by Joyce Porter
‘Oh?’ said Dover, inspecting the club morosely in his turn. The girls and the waiters stared reproachfully back at him through the gloom. Even MacGregor broke off the animated conversation he was having with Alicia to look questioningly at his lord and master. ‘I thought I was responsible for the falling off in trade.’
Sorrowfully Joey shook his head. ‘No, not really. There wasn’t more than a couple here when you turned up. We let ’em out the back way, same as usual. And I’ll dare bet Fred downstairs hasn’t turned away more than three of them since you’ve been here.’
‘Why turn ’ em away?’ asked Dover. ‘ It all looks harmless enough to me.’
Joey winked and grinned broadly. ‘Ah, well, there’s maybe a bit more than meets the eye, Mr Dover. I don’t keep a dozen of Fluffy Chicks sitting around just to look pretty, you know.’
‘Fluffy Chicks?’
‘I couldn’t have Rabbits,’ explained Joey bitterly. ‘Something about fringing some bleeding copyright. So I made’em Fluffy Chicks. Hadn’t you noticed? They’re all dressed up in chicken costumes and bleeding expensive they were, too.’
Dover peered round. ‘Oh, yes,’ he said doubtfully, ‘I see.’
‘Of course,’ Joey rested his chin on his hands, ‘those Bunny girls, they have all sorts of funny rules about them. Treat ’em more like they was Vestry Virgins than nipping tarts what’s there to take your mind off the bill. I don’t have any of that sort of nonsense here. Besides, if you ask me, I think it’s nasty – all those girls with fishnet tights and cleavage just for looking at. What sort of bleeding degenerates do they get there anyhow? It wouldn’t do for my customers, I can tell you. Whatever else they are, they have got red blood in their veins.’
Dover sighed. Neither Bunnies nor Fluffy Chicks sparked off a flicker of interest in him. The bench on which he was sitting was beginning to make its presence felt, even through the ample layers of flesh which protected the relevent part of Dover ‘s anatomy. It is highly possible that he would have chucked it in there and then if yet another dully glowing glass of whisky had not appeared before him. With the air of one sacrificing himself for the cause he picked up the glass. ‘What about Cochran?’ he asked. It was as good a way of passing the time as any.
Joey the Jock was showing signs of restlessness, too. It’s one thing to give the cops a warm welcome when they call, but quite another to go pouring drink down their fat throats for hours on end. And this podgy old slob wasn’t the world’s brightest conversationalist by a long chalk.
‘Cochran?’ said Joey. ‘That young flatfoot? Here, there’s a story going round that he jumped off Cully Point. That’s a turn up for the book, eh? Last person in the world I’d have thought would have done anything like that. What did he do it for? Suffering from some incurable disease, was he? Mind you, I can think of a couple that young fellow-me-lad could have picked up, but you can get treatment for ’em these days and it’s quite confidential.’
Dover eyed Joey the Jock with some amazement. Out of the mouth of fools, he thought, … still, it was an idea and one, as it happened, that had not occurred either to himself or to Clever Boots MacGregor. An incurable disease? Yes, that would be a nice tidy solution which should satisfy everybody. He must get MacGregor to follow it up. No, on second thoughts, since it looked like being the most productive line so far, he’d follow it up himself and let the credit fall where it was due – on his worthy shoulders.
‘Did Cochran look as though he was ill?’ he asked Joey.
Joey shook his head. ‘No, fit as a fiddle and twice as lively as a cricket the last time I saw him.’
‘And when was that?’
Joey wrinkled his brow in thought. ‘Oh, I suppose about ten days or a fortnight ago. I forget now. He was in here one night, semi-official like, asking about Hamilton. Same as you’re doing, Mr Dover,’ added Joey with a chuckle. ‘You’d better look out! Or keep away from Cully Point!’
‘And what did you tell him about Hamilton?’
