by Joyce Porter
‘It was brilliant!’ said MacGregor, who’d hardly been able to believe his ears, ‘It was just brilliant, sir!’
‘Yes, not bad, I reckon,’ agreed Dover with great self-satisfaction. ‘You need imagination to be a successful detective, you know, Sergeant! And a good logical brain, of course.’
‘Well, that’s that, isn’t it, sir?’ MacGregor closed his notebook. ‘What are you going to do now? Get a warrant?’
Dover frowned horribly and began to gnaw at a bit of loose skin near his thumb-nail, ‘I’m sure we’ve got the answer,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but we haven’t got an ounce of proof. Supposing Bogolepov and the Hoppold woman both saw Juliet Rugg on Tuesday night – it still doesn’t prove they killed her! There may be some quite normal explanation. And this letter business, it’s only a theory.’ He chewed his thumb a bit more.
‘Well, we can easily check the ransom letter bit, sir,’ proffered Sergeant MacGregor. ‘Miss McLintock may even remember the name and address, but, even if she doesn’t, there won’t be all that many refugee places that get bundles of old clothes. We can get the London boys to go round the lot and ask whether anybody remembers posting a letter.’
‘All right,’ said Dover grudgingly, ‘you’d better try that straight away. Be very useful if we could tie up that letter definitely with Bogolepov – but I’d be surprised if he’s been such a fool as to put his name and address on the parcel.’
‘Well, you never know your luck,’ said MacGregor with the unquenchable optimism of youth.
‘Hm,’ grunted Dover, ‘I know mine, all right!’ He sighed. ‘Well, we’ll wait and see what results you get from the refugee organization side of things. It may give us the whole case in a nutshell and we’ll have something to go on that’ll stand up to examination in court’ If it doesn’t – well, I dunno what we can do, other than poke around a bit more. At least we know where to look now.’
‘We could go and see Bogolepov,’ suggested MacGregor.
‘Yes,’ agreed Dover, ‘I don’t think he’ll be a very tough nut to crack, all things considered. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always try thumping the truth out of him. I’ve been itching to get my boot up his backside ever since I first clapped eyes on him.’
‘You don’t mean that we should go and beat him up, do you, sir?’ MacGregor had heard some horrifying stories about Dover’s rather unorthodox methods but this was going a bit too far. He began to sweat gently at the prospect of standing up in court to justify a confession obtained by the toe of Dover’s boot.
‘Why not?’ asked Dover in surprise. ‘He’s a murderer, isn’t he? You can’t be too squeamish in this job, MacGregor’ You’ve got to use your fists as well as your brains, you know! As long,’ he added piously, ‘as you’re careful not to leave any marks.’
Chapter Fourteen
UNFORTUNATELY, the worst nearly came to the worst. Chief Inspector Dover retired to the local police headquarters in Creedon to wait while Sergeant MacGregor got on with the work. His unexpected arrival struck fear and horror into the hearts of the entire staff, not excluding the Chief Constable himself, who paled at the thought that the episode of the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square might be re-created in some even more devastating form.
Dover’s brooding, scowling face did little to restore morale. For want of somewhere better to go he descended on the local C.I.D. inspector and caught that unfortunate man, once again, in the process of filling in his football pools.
Dover sniffed. ‘Glad to see you can spare the time,’ he commented nastily, and installing himself in the leather armchair, the only comfortable one in the room, he propped his feet up on the radiator, tipped his bowler hat over his eyes and promptly fell asleep.
The local inspector gazed miserably at him and then, with a guilty movement, slipped his football pools out of sight under the blotter. He took one of the official files out of his in-tray and, after another sidelong glance at the sleeping Dover, he began, rather hopelessly, to read it.
An hour later the Chief Constable popped his head round the door. Dover was still well away and snoring valiantly through his open mouth. Mr Bartlett tiptoed into the room.
‘What’s he doing here?’ he whispered.
The local inspector shrugged his shoulders.
