Dover One

by Joyce Porter

  ‘So what?’

  ‘Well, “dipped in blood” – that means red nail varnish, doesn’t it?’

  Dover snorted fretfully. ‘For God’s sake, get on with it, Sergent! We’re not a pair of blasted cross-talk comedians!’

  ‘No, sir. Well, sir, somebody else just casually mentioned her red nail varnish. It was the waitress in the Regal cafe. Well, actually, she said Juliet was wearing a silvery-pink colour when she first came in and then she painted the green stuff on while she was waiting for Pilley.

  ‘Now, we know she bought a bottle of green nail varnish on Tuesday afternoon when she was shopping in Creedon at the chemist’s. She didn’t start painting her nails green until she was in the cinema café at the Regal – the evidence of Gordon Pilley and the waitress shows that.

  ‘But, according to the other evidence we’ve been given, nobody, except Colonel Bing, at Irlam Old Hall saw her again at all. In other words, before Juliet disappeared she always wore red nail varnish, or pink, but not green. Now, Colonel Bing never said a word about Juliet’s nail varnish, and at that distance, late at night, I don’t see how she can have seen what colour it was anyhow. But somebody else at Irlam Old Hall did talk about Juliet wearing green nail varnish, although they denied having seen her after Tuesday lunch-time at the very latest Now, Juliet couldn’t have been wearing green nail varnish then, because she didn’t even buy it until the middle of Tuesday afternoon.’

  ‘Here, hold on a minute, lad!’ protested Dover. ‘You’re jumping to a few too many conclusions, aren’t you? All right, Juliet bought a bottle of green nail varnish on Tuesday afternoon and then painted her nails with the disgusting stuff. But that doesn’t mean that she’d never used green nail varnish before. She might have bought a bottle weeks or months ago and this one was just a replacement.’

  ‘Oh, I’d thought of that, sir,’ Sergeant MacGregor pointed out smugly, much to his chief inspector’s irritation, ‘but there are a couple of points which seem to indicate that green nail varnish was a novelty for Juliet. First of all, she was in such a hurry to daub it on her nails in the Regal cafe-Gordon Pilley said . . . ‘ MacGregor hunted through his notebook again ‘. . .he said, “she’d just bought the stuff and couldn’t wait to try it”. Now, that seems to indicate that she’d never had green nail varnish before, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Hm,’ grunted Dover reluctantly.

  ‘And then you remember when we searched her room at the Counters’ and found all that money? She’d got lots of old bottles of nail varnish littered all over her dressing-table, but none of them was green. I checked that last night.’

  ‘Ah, but’ – the chief inspector thought quickly – ‘if she had had green nail varnish before, she wouldn’t have bought a new bottle until the old one was finished, would she? And then she’d have thrown the empty bottle away. That’s why we didn’t see any green nail varnish in her room !’

  ‘Well, yes’ – Sergeant MacGregor sounded disappointed — ‘that might be the explanation, but it’s worth checking up with the girls at the chemist’s shop, isn’t it, sir? I mean, they’d probably know whether or not Juliet had bought any before, or she might have said something which’d give us a clue to whether or not it was her first bottle.’

  Tim,’ Dover regarded MacGregor pensively. He was always complaining about the stupidity and bone-headedness of present-day detective sergeants, but, God knows, he didn’t want one of the clever-devil types working with him. If MacGregor was going to develop into a real smart alec, life was going to get very uncomfortable. Still, the lad had obviously got something here. It was a very neat bit of deduction, and Dover would be the last one to admit it.

  ‘All right,’ he went on, pretending not to be very interested, ‘might be worth checking. We’ll do it later today.’

  This was one occasion when Dover wasn’t anxious to push all the work off on to someone else. If this was going to lead to anything, he, Dover, had every intention of being in on it, right from the beginning.

  ‘By the way,’ he asked elaborately off-hand, ‘who was it who mentioned seeing Juliet with green nail varnish?’

  ‘It was Eulalia Hoppold, sir. You remember she talked about telling Eve Counter to get rid of Juliet, no matter what her father thought, and she talked about black babies, green nail varnish and stiletto heels.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dover doubtfully, ‘Eulalia Hoppold?’

  ‘You see what this means, sir? If my theory’s correct and Juliet wasn’t wearing green nail varnish until, say, after five o’clock on the Tuesday afternoon, then Eulalia Hoppold must have seen her after she got back to Irlam Old Hall at eleven o’clock that night.’

