by Joyce Porter
‘I’ve got a confession to make!’
Dover could have hugged him. A confession! It was the break that every tenth rate, hopelessly bogged down detective prays for. Dover’s face broke into a grin. This’d be one in the eye for MacGregor! Dover had claimed all along that it was old Crouch and, by God, he’d been right.
Still, gratitude was no excuse for not kicking a man when he was down. Dover composed his face into his best we-have-the-means-to-make-you-talk scowl. ‘And about time, too!’ he snarled. ‘Why didn’t you come clean at the beginning instead of putting me to all this bloody trouble?’
Lord Crouch drooped even more dejectedly and sighed. ‘This may take some time,’ he murmured.
‘It’d better not!’ retorted Dover. ‘Look, I don’t want your bleeding life story. A quick cough’ll do me fine. Besides, my lunch’ll be ready in a minute. Er – you got any cigarettes handy?’
‘My sister and I don’t indulge,’ Lord Crouch reminded him timidly.
‘Nothing to stop you keeping a few for your guests, is there?’ muttered Dover crossly but he didn’t pursue the matter. He had just recalled that there were some formalities to be observed. Blooming red tape, of course, but if you didn’t watch your step these days you could bugger everything up. ‘I’ve got to caution you,’ he said with considerably more assurance than he felt. This was one of the many little details that he usually left to MacGregor. Still, needs must when the devil drives. He cleared his throat. ‘Speak now,’ he admonished an astonished Lord Crouch, ‘or forever hold your peace!’
Lord Crouch blinked. ‘Er – isn’t that … isn’t that part of the – er – marriage service, my dear fellow?’
Dover was furious. ‘You trying to teach me my job?’ he demanded.
‘Good heavens, no!’ Lord Crouch sagged even further by the curtains.
‘Well, get on with it then!’ growled Dover. ‘Nothing long-winded, mind! Just a brief statement to the effect that you croaked What’s-his-name, how you did it and why.’
Lord Crouch glanced across at Dover in an agony of indecision. One hesitated to contradict the dear chap, especially when he was an honoured guest under one’s ancestral roof, but, on the other hand, one could hardly be expected to confess to a crime one hadn’t committed just to oblige him. Lord Crouch sweated through his predicament and finally unlocked his jaws. ‘ I didn’t – ah – actually murder Gary, don’t you know.’
Dover swivelled his eyes up to the ceiling. