by Joyce Porter
‘Sir?’
‘Oh nothing!’ Dover couldn’t bear to wait any longer. He grabbed his knife and fork and, after a quick glance at MacGregor to make sure that he was still hale and hearty, started in on the bacon and eggs. ‘Well, go on, laddie!’
‘The doctor was a little surprised at the extent and severity of Mrs Boyle’s injuries but she was, of course, a very heavy old woman and she must have fallen extremely awkwardly. He’s quite satisfied, however, that none of the injuries was inflicted after the fall. In any case, he considers that the shock alone would have been enough to kill her.’
‘Somebody give her a shove?’
‘Oh, no, sir! It was a much more carefully set up job than that. I don’t think there’s any doubt but that this was a matter of cold-blooded, deliberate murder. Somebody had fastened a length of fine wire across the top of the stairs, here outside your room. Anybody going either up or down would almost certainly have tripped over it and gone crashing down the stairs. It’s a long, steep flight, sir, and . . .’
‘You’re telling me!’ grumbled Dover.
‘. . . and anyone plunging down like that would have been extremely lucky not to be killed. It looks as though Mrs Boyle was ascending the stairs when she tripped. She actually broke the wire but she still must have lost her footing in the dark – and that was that.’
‘In the dark?’ Dover stopped digging the marmalade out with his butter knife. ‘I left the light on.’
‘I fancy the murderer must have switched it off again, sir. With the only switch being here at the top of the stairs, Mrs Boyle had no choice but to come up in the dark. I was the first on the scene, sir, after the screams, and the staircase was in darkness then. I’m afraid Mr Lickes is going to have to answer some very awkward questions at the inquest. I can see the coroner wanting to know why there wasn’t another light switch at the bottom of the stairs. Mr Lickes’s excuse that our two rooms are hardly ever used isn’t going to be very acceptable, I’m afraid.’
‘Yes,’ grunted Dover. ‘Well, let’s not waste any time snivelling over Lickes’s trouble. We’ve got enough of mine to sweat about. Now – this bit of wire. Suppose somebody had been at the top of the stairs, coming down and with the light on – would the wire have tripped him then?’
MacGregor looked thoughtfully at ‘somebody’ and nodded his head. ‘Almost certainly, sir. It was very cunningly placed, though whether this was by accident or design, we don’t know.’
‘What do you mean – you don’t know?’ asked Dover, moodily pouring himself out another cup of tea.
‘It’s the hook that was screwed in the wall, sir. The murderer didn’t bore a special hole for it. He merely inserted it in a crack in the woodwork that was already there. So the fact that he got his wire stretched across at just the right height and everything could be a lucky coincidence.’
‘I like your idea of luck!’ snarled Dover. ‘You wouldn’t be so bloody detached about everything if it was your neck in the firing line.’ By a natural progression of ideas, Dover suddenly realized that he was sitting right in front of the window with only MacGregor’s body between him and certain death. Any Charlie out there in the grounds with a high-velocity, telescopic-sighted rifle could . . . He got up and went and sat on the bed. ’Strewth, you needed eyes in the back of your head at this game!
MacGregor blushed for him. ‘Would you like a cigarette, sir?’ he asked, recalling that tobacco was supposed to be a sovereign remedy for the blue funk.
Dover, however, was not going to be caught napping as easily as that. ‘You light it,' he ordered, ‘and have a few drags first.’
‘Oh, sir,' laughed MacGregor awkwardly, ‘you don’t really think . . .’
‘I bloody well do! Look, after I came up to bed last night, some bastard came creeping out, fixed that wire up and put the light off. Well, he wasn’t setting traps for flipping rabbits, was he? Here,' – he broke off this masterly analysis of the criminal mind to snatch the cigarette out of MacGregor’s mouth – ‘there’s no need to puff it down to a blooming dog end! ’Strewth,' – he filled his lungs and erupted into a series of hacking coughs – ‘you don’t half smoke some cheap muck!’ MacGregor declined to be side-tracked into a discussion about the quality of the cigarettes he purchased for his superior officer’s consumption. ‘You were saying about the murderer, sir.’