The Chief Constable leaned closer. ‘Damned funny way to conduct a murder case, if you ask me,’ he breathed. ‘I thought they were supposed to have got a lead somewhere. Has he said anything to you?’
The inspector silently shook his head. Both men stared at Dover.
‘Oh well, none of our business, I suppose,’ said the Chief Constable, his words barely audible. ‘What I really came in for was to ask you about Tottenham. How about them for a draw this week?’
The local inspector shook his head again – it was a respectful reproof.
‘Oh?’ said Mr Bartlett, and with a sigh tiptoed out of the room, closing the door noiselessly behind him.
When five o’clock came the local inspector began to get worried. It was his time for knocking off but he didn’t like leaving Dover fast asleep in his chair without so much as a word. He didn’t fancy waking him up to wish him good night, either. Fortunately the arrival of Sergeant MacGregor delivered him from his dilemma.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ the sergeant began courteously, ‘have you seen . . . Oh, there he is.’
Dover choked on a final snore, coughed unpleasantly and woke up.
‘And about time, too!’ he snarled at his sergeant. ‘What did you do? Walk to London and back again?’
He caught sight of the local inspector, who was hovering uncertainly by his desk.
‘What the hell are you doing here?’ Dover demanded.
The inspector jumped. ‘Oh, nothing, nothing at all, sir!’ he gabbled, grabbing his hat and coat. ‘I was just going!’
‘Good!’ snapped Dover. ‘Don’t forget your football pools !’
The local inspector made a confused exit.
Dover rose unwillingly from his easy-chair and went to sit behind the desk. ‘Well,’ he remarked in passing, with a contemptuous nod at the door through which the inspector had gone, ‘looks as though there’s hope for you yet, doesn’t it, Sergeant?’
Sergeant MacGregor smiled, faintly.
‘Well, we’ve had a bit of joy from London, sir,’ he announced, ‘but not enough to solve all our difficulties. Luckily Miss McLintock remembered the name of the refugee organization – apparently she’s sent a few things there herself from time to time. I phoned through to the Yard and they sent a chap round right away. Most of the staff there are voluntary part-timers but the appeals organizer, or whoever it is, is a regular full-time person and she remembers the letter being found by one of the women who were unpacking the parcels on Saturday morning.
The woman just handed it in to the office – they quite often find things which have been packed by mistake and this is the normal procedure – and the organizer woman posted it herself. She remembered the pencilled address. So we can tie that letter up quite definitely with a parcel posted to the refugee organization, but I’m afraid that’s about all.’
‘What about the parcel itself?’
‘No joy there I’m afraid, sir. Apparently this is what happens. When the parcels come in they unpack them and sort out the clothes into big sacks-one for trousers, one for overcoats, one for children’s clothes and so on. If the sender’s included his name and address, they write it down in a book and he gets a printed thank-you letter in due course. The Yard chap checked the book. No sign of Bogolepov’s name,’
‘What about the paper the parcel was wrapped in?’
‘They save all the paper and string and sell it for what it’s worth to the pulp merchants. It’s collected monthly. Unfortunately last Monday was the day for collecting it, so there’s no hope in that direction.’
‘Well, how about the clothes themselves? Don’t tell me they’ve been shipped out to darkest Africa already.’
M
acGregor grinned. ‘No, sir. There’s just a faint hope that we might be able to get our hands on them. Everything they get is sorted out again into sizes and things like that and then they examine it all to see if it wants washing or mending or anything. I gave the Yard a list of what Juliet was wearing and they’re going to search all through the stuff and see if they can find it. Mr Pilley provided us with an excellent description, if you remember, so they shouldn’t have any difficulty in picking it out – not in those sizes. I suggested they put a couple of policewomen on the job. They’ll be better at it than the men.’
Dover grunted. ‘Well, it all helps, I suppose, but I’d feel much happier if we’d something a bit firmer to go on.’
‘Surely this is enough, sir?’
