try to break in and collect it.’

  ‘A Good Idea!’ Sergeant Kempton’s tone was nasty, ‘And what are we supposed to do now?’

  ‘I want everybody back at the station,’ announced Dover grandly, ‘for a de-briefing session.’

  ‘Woman Police Constable Smith and I,’ pointed out Sergeant Kempton, ‘haven’t had a bite to eat since nine o’clock this morning,’

  ‘Well,’ said Dover sweetly, ‘that’s your fault, isn’t it? You should have taken some sandwiches in with you and had a picnic lunch.’

  For the next two hours Dover and MacGregor sat in the local police headquarters listening to a stream of reports and trying, without any marked success, to make some sense out of them.

  As was to be expected on market-day nearly all the women in the case, if it was a case and if they were in it, had come into Creedon some time during the day. They seemed to have spent their time in suspiciously innocent pursuits.

  Eve Counter, after depositing the ransom money in the Vim tin, had done some shopping and then caught a bus back to Irlam Old Hall in time for lunch.

  Amy Freel, Colonel Bing and Miss McLintock had come into Creedon by bus and spent the morning there, but none of them had visited the Market Square convenience. They had, as Dover knew, made use of the facilities provided by Miss Mathilda.

  Kitty Chubb-Smith and Maxine had come in by car. The two unfortunate constables who were supposed to be keeping an eye on them had spent a boring morning first hanging round the bus station and then aimlessly wandering about the town looking for their prey. Luckily Dover knew from his own observations that neither of the two women had gone down the famous stone steps which led to the ladies’ convenience and to five hundred one-pound notes.

  Eulalia Hoppold had also driven in by car, accompanied by Boris Bogolepov. Fortunately her shadowing constable was a relatively intelligent fan of hers who knew she had a car and guessed she would use it. By keeping his eyes open he had soon picked her up in the town. She and Boris had spent an uneventful morning and gone nowhere near the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square.

  Mrs Rugg had been kept under observation too. She had made use of the public convenience but, unfortunately, it was the one at the bus station, which wasn’t really very significant of anything.

  Apart from Boris, none of the men at Irlam Old Hall had fancied struggling with the crowds in Creedon and had all remained at home’ Gordon Pilley was on his rounds fifty miles away in another town.

  As one dreary story of ‘nothing to report’ followed another Dover grew more and more depressed. As the last nervous, sweating policeman blundered his way out of the room the chief inspector was almost spitting with disgust.

  ‘And the answer,’ he snarled, flinging his pencil petulantly across the room, ‘is a bloody lemon!’

  Sergeant MacGregor looked moodily at his notebook’

  ‘Well,’ he agreed, ‘we haven’t really got anywhere much, have we, sir?’

  ‘Have we hell!’ said Dover bitterly. ‘What it boils down to is that nobody who’s in any way connected with the case made any attempt to collect that money. And, blast it, nobody who’s not connected with it did either!’

  His subsequent interview with the Chief Constable -‘Just to keep me in the picture, old boy’ – was not a particularly happy one.

  ‘Well, Dover,’ Mr Bartlett began grimly, ‘we’ve spent eleven shillings and fourpence out of the funds of this police force for the slot machine and received nineteen complaints about suspicious characters hanging around the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square. Seven of the ladies spotted that Woman Police Constable Smith was a man, unconvincingly masquerading as a girl, and ten reported that Woman Police Sergeant Kempton was blatantly engaged in luring young girls away to South America for immoral purposes. The remaining two complainants plumped for a Communist spy ring.

  ‘I have further been deprived of the services of fourteen male constables on the busiest day of the week, with the result that my crime figures since nine o’clock this morning have just about doubled. I have also had a complaint from the mayor about two men, posing as police officers, invading private premises and generally behaving with Gestapo-like brutality – I’m using the mayor’s own words. The mayor’s sister is the proprietress of Miss Mathilda’s Tea Shoppe.

  ‘I have also had a telephone call from Miss Eulalia Hoppold, the well-known authoress and explorer, complaining about being followed by two suspicious-looking thugs while she was out shopping this morning in Creedon. She would, she said, have reported the matter to a policeman at the time, but,’ the Chief Constable paused deliberately, ‘but she couldn’t find one!’

  There was a pregnant silence.

  ‘Well,’ Mr Bartlett went on, ‘those are my results! What are yours?’

  ‘None,’ said Dover sullenly. ‘There was no attempt to touch the money!’

  ‘And where does that leave us?’

  ‘Just about where we were before,’

  ‘And what do you deduce from the fact that they didn’t try to collect the ransom money?’

  ‘Well, either the whole thing was a hoax, somebody’s idea of a practical joke or . . . ’ Dover’s nose twitched.

  ‘Or?’ prompted the Chief Constable.