CI don’t need you to tell me what I was saying, laddie,' snapped Dover, spacing the words out between further coughs. ‘The day I can’t out-remember you, you can nail the lid down on me. That wire was put up for one of two people: you or me. Well, nobody’s going to get out of a warm bed on a cold night just to snuff you out, are they?’
‘Detective Inspector Stokes is working on the theory that Mrs Boyle was the intended victim, sir.’
‘More fool him! Who’d want to croak old Ma Boyle?’
‘She was a rather unpopular lady, sir.’
‘And why should anybody expect her to be coming up those stairs? Nobody could have foreseen that. There’s only your room and mine up here.’
MacGregor got his cigarette case out again and slowly fit himself a cigarette. He needed time to think. If he didn’t choose his words very carefully, Dover would just go clean through the roof. Well, actually he would, anyhow, once he understood. ‘The local police have a sort of tentative theory about that, too, sir.’
‘Oh?’
MacGregor steeled himself. He managed a silly grin. ‘It involves casting you as the murderer, sir. Of course,’ he added diplomatically as Dover’s pasty face took on a brilliant purple hue, ‘they allow you were probably drunk at the time.’ Even Dover’s ravings eventually ran out of steam. Two more cigarettes and a cup of cold tea helped to abate the fury but MacGregor had to wait until physical exhaustion set in before he could continue.
‘I felt it was only fair to warn you what you were up against, sir. The whole thing is absolutely ridiculous, of course, but it’s no good our burying our heads in the sand, is it?’
‘I’d like to bury your head in boiling oil!’ came the ungracious rejoinder. ‘Of course, I might have expected it. Let you out of my sight for a couple of minutes and you’re stabbing me in the bloody back. Anybody else’d have given this What’s-his-name a punch up the bracket.’
‘I hardly think that would have helped much, sir. You see, it’s not just Inspector Stokes. It’s all the witnesses.’
‘Witnesses?’ howled Dover. ‘What bloody witnesses? My God, I’m being framed! How can there be any witnesses when I didn’t so much as lay a fist on the old bitch?’
MacGregor pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. ‘Listen, sir, the local police know all about your feud with Mrs Boyle. The way they see it, you upset her by making a noise late at night and she retaliated by publicly insulting you in the hotel dining-room. Last night, things went a stage further.’ MacGregor stole a glance at Dover’s face. ‘It’s no good looking like that, sir. Everybody in the hotel heard the pair of you banging about after we came in. The idea is that, round about half past one this morning, Mrs Boyle went on the offensive again. She’d sworn that she would stop at nothing to get the better of you.’
‘She’d a hope!’ bragged Dover half-heartedly. ‘I could have flattened her with one hand tied behind my back!’ MacGregor nobly refrained from pointing out that this was more or less what Dover was being accused of. ‘For motives which we shall probably never be able to uncover now,’ he went on, ‘she made her way up to your room. Now, according to the theory that you are the murderer, you anticipated this nocturnal visit and put the wire across the stairs to kill her.’
‘But why me?’ whined Dover. ‘I wasn’t the only one who couldn’t stomach the stinking old battle-axe. What about the Kettering woman?’ he demanded, tossing conventional standards of loyalty to the winds. I She’s got one of those magic doll things of old Mother Boyle and she passes the time sticking pins in it.’
MacGregor looked purposefully out of the window. ‘Yes, Miss Kett
ering has told them all about that, sir. She has also informed them that you visited her room last night and yourself stuck a pin in the model.’
‘Female Judas!’ growled Dover. ‘ ’Strewth, you can’t trust anybody these days!’
‘She also told them about the liqueur chocolates you ate, sir.’
‘What the hell’s that got to do with anything?’
‘They think they may have made you a bit tiddly, sir. You ate nearly a pound and, on top of the wine you had at the Studio . . .’
Dover stuck his lower lip out and started thinking. If there was one activity at which he excelled, having had a fair amount of practice, it was saving his own skin. And, underneath that mountain of indolent flesh, there was even a tiny little detective who occasionally managed to struggle out. Dover swung round on MacGregor. ‘What about the wire and the screw?’
‘Well, it’s early days yet, sir, for tracing where they came from. They’re just ordinary things you can buy in any shop.’
‘Buy?’ – Dover pounced on the word. ‘You mean they’re new?’