The chief inspector blew disgustedly down his nose. ‘It’s all very circumstantial,’ he grumbled, as though it was MacGregor’s fault, ‘We can prove that whoever wrote that ransom letter had, at least, access to Juliet Rugg’s dead body. We can prove that the letter was sent in a parcel to this refugee place. We can probably prove that her clothes were sent there, too.’
‘And we can prove that Boris Bogolepov sent the parcel,’ MacGregor chipped in. ‘What more do you want?’
‘We can prove that Bogolepov sent a parcel,’ corrected Dover, ‘we can establish a strong possibility that his parcel was the one containing the ransom letter and Juliet’s clothes, but we haven’t actually got proof that it was.’
‘But what about the message he got via Juliet from the chemist?’
‘Proves that he saw Juliet after she got back to Irlam Old Hall on that Tuesday night. Very suspicious, I grant you, but it’s a damned long way from proving he killed her. No, there’s no doubt about it, what we’ve got is a bit on the thin side. I’d be much happier if I knew why he’d done it and what he did with the body after he’d done it We still don’t know a blind thing about that’
There was a depressing silence.
‘Oh, there’s one other minor point, sir,’ said MacGregor, ‘I think we can prove Bogolepov knew the address of Sir John’s bank. Do you remember he said he’d sold Sir John a six-speed electric razor? We can easily find out if the old man paid by cheque-if he did, well, that’s how our friend Boris got the bank’s address in London.’
‘Yes,’ said Dover with a shrug, ‘well, every little helps, doesn’t it? Even if it’s not much.’
‘I suppose the crux of the matter is, sir,’ began MacGregor, frowning in concentration, ‘Juliet’s dead body. If we could find out where that is, or what’s happened to it. . . ’
‘Well, I’m damned if I can see how he’s disposed of it. He hasn’t even got a car.’
‘No, but Miss Hoppold has.’
‘A two-seater sports!’ snorted Dover. ‘And Juliet Rugg weighed sixteen stone! Can you imagine anybody humping that much dead meat around in a tiny car? Besides, Miss What’s-her-name – Amy Freel – said that nobody took a car out on the Wednesday. Of course,’ he added with a sigh, ‘she may be wrong, but even if they got it away from Irlam Old Hall, where the devil is it now?’
‘How about getting a search warrant for Bogolepov’s house, and for Miss Hoppold’s for that matter?’
Dover sighed crossly. ‘I suppose we’ll have to, though where on earth you can hide a dead body in an all-electric bungalow,
I’m damned if I know! Of course, they might just have stuck it in a cupboard – that’s been done before, heaven knows – but it’s a terrible risk and those two have kept their heads pretty well so far. And what about the smell? Juliet’s been dead-how long?- nine days? And all that fat! Gawd, it doesn’t bear thinking about!’
He sighed again. ‘Oh well, we shall have to do something. We’d better go and pay a call on Mister Bogolepov and see if we can get anything out of him, one way or another. We’ll get a search warrant as well. Can’t do any harm.’
It was well after seven o’clock when the two detectives, armed with their search warrants, arrived once again at Irlam Old Hall. For some reason known only to himself Dover decided to go to the back door of Bogolepov’s bungalow. There was a light on in the kitchen and a radio was playing sofdy.
Dover thumped morosely on the door. After quite a long delay – Dover’s fist was already raised for the second assault – it was opened and Boris Bogolepov’s drawn, handsome face peered out into the darkness.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Dover, very formal. ‘May we come in?’
Boris frowned. ‘We are just about to have dinner. It is not very convenient. Perhaps you will come back later, yes?’
Dover inserted his boot in the closing door.
‘And perhaps we won’t,’ he growled. ‘We want to have a word with you now, if you don’t mind, sir.’
Boris shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well,’ he said, and turned back into the room.
Dover and MacGregor followed him into the kitchen.
‘Well, well! How very romantic!’ Dover, bowler hat still on his head, leisurely surveyed the scene. It was not quite what he had come to expect from the Bogolepov menage, though he was not surprised to find Eulalia Hoppold forming part of the decor. She was standing by the electric cooker and, as Dover and MacGregor came in, she pushed a casserole back in the oven and impatiently slammed the door shut.