  ‘Or,’ repeated Dover, who always believed that attack was the best means of defence, ‘thanks to the unbelievable incompetence and lack of co-operation of the members of your force, the whole operation was bungled from beginning to end and the kidnappers were scared off!’


  ‘Now look here!’ roared the Chief Constable slamming his fist down on his desk rather more painfully than he had meant. ‘Don’t you try to leave me holding the baby! The whole operation was your idea and if it didn’t work, then it’s because the overall plan was at fault. I thought it sounded pretty bloody disastrous when I heard about it, but you’re supposed to be the expert in charge of the case and I’ve never believed in interfering with the man on the spot. The whole affair’s been bungled from beginning to end! You’ve spent six days here, and what have you discovered? That Juliet Rugg is missing-and we damned well knew that before you came! You’ve no more idea now of what’s happened to her or where she is than when you first arrived! Well, if this is an example of how Scotland Yard works, you can keep it! I’m not satisfied with your handling – if that’s the word for it – of the case and I’m telling you here and now I’m going to ring up the Yard first thing tomorrow morning and get you taken off!’

  Dover’s piggy little eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared out ominously as he took a deep breath preparatory to launching himself into the battle. It wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had happened to him and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He had managed to wriggle out of worse situations with a fairly whole skin and he wasn’t going to go down this time without a fight. He’d pin Mr High-and-Mighty Bardett’s ears back for him with a few home truths about the collection of mental deficients posing as a police force and then he’d . . .

  Luckily the phone rang.

  ‘It’s for you.’ The Chief Constable almost flung the receiver at Dover. ‘Finger-print division at the Yard.’

  Dover listened silently with a set, heavy face. Once or twice he said, ‘I see’, thoughtfully, and then he sighed.

  ‘Right! Thanks very much.’ He put the receiver down.

  ‘Well,’ demanded the Chief Constable, who’d calmed down a bit, ‘anything new?’

  Dover gaped vacantly at him for a second and then pulled himself together. ‘They’ve given the ransom letter a good going over,’ he explained, ‘no clues as to who wrote it, naturally. I didn’t expect there would be.’

  The Chief Constable waited for him to go on.

  ‘They examined the finger-print too – you know the one Juliet Rugg was supposed to have made.’

  ‘Do you mean it isn’t hers?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Dover slowly, ‘it’s hers all right, but, apparently she was dead when she made it!’

  Chapter Twelve

  WHATEVER might be Dover’s failings as a detective, he had one most important, even essential, attribute — luck. As he and the Chief Constable sat staring dumbly at each other they both realized that, once again, by a miracle, Dover’s bacon had been saved.

  In the face of the knowledge that Juliet Rugg was dead, and had been for some days, the howling fiasco of the unsprung trap for the kidnappers oozed gently away. It would be unfair to say that Dover was delighted at the gruesome news which he had just received over the telephone, but he was certainly relieved. With an unconscious gesture he mopped his brow with his handkerchief and relaxed back comfortably in his chair.

  ‘Well,’ he said benignly, ‘this certainly changes the picture, doesn’t it?’

  ‘I suppose it does.’ The Chief Constable was wary. ‘Were you expecting it?’

  Dover smiled smugly. ‘I’m not entirely surprised,’ he admitted with becoming modesty; ‘I’ve been pretty certain for some time that she was dead. I’ve never paid much attention to this kidnapping theory.’ With a little shock he realized that, for once, he was telling the truth. For a brief second it quite put him off his stride.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Dover pulled himself to his feet and began to fasten up his overcoat. ‘Well, there are one or two small points I want to get tidied up first,’ he said, ‘then I think I should be able to see my way more clearly.’

  Mr Bartlett was impressed. Much against his better judgment he was beginning to feel that Dover couldn’t be such a fool as he looked. After all he was a chief inspector at New Scotland Yard and the Assistant Commissioner had said he was just the man for the job.

  ‘Are you pressing on tonight, then?’ he asked in a rather awed voice.

  Dover quickly wiped a look of outrage and horror off his face. ‘Well, not exactly,’ he hedged, ‘can’t really do anything at this time of night. These – er – little points I want to check, they’ll have to wait till morning. But,’ he added hastily, ‘I imagine I’ll be up most of the night – thinking things over, you know.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ sighed Mr Bartlett, nodding his head wisely, ‘I find I think best late at night too.’ He sighed. ‘Only time you get, really, on this job.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Dover, ‘very true.’

  Both men sighed as they contemplated their unhappy, unappreciated, burdensome lot and parted, each to a warm and comfortable bed, with something approaching mutual good-will.