‘Nothing that he didn’t already know. Hamilton was in here most nights, used to have a few drinks, do a bit of business, you know, have a chat, as you might say, with one of the girls.’ Joey winked and dug Dover slyly in the ribs. ‘I’ve got a couple of private rooms round the back if you … No? Oh well, suit yourself. Well, this last night before he died Hamilton was in here about the same time. I think he was expecting to meet somebody but they didn’t turn up. Not that there was anything unusual in that. It often happened. Anyhow, Hamilton sat around drinking until about half past midnight. Then he decided to call it a day and asked me to get a taxi for him. He’d done it once or twice before. He’d pick up his own car again in the morning. I rang up for a cab and off he went and that was the last I saw of him.’
‘Was Cochran in the Club that night?’
‘Well, I don’t really remember … no, I don’t think he was. He’d have been sitting with Hamilton if he had been and I’d have remembered that.’
‘Were they in this money-lending business together?’
Joey opened his eyes very wide and made a comical show of being shocked. ‘What are you suggesting, Mr Dover, and him a policeman! No, him and Hamilton were pretty thick but that was social, not business. They were both bits of devils where the girls were concerned, but that’s as far as it went. Besides, Hamilton wouldn’t have shared a crust of bread with a starving kid, never mind split a lucrative little racket like the one he’d worked up with somebody like Cochran, who’d no capital to put up. Mind you, I was beginning to wonder if perhaps Cochran was going to try and muscle in. He’d have been a tough proposition to hold off if he had. He must have known quite a lot about Hamilton and his little games.’
‘Did Cochran come here often?’
‘To the Club? A fair amount. He was a member, of course. I wasn’t too keen at first on having a bleeding flattie hanging around the place, but after a bit I realized he was keeping his mouth shut even if his eyes was open. Besides, what with one thing and another I reckoned I’d got as much on him as he had on me.’ Joey’s eyes twinkled. ‘ There are limits, you know, about how far a policeman’s supposed to go in the line of duty and young Cochran went way, way beyond ’ em. You ask any of my girls.’
At this point in the conversation one of the waiters came up to Joey and whispered confidentially in his ear.
Joey listened and looked annoyed. ‘ Hell’s bells!’ he complained. ‘Not that old fool againl I told him last time he was getting past it.’
‘Shall I get a doctor?’ murmured the waiter.
‘Christ; no!’ said Joey. ‘I’ll come and sort it out. I’m sorry, Mr Dover, there’s a bit of trouble in the kitchen. Still, I don’t think there’s anything more I can tell you, so if you’ll excuse me … You can find your own way out, can’t you?’
Joey hurried off. MacGregor, who had been watching impatiently, abandoned his Fluffy Chick to come and join Dover.
‘Any luck, sir?’
‘Hamilton was financing bank robbers and the like in return for a share in the loot. He used to meet his clients here. It looks as though young Cochran had a pretty shrewd idea about what was going on, but what’s-his-name doesn’t think he was in on it. Not yet, anyhow.’
MacGregor whistled silently. ‘Gosh, sir, that looks promising, doesn’t it?’
‘Does it?’ said Dover unenthusiastically.
‘Well, yes, sir! It all ties up with what we thought before. Suppose Hamilton got mixed up with a bunch of really tough crooks and they had it in for him over something. Maybe he shopped them or cheated them. They decide to beat him up, perhaps, or even kill him, but he dies first. So they dump his body as a sort of awful warning. Then Cochran starts nosing around, his motive doesn’t matter, finds out who’s responsible for the Hamilton business so they fix him, too …’
‘Look,’ said Dover, ‘for the umpteenth time – nobody fixed Cochran. He committed suicide. Damn it, I was there! Do you think I wouldn’t have noticed a gang of murderers up on
Cully Point? I’m not blind, laddie. Besides, my wife – blast her – actually saw Cochran with her own eyes climb over the railings and jump. There was nobody else around for miles.’