‘Well, well!’ said Dover again. ‘We seem to have interrupted a little celebration.’
The kitchen table, rather incongruously, was formally laid out with a white linen cloth, long-stemmed wine glasses, silver knives and forks, a bowl of spring flowers and even a six-branched candelabra. Obviously an elegant little dinner party for two was about to take place.
Boris, looking quite respectable and even more handsome than usual in a clean white shirt and black jeans, silendy sat down on one of the chairs at the table, and, lounging nonchalandy, waited for what was going to happen next.
Eulalia took off her apron with resolution. ‘Well?’ she demanded in a hostile manner. ‘And what do you two want?’
Dover stared thoughtfully at her. He spoke, without turning his head, to MacGregor. ‘Switch off that bloody row !5 he barked, and waited grimly while the radio was silenced.
‘An Englishman’s home is his castle,’ drawled Boris to nobody in particular.
‘I hope you know what you are doing, Chief Inspector.’ Eulalia Hoppold’s voice was icy. ‘I am not without influence in certain quarters.’
‘Shut up!’ snapped Dover. ‘I’ll deal with you in a minute. Right now I want to have a chat with Mister’ – the word was a sneer – ‘with Mister Bogolepov.’
He swung a chair up to the table and sat down facing Boris.
‘But, please, don’t let me stop you getting on with your dinner,’ he said with mock consideration, ‘I should hate to cause you any inconvenience.’
‘Perhaps, my dear sir, you will join us?’ Boris was not to be outdone in the exchange of politenesses. ‘I am sure there will be enough for all – that is, if you do not mind taking pot luck.’ He gave a rather disagreeable snigger.
For a second Dover hesitated. He was, he realized, extremely hungry. He’d not had a bite to eat since lunch, except for two cups of tea and a pork pie in the police canteen, and the stew or whatever it was in the cooker was sending out a most delicious aroma. Then, with a manful effort, he put the temptation aside. After all he was, he hoped, practically on the point of arresting Bogolepov for murder and it might be going a bit too far to start sharing his dinner with him. Besides, he didn’t want the blooming business dragging on all night. No, better not.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ he said at last, and there was an audible sigh of relief from Sergeant MacGregor who, using the deep freeze as a rest for his notebook, had been anxiously awaiting his chief inspector’s answer.
‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’ tempted Boris.
‘All right,’ said Dover, and quite unperturbed watched Boris remove the bottle from its bucket of ice and pour him out a glass of a cool, yellow-white liquid.
Dover sipped it cautiously. It wasn’t at all bad.
‘A glass for you, Sergeant?’ asked Boris with a grin.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ replied MacGregor as frigidly as he dared.
‘Well now, my dear Inspector,’ said Boris, running his hand carelessly through his black hair, ‘what can we do for you?’
‘Just one or two litde points we want to clear up, sir,’ said Dover blandly.
Eulalia moved away from the cooker. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to go?’ she asked.
‘No, I’d like you to stay, too, madam. There are one or two little points you might be able to clear up for us as well.’
Eulalia glared at him and then sat down at the table.
‘Now, sir’ – Dover turned back to Boris – ‘can you remember selling a six-speed electric razor to Sir John Counter some little time ago?’
Boris frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking puzzled.
‘How much did Sir John pay you for it?’
Boris’s frown deepened. He flashed a quick glance at Eulalia whose eyes, however, were riveted on Dover’s face.
‘Ten pounds.’
‘I see. Did he pay for it by cash or by cheque ?’
‘He gave me a cheque.’
‘I see, sir. And how long ago was this?’
Boris shrugged. ‘About a month, five weeks, perhaps.’
‘A month or five weeks,’ repeated Dover slowly. ‘I see, sir. Now, this business of you being a registered drug addict, sir, could you give me the name and address of the doctor who’s dealing with your case, the one who authorizes your prescription?’