  When Dover came down to breakfast at The Two Fiddlers the following morning his mood was definitely chirpy. Now that Juliet Rugg was really dead the pressure had eased. There was no longer the danger that one false step in the police investigation might endanger the girl’s life, and if, by some vague mischance, Chief Inspector Dover didn’t manage to solve the case – well, it didn’t do much harm to anyone, did it? There were lots of unsolved murder cases (quite a number of them Dover’s) and one more wouldn’t make all that amount of difference.

  Dover beamed at the waitress. ‘Porridge, bacon, eggs and sausages, and a pot of tea, dear,’ he ordered.

  The waitress relayed his wishes to Mrs Jelly who did the cooking.

  ‘He called me “dear”,’ she commented in astonishment.

  ‘Cor, you’d better look out! He’s got real bedroom eyes, he has.’

  ‘Not him!’ retorted the girl as she took the proffered plate of porridge. ‘It was that fat old bastard! Must be going off his rocker or something.’

  ‘Well,’ said Dover as he scattered the best part of half a pound of sugar on his porridge, ‘what’s the matter with you this morning, Sergeant? Cat got your tongue or something?’

  ‘No, sir,’ replied MacGregor dully, ‘I had rather a heavy night of it last night.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Dover, ladling his food down in huge spoonfuls, ‘now you mention it, you do look a bit seedy. You should keep off this Long Herbert, you know. I reckon it’s laced with methylated spirits.’

  ‘I wasn’t drinking, sir,’ Sergeant MacGregor pointed out stiffly, ‘I was working.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dover.

  He started on his next course.

  ‘What were you, er, doing?’

  ‘Well, I thought I’d better get this oil thing cleared up. You know, find out who oiled the wheels on Sir John’s invalid carriage. So after I’d brought you back here last night I nipped up to Irlam Old Hall again to see if I could find anything out.’

  Dover took a mouthful of tea and reached for the toast.

  ‘Very commendable. And did you?’

  ‘A bit.’ MacGregor rubbed his hand wearily across his face. ‘I saw the caretaker chap, Bondy. He was quite certain he hadn’t oiled them. Eve Counter never even mentioned it to him, and he couldn’t think of anybody else who would be likely to have done it. He does all the odd jobs around the place.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Dover. ‘Just pass me the butter, there’s a good chap.’

  ‘Then I went round to the Counters’ again. Eve, Miss Counter, said quite definitely that she hadn’t oiled the wheels. She vaguely remembered Colonel Bing commenting on the fact that they squeaked, but she’d not really paid much attention and she certainly hadn’t asked Bondy or anyone else to fix them.’

  ‘Hm,’ said Dover, and poured himself out another cup of tea.

  ‘She’s got something, that girl, you know,’ announced MacGregor suddenly. ‘I had a drink and a chat with her last night and, really, you wouldn’t think it was the same person.’

&nb
sp; ‘No doubt,’ commented Dover spitefully, ‘her father’s doctor would agree with you.’

  ‘Oh, she explained all about that.’

  ‘Did she, indeed? Well, you’d better watch it, my lad. It doesn’t do for a detective to get emotionally involved with a possible murder suspect.’

  Sergeant MacGregor, surprisingly, turned quite pink.

  ‘I hope,’ pursued Dover, ‘that you didn’t tell her that the fair Juliet is dead?’

  ‘Of course not, sir! I didn’t tell her anything. By the way, she’s going to pick up her five hundred pounds from the police station in Creedon this morning. They were going to ring us if anybody’d tried to collect it and, since they haven’t, I suppose it’s still there.

  Anyhow, I got a sample of the oil used on the wheel chair and I took it back into Creedon last night for a lab. report. I’m pretty certain it’s not the same kind as the Counters have. Eve found me their tin and it looked quite different to me. Incidentally, sir, you can’t push the wheel chair through that little door in the main gates – it’s at least four inches too wide. And at night they Keep it in a little shed, just at the side of the house. They never lock the shed door.’

  ‘So anybody could have got at it on Tuesday night?’

  ‘Anybody who knew it was there, sir.’

  ‘Precisely,’ said Dover. ‘Got a cigarette?’

  ‘Well, now,’ he went on, puffing happily away, ‘you seem to have had a very busy time. Find anything else out?’

  ‘There is one thing, sir’ – MacGregor frowned a little – ‘it may be nothing but it is a discrepancy. I read through all my notes again last night and for some reason or another, well, it struck me as a bit odd. I don’t know whether you think it’s worth following up but it just. . . ’

  ‘Well, what is it?’ snapped Dover with a lightning return to his habitual manner.

  MacGregor got his notebook out and thumbed through until he found a marked passage. ‘Well, sir, you remember, early on, when Eve Counter was talking about Juliet, she mentioned her nail varnish. I’ve got her exact words here. She was talking about what a dirty slut Juliet was, and she said that her nails were thick with grime and looked as though they’d been dipped in blood.’