‘But sir,’ began MacGregor, eager to propound all three of the theories he had dreamed up to explain this little difficulty, ‘ suppose …’
He missed his chance. Two of the dumber Fluffy Chicks came swaying over to the table and sat down. It was a purely reflex action, triggered off by the sight of a couple of unaccompanied men. Both Chicks had been told that these men were detectives but the information had either not sunk in or had long ago seeped out. As Joey himself would have been the first to claim, he didn’t choose his girls for their brains.
‘Are you going to buy us a drink, dearie?’ asked the blonde Chick, slipping a befeathered arm round Dover’s neck and ruining what could have been a beautiful friendship, by her thoughtless question.
‘Hop it!’ said Dover bluntly.
MacGregor unwound his Chick, a brunette with greedy eyes and clutching hands, and tried to push her away.
But the Chicks had their living to earn and knew only too well that maidenly modesty got you nowhere. They settled themselves down resolutely, smoothed their feathers and reiterated their demands for liquid refreshment. The blonde Chick even took a sip out of Dover’s glass to show that she was serious.
‘Ooh!’ she chirped. ‘That’s a drop of the real stuff! We’ll have four more just like that, Ernie!’
The waiter, who had materialized out of the darkness said, ‘Very good, sir!’ and scuttled away before Dover could, stop him.
MacGregor, sensing that he was going to get the blame for all this, tried to reassure his pouting superior. ‘We shan’t get rid of them without buying them a drink, sir.’
‘We shan’t get rid of them by buying them one, either,’ retorted Dover sourly as the waiter appeared flourishing a tray with four glasses on it.
‘Thirty-seven and six, sir,’ he said calmly as he put the drinks down on the table.
Dover came within an inch of breaking a blood vessel. ‘ What is it?’ he spluttered. ‘Molten gold?’
‘We call ’em the Kiss of Death, sir. One of our specialities.’
MacGregor reached resignedly for his wallet, but the Chief Inspector stopped him.
‘They’re on the house,’ he said. ‘We’re guests of the manager.’
‘First I’ve heard of it,’ said the waiter, beginning to get nasty. ‘Thirty-seven and six, service not included.’
‘We can’t buy drinks,’ Dover pointedly out triumphantly. ‘We’re not members. It’s against the law.’
Silently the waiter fished in his pocket and produced two small, plastic-covered cards. He placed them carefully on the table. ‘You’ve been made honorary members, sir. Compliments of the management. Thirty-seven and six.’
Stupefied, Dover accepted defeat and permitted MacGregor to settle their account.
The two Fluffy Chicks had watched the proceedings with interest.
‘Drink up, Syb,’ said the blonde one who now realized she had made a bad mistake in choosing Dover. ‘ There’s no more where this one came from. I don’t know where the real gentlemen have got to these days, honest I don’t.’
The brunette Chick was not quite so pessimistic. She, after all, had got the dashing MacGregor who was beginning to repulse her advances with diminishing vigour. If only they could get rid of that fat old devil, and the blonde Chick, the whole evening might not yet be lost. ‘You’ve got lovely eyes, dearie,’ she said, nearly gouging one out with the artificial beak perched on top of her head as she advanced her face to the sergeant’s. ‘Did anybody ever tell you you’ve got lovely eyes?’
MacGregor lowered them bashfully to the table, Dover’s presence inhibiting an otherwise rather polished technique.
‘Ain’t he got lovely eyes, Peg?’ demanded the brunette Chick, feeling that her opening gambit was too good to abandon.
‘Smashin’,’ agreed her companion, busily trying to extract a quill which was piercing painfully through her down-covered brassiere.
‘D’you know,’ said the brunette Chick thoughtfully, ‘he’s got eyes just like Chauncey, when you come to look at ’em close.’
‘Oh, Chauncey!’ said the blonde Chick in disparaging tones.
This idle remark evidently re-festered an old sore. The brunette Chick grew quite annoyed. ‘ Yes, Chauncey!’ she repeated, sitting very upright and fluffing out her feathers. ‘And what’s wrong with Chauncey, may I ask?’
‘Oh, nothing! ’Cept he seems to have had the good taste to drop you like a hot brick.’