  ‘The Hoppold woman might have been in Creedon too on Tuesday afternoon and seen Juliet then.’

  ‘Well, in that case, sir, why didn’t she tell us about it? There’d be nothing suspicious about that, would there? And, don’t forget, we’ve already caught her out once in a lie – about spending Tuesday night with Bogolepov in his bungalow. This’d be the second time she’s given us the wrong story, and why should she if she’s nothing to hide?’

  ‘Hm,’ said Dover, and sighed. ‘But if she had anything to do with Juliet’s death – and, let’s face it, it sounds a bit far-fetched,

  doesn’t it? – what about her alibi? She spent the night with Bogolepov. They both say that and we’ve got Maxine Chubb-Smith as an independent witness.’

  ‘Well, obviously, they’re both in it together!’

  ‘Oh, ’strewth,’ said Dover wearily, ‘I don’t like the sound of that’ What’s the motive? And the same old bloody question- what did they do with the body?’

  ‘Well, there’s a motive of sorts, sir. Maybe Juliet found out about Eulalia’s affair with Boris and threatened to tell her husband. Just Juliet’s line of country, if you ask me.’

  ‘Hell!’ groaned Dover. ‘It sounds a bit thin, doesn’t it? By the look of her I shouldn’t think it’s the first time Miss Hoppold has indulged in a little extra-marital activity, and I shouldn’t think it’ll be the last either. D’you see her, a woman like that, committing an elaborate murder, just to stop her husband finding out? Because, frankly, I don’t. And what about Bogolepov? I’m damned if I see him risking his neck just to protect the fair Eulalia’s good name, if any. And anyhow, let’s get down to a few brass tacks! How did they do it, and where’s the body?’

  ‘How about this, sir? They know roughly what time Juliet gets back most Tuesday evenings – that was common knowledge at Irlam Old Hall. They waylay her on the drive and kill her. Then they get Sir John’s wheel chair out of the shed and use it to cart the body off in.’

  ‘Brilliant!’ snorted Dover down his nose. ‘And where’s the corpse now?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it must be somewhere.’

  ‘And what about all this kidnapping palaver?’

  ‘Well, they organized that too – that was just to put us off the scent. Whatever else that scheme was, it was clever. You’ve got to admit that. And there’s no denying that both Bogolepov and Miss Hoppold are clever people – they’re just the type to think up a kidnapping ploy like that. As I see it, it was just a red herring – they never intended to collect that money’ And you’ve got to admit, sir, there must be a woman in it somewhere. No man would know the layout of the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square, and he wouldn’t be able to collect it, even if they ever meant to.’

  ‘Well, you may be right there,’ admitted Dover grudgingly, ‘but what about the ransom letter? It was originally posted in London at lunch-time on Saturday, right? Well, neither Eulalia Hoppold nor Bogolepov could have posted that letter personally, because, if you remember, we saw both of ’em, just before lunch, and after. Of all the people in the case who couldn’t possibly have been in London at the vital time, they’re the outstanding ones.’

  ‘Perhaps the kidnapping note had nothing to do with the murder at all?’ suggested MacGregor, clinging valiantly to his theory. ‘Maybe it was somebody who just w
anted an easy five hundred quid or a good laugh, or something. After all, people have tried to pull phoney tricks like that before, haven’t they?’

  Dover shook his head. ‘The finger-print,’ he reminded MacGregor, ‘that was Juliet Rugg’s and she was dead when it was taken. I don’t see how anybody else except the murderer could have sent that letter.’

  ‘Maybe the finger-print boys were wrong? Perhaps she wasn’t dead when it was made? That would change everything, wouldn’t it? There’d be hundreds of ways of getting hold of her fingerprint while she was still alive. I mean, I know they’re experts and all that, but how can they be sure?’

  ‘I dunno,’ admitted Dover, ‘it’s something to do with sweat, I think. When a living person makes a dab there are traces of sweat. Well, apparently, when you’re dead you stop sweating, which seems reasonable enough. The chaps in London analysed the ink that was used to make Juliet’s finger-print and they just ran a routine check on the sweat as well. There wasn’t any. In any case, if she isn’t dead, we’re right back where we started from, aren’t we?’