‘Oh yes, sir. Well, unused anyhow. Personally, from the look of them, I would say they were brand new.’
‘And where am I supposed to have got them from?’
‘Ah,' – MacGregor smiled with relief at being able to convey some more cheerful news – ‘that’s a strong point in your favour, sir. I’ve been able to vouch for the fact that you couldn’t possibly have purchased them since you came to Sully Martin. And they’re hardly the sort of thing you’d have brought with you, are they, sir? Actually, Superintendent Underbarrow’ – he permitted himself a patronizing smirk – ‘suggested that you might have pinched them from the murder bag. However, I was able to reassure him on that point.’
MacGregor need say no more. Both he and Dover knew perfecdy well that the murder bag which MacGregor lugged round from investigation to investigation contained nothing more lethal than a few empty beer bottles, a broken pair of tweezers and the 1934 edition of A Police Constable's Guide To His Daily Work. This is not what murder bags are supposed to contain but at least MacGregor had managed to stop Dover using the one they had been issued with for his dirty washing.
‘Well, that settles it,’ said Dover comfortably. He considered that more than enough time had been spent on red herrings whose trail could only lead to him being stuck in the dock. ‘Now all we’ve got to do is finger the collar of the blighter who was trying to nobble me. Bloody cheek! I’m warning you, I’ll break his blooming neck when I get my hands on him. Well,’ – he barked angrily at MacGregor – ‘what are you dithering about at now? You can’t still think Mrs Boyle was the intended victim.’
MacGregor shook his head. ‘No, sir, I must admit it doesn’t really seem likely. I can’t believe that anybody could have known she was going to come up those stairs last night. On the other hand, though, anyone would be perfectly justified in working on the assumption that you would come down them.’
‘I’m glad you’re showing a bit of gumption at last,’ said Dover. ‘Pity your thinking’s as sloppy as ever.’
‘Sir?’
‘The only ones who’d know for sure that I’d probably have to get up in the middle of the night are the bastards in this apology for an hotel. That narrows the field down for a start.* He began to tick off the names on his stubby fingers. ‘There’s Lickes and his wife. Pile and his daughter, that senile old idiot with his deaf aid, Miss Whatever-her-name-is that wouldn’t say boo to a gander and’ – his lips drew back in a snarl – ‘the Kettering woman. Now that’s one I wouldn’t mind having a bet each way on. Look how she enticed me into her room last night and forced all those chocolate things on me. Any fool could have guessed that they’d play merry hell with my stomach.’ A look of bewilderment passed over his face. ‘The funny thing is, though – they haven’t! Oh, God,’ – he slumped miserably back on to his pillows – ‘I’ll bet she’s gone and constipated me, the silly cow!’
MacGregor’s mind was still on his work. ‘I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as that, sir.’
‘You’re telling me!’ agreed Dover bitterly. ‘Without a word of a lie, I’ve had every specialist in Harley Street scratching his head over my constipation before now. They just can’t fathom out what. . .’
‘No, sir. I meant that we can’t restrict the murder suspects to the people in this hotel. I’m afraid your – er – difficulties are pretty widely known throughout the whole of Sully Martin.’
‘They are?’ Dover didn’t quite know whether to be pleased or not. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Miss Wittgenstein, sir. Apparently Mrs Lickes is a bit of a gossip and she’s been discussing the state of your – er – health when she’s out shopping. Of course, in a little village like this, sir, you are rather a celebrity and it’s only likely that people will take an interest in everything you do. Like a pop star, really, or royalty.’
‘Oh?’ Dover decided to be pleased ‘Well, I suppose it’s understandable.’
‘What it boils down to, sir, is that practically anybody in Sully Martin could have stretched that wire across the stairs. They’d have known from Mrs Lickes that your room was on the second floor and that you were likely to go downstairs at least once during the night.’
Dover frowned. He didn’t care much for the sound of this. Apart from the fact that it smacked of a hell of a lot of work, it made him look so unpopular. ‘Hold your horses, laddie,’ he said. ‘How would an outsider get into the hotel, eh? Any signs of a break-in?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Well, there you are then, aren’t you?’
‘Not quite, sir. You see there was no need to break in. The front door was left open.’
‘What? All blooming night? It’s a wonder we weren’t all murdered in our beds!’