‘You mangy old cat! Just because he’s not been in for a night or two, there’s no call for you to go venting your spite.’
‘Just a night or two!’ The blonde Chick let fly with a raucous shriek of laughter. ‘He’s not been in for months and well you know it! That’s what comes of trying to keep a fellow all to yourself, dearie. He gets dead bored with you!’
The brunette Chick, predictably, refuted this unkind observation and proceeded to counter-attack with a few barbed criticisms concerning a certain Charlie. Before long both ladies were swopping insults with gusto and imagination.
MacGregor switched off completely and passed the time thinking his own dark thoughts, but in the recesses of Dover’s mind a nebulous something had been nudged into wakefulness. In a lesser man, or in a lesser detective, the matter might have been ignored and the hazy memory that the name Chauncey had been heard before would have been allowed to sink back into the morass. But Chief Inspector Dover, for motives which remain obscure but were certainly inspired, decided to pursue the problem.
He interrupted the Chicks. ‘Who’s Chauncey?’ he demanded.
The Chicks, who had left Chauncey a good five minutes altercation behind, gaped at him open-beaked.
‘Chauncey?’ repeated the brunette Chick, suddenly on her guard. ‘Chauncey? Oh, he’s a chap I know. One of the members, as a matter of fact.’ She exchanged a warning glance with the blonde Chick and, tossing off the remains of their drinks, they both prepared to take their leave.
‘Sit down!’ growled Dover, his mind rootling away to unearth where he had heard the name Chauncey before. ‘Is Chauncey his Christian name?’
The brunette Chick nodded.
‘What’s his surname?’
The brunette Chick smiled brightly. ‘I’m afraid I’m not allowed to tell members the name of other members. You’ll have to ask the manager.’
‘I’m asking you,’ said Dover heavily and menacingly. ‘ Don’t start trying to make things difficult for yourself.’
‘Oh, tell him, for gawd’s sake!’ advised the blonde Chick who had a wide experience of policemen turning nasty on you.
‘Why don’t you tell him?’ her friend asked. ‘You know his name as well as I do.’
‘Because he wasn’t my fancy man, that’s why!’ the blonde Chick retorted haughtily, preening a feather or two on her scanty costume.
‘Come on!’ said Dover in a voice that indicated his meagre supply of patience was running out.
‘It’s Davenport,’ the brunette chick said, ‘Chauncey Theobald Davenport, if you must know.’
‘And she can give you a description of his birth marks if you want.’ added her sister Chick unkindly.
Dover’s eyes crossed slightly as he concentrated. MacGregor, fearful that the old fool was on to something, watched him intently.
‘Ah!’ said Dover and smiled with an air of great satisfaction. ‘Chauncey Davenport.’
It was the name of one of the two men who had been brought into the police station when Dover had been trying to report the suicide which his wife had so inconsiderately witnessed. He was the one in the striped underpants. The one without a sense of humour who had started the fight. The one who had refused, dramatically, to let the police surgeon examine his wounds.
‘Ah!’ said Dover again, with the express intention of mystifying MacGregor. In fac
t, if it hadn’t been for the expression of frustrated fury on MacGregor’s face, Dover might have let the matter drop there and then. Had he done so it is highly unlikely that the mystery of Constable Cochran’s death would ever have been solved. From such small acorns great big oak trees grow.
‘Hm,’ said Dover, jutting his bottom lip out portentously. ‘Very interesting,’ he murmured and shot a glance at MacGregor to see how this was going down. Apparently it was going down very well. MacGregor was fidgetting impatiently and clearly dying to ask what it was all about. ‘Hm,’ said Dover again, wondering hard what he could say next.
The two Fluffy Chicks watched him suspiciously.
‘This Chauncey what’s-his-name,’ Dover plunged in rashly, ‘ you say he’s stopped, er, coming to the Club?’
The brunette Chick nodded her head unwillingly.
‘When did he stop?’
‘Oh, months and months ago,’ chipped in the blonde Chick spitefully.