  ‘All right’- Sergeant MacGregor was not to be put off for long – ‘how about this for getting the letter posted – you just send it to an accomplice or even an innocent friend and ask him to put it in the box for you. Why, Eulalia Hoppold might have got her husband to do it.’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about that,’ said Dover, gloomily taking MacGregor’s last cigarette, ‘but I reckon it’s too risky. Sir John Counter’s name’s been in the newspapers and so’s Irlam Old Hall. Now, I know the letter was sent to his bank, but what would you think if one of your pals sent you a letter to post to a man who lives practically next door to him? Course, there could be a whole gang of ’em, with associates in London and what-have-you — but why on earth should a gang be involved in the killing of someone as insignificant as Juliet Rugg?’

  ‘God only knows!’ agreed MacGregor morosely. ‘I must admit, I think it’s a local crime, don’t you? Juliet doesn’t seem to have any significance outside Irlam Old Hall, and Creedon, and the village.’

  Eover rose unwillingly to his feet. ‘These chairs are damned hard,’ he grumbled, ‘let’s go into the bar parlour. They’ve got armchairs in there.’

  MacGregor got some more cigarettes and joined Dover, who was sprawled out comfortably and looked as though he was settled for the rest of the day.

  ‘What’s the programme now, sir?’

  Dover sighed resentfully. A policeman’s work is never done.

  ‘I think you’d better get back to Irlam Old Hall and see if you can find out whether any of ’em did, or could have, nipped up to London to post that letter. Shouldn’t take you long. You’d better check all the people who live in the flats too. Oh, and Mrs Rugg. And Gordon Pilley and his wife-you can get the local boys to check them. We might as well cover the lot while we’re at it,

  ‘You can ask about this celluloid stencil thing at the same time – you know, the one the ransom letter was written with. You never know, we might be lucky and find somebody who owns one.

  ‘When you’ve finished you can come back here and pick me up and we’ll go into Creedon and see the girls in the chemist’s shop about this green nail varnish.’

  ‘I could ask Eve whether she ever saw Juliet wearing the stuff.’

  Dover gave him a sharp look. ‘You could,’ he admitted, ‘but tell her to keep her trap shut! If there is anything in this green and red nail-varnish idea, it’s a very delicate thread. And it won’t take much to snap it, so just you watch out where you put your big flat feet!’

  ‘But if we can prove that Juliet never wore green nail varnish before late on Tuesday afternoon, we’ve got our man, haven’t we? Eulalia Hoppold, I mean?’

  ‘Look, MacGregor,’ said Dover with heavy patience, ‘if you go yapping your head off about green nail varnish all over Irlam Old Hall, Eulalia Hoppold may get wind of it and start thinking.

  Once she realizes she’s made a slip, if she has made one, she’ll cover up immediately and we’ll be up against a blank wall.’

  ‘But how can she cover up, sir? We know what she said at the time.’

  Dover sighed fretfully. ‘My God, I can think of a dozen things she could say. She could deny she ever said it in the first place – after all it’s her word against a bit of your private shorthand scribble, isn’t it? Or she could say it was a slip of the tongue and she didn’t mean green at all. Or she could say she’s colour-blind and can’t tell the difference anyhow.

  ‘Just you take a hold on yourself, my lad! Even if all the castles you’re building on a botde of green nail varnish are true, you couldn’t hang a cat on that sort of evidence, much less drag anyone into a court of law. It’s just, at best, a teeny weeny pointer, and don’t you forget it! ’

  ‘Very good, sir,’ said MacGregor huffily. ‘Do you want me to do any more checking on the oil? I could find out which of the tenants have got cans of this type of oil and ’

  ‘No,’ said Dover, ‘we’ll leave that one for a bit. We don’t want to show our hand too much at this stage. You might tell your girl-friend and this Bondy fellow not to go around discussing it’

  ‘I’ve already done that, sir.’

  ‘Good! Well, get moving!’

  ‘Are you going to stay here, sir?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind taking a message if the lab. people come through with a report on the exact make of the oil used on Sir John’s wheel chair?’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ grumbled the chief inspector, putting on his ‘I-don’t-know-why-everything-is-left-to-me’ expression. ‘And you just remember, Sergeant, don’t start trying to clap a pair of handcuffs on Eulalia Hoppold if she looks sideways at you.’

  ‘But you do think she’s got something to do with it, don’t you, sir?’