‘I’m afraid I’m responsible, sir,’ said MacGregor, deciding he might as well accept the blame before Dover shoved it on to him.
‘You would be!’
‘Mr Lickes left the door open for us last night, sir, and unfortunately I didn’t think to lock it when we came in. As a matter of fact, what with fumbling round in the dark and everything, I didn’t even close it. Anybody could have hung around out in the grounds, say, until all the bedroom lights went out and then just crept into the hotel and fixed the wire.’
‘Marvellous!’ said Dover. ‘Bloody marvellous!’ He would doubtless have gone on to mine this vein of constructive criticism further if he hadn’t been put off his stroke by a knock at the door. ‘What’s that?’ He clutched a pillow to his chest in a panic-stricken search for comfort and protection.
The door-handle was rattled impatiently.
‘ ’Strewth!’ croaked Dover. ‘They’re trying to break in!’
Outside on the landing Superintendent Underbarrow knocked again. ‘Anybody at home?’ he shouted.
MacGregor got to his feet. ‘It’s Superintendent Underbarrow, sir. Shall I let him in?’ He held out his hand for the key.
Dover fished around reluctantly in his pockets. Old Wheelbarrow was probably all right but there was no future in taking needless risks. ‘Frisk him first!’ he ordered.
‘Oh, sir!’ MacGregor accepted the key and, stoutly resolving that wild horses wouldn’t make him search a senior police officer for concealed weapons, unlocked the door.
Superintendent Underbarrow breezed in. ‘Well, now,’ he asked jovially, ‘and how’s our Number One Suspect, eh?’ Dover snorted in disgust. ‘Oh, very funny!’
‘Just the lads downstairs having a bit of a joke,’ chuckled the superintendent. ‘A mite naughty of ’em, I’ll admit, but your sergeant here was looking so solemn and po-faced they just couldn’t resist pulling his leg.’ He twinkled benevolently at MacGregor. ‘You need a sense of humour in this job, sergeant.’
‘So it seems sir,’ said MacGregor stiffly. ‘I must say that I got the impression that you were making a serious accusation.’
‘Against a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard?
’ asked Superintendent Underbarrow with a grin. ‘That’ll be the day, eh?’
‘But the evidence of the other people in the hotel, sir. They said . . .’
‘They said a lot of things, sergeant, none of which amounted to anything. I don’t know what you fellows up in London do but, down here in the backwoods, we bumpkins don’t start applying for murder warrants just because a bunch of old dodderers start getting spiteful. No,’ – Superintendent Underbarrow settled himself on the foot of the bed – ‘we’ve been talking it over downstairs and we’ve come to a pretty well unanimous conclusion. Of course, we’re keeping an open mind as to the other possibilities but I don’t think there’s much doubt about it. Poor Mrs Boyle was murdered by mistake. They were really after your boss here.’
‘I told you so!’ trumpeted Dover. He turned to Superintendent Underbarrow. ‘Well, and what are you doing about it?’
‘We’re continuing our investigations, of course, and . . .’
‘Continuing your investigations?’ howled Dover. ‘My bloody life’s in danger and all you’re doing is continuing your investigations?’
‘We’re keeping a constable on guard at the bottom of the stairs,' explained Superintendent Underbarrow easily. ‘Don’t worry, old chap, we’ll look after you.’
‘Suppose they try again?’
‘Then we’ll catch ’em,’ said the superintendent with a quiet confidence that was clearly not infectious. ‘Actually, that’s more or less what I’ve popped up to see you about. It’s really Inspector Stokes’s job, of course, but he’s a bit tied up at the moment so I said I’d give him a hand. You see, there’s no two ways about it. The best protection we can give you is to collar this joker before he gets a second chance at you.’
‘Well, you won’t collar him lolling up here on your backside!’ snarled Dover who could see himself lying in a pool of blood while this pack of gibbering idiots discussed the weather over his corpse.
‘Of course not,’ agreed Superintendent Underbarrow soothingly. He’d met people with cold feet before and reckoned he knew how to deal with them. ‘But we’ll need your help, won’t we? If anybody’s likely to know who’s gunning for you, it’s you yourself, isn’t it? Now, you just have a bit of think about it. Who’s got it in for you?’