  ‘If I were a betting man,’ said Dover pompously, leaning back in his chair and closing his eyes, ‘which I’m not, I’d give you shorter odds on a few of the others. There’s your fancy bit’ – he opened his eyes to see how this was received – ‘for one. She’s no alibi. She’s the one who says Juliet never entered the house on Tuesday night. She, better than anyone, knows all about the wheel chair, where it’s kept and that the wheels were squeaking. And’ – he waggled a fat finger — ‘she’s got not one but two motives, and damned strong ones at that. Juliet could have got this doctor-lover struck off the Register and she was trying to drag Eve Counter’s father to the altar. Sex and money, my lad – the basis for most crimes, as you well know! And then there’s the question of this ransom letter. We may not know how that letter was posted but we do know that whoever sent it knew the address of Sir John’s bank. Who better than his one and only daughter? Then there was all this business of rushing forward to pay the ransom money. Very fishy, that! But, of course, if she knew the kidnapping was all a red herring anyhow, she’d be the first one to offer to pay the money-just to put us off the scent. I mean, she wasn’t risking anything, was she? She’d know her five hundred pounds would be perfectly safe.’ He thought moodily for a moment. ‘I think you’d better get the name and address of this doctor chap. If we can’t pick up a lead anywhere else we’ll have to have a word with him.’

  ‘Oh, sir!’ Reproach was written in every line of MacGregor’s handsome face.

  ‘Well, dammit!’ yelped Dover. ‘You don’t expect me to turn a blind eye to murder, do you? Just because you’ve taken a passing fancy to one of the birds in the case! I’m telling you again, Eve Counter’s quite high on my list. And if you’re going to bump somebody off, I can’t imagine a better accomplice than a doctor, can you? We still haven’t found the body-well, I can think of plenty of ways in which a doctor would help there!’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Anyhow, you don’t have to ask the girl herself. You can get the name and address from Sir John. You don’t need to tell him why you want ’em.’

  ‘No, sir. But, surely, you’re not serious about this, sir?’

>   ‘For God’s sake, Sergeant, she’s a possible, same as the others! There’s Mrs Chubb-Smith, for example, either with or without that shiftless son of hers. They’ve got a motive – Juliet was blackmailing them and likely to start again. Sir John must have had business transactions with Mrs Chubb-Smith over that house. She’s bound to know the address of his bank. Neither she nor her son’s got an alibi – although, if you remember, he tried to make us believe at first that he had. Both of ’em would know where the wheel chair was kept and my guess is that Michael Chubb-Smith might well have enough intelligence, and cheek, to cope with that false kidnapping set-up – and find somewhere clever to hide Juliet’s body as well.

  ‘Then there’s William Bondy. We know nothing about his relationship with Juliet Rugg except what he’s told us. He says he wouldn’t touch her with a barge-pole, but he’s a man and she’s a woman, or was, and we all know what that can lead to! He’s no fool-he’s bright enough to have done this job. There’s a good chance he knows the address of Sir John’s bank and he certainly knows all about that wheel chair. And when it comes to the actual killing, he’d probably be the most capable one of the lot. After all, he’s been trained and he’s no doubt had a bit of practice in his time. Whichever way you look at it, he’s been a professional killer all his life. He’d most likely have less scruples than anybody about removing Juliet from the scene.’

  Dover paused for breath and scratched his stomach vigorously.

  ‘Anybody else, sir?’ asked MacGregor, a trifle overwhelmed with all this.

  ‘Well,’ said Dover, ‘apart from your favourites, Hoppold and Bogolepov, I’ve still got my eye on Mrs Rugg and Gordon Pilley. And what about Amy Freel? She let it out that she was a keen student of detective stories – and she tried to “collaborate” with us, remember? And if there’s one thing that stands out a mile in this whole damned case it’s the’- he groped for the word – ‘bloody ingenuity of the thing!’ He smirked triumphantly. ‘It’s got cleverness written all over it-typical amateur stuff. Oh, I know your professional villain sometimes thinks up a fancy scheme, but you’ve got to admit, generally he goes in with a crowbar and a cosh – straightforward like. No real crook’d produce anything as elaborate as this lot, but somebody like Amy Freel might. You can get lots of smart ideas from detective stories – most of ’em won’t work for a minute in real life, but they might, with a bit of luck, give people like us a minor headache or two to begin with. Let’s face it, there are one or two details in this case we haven’t got cleared up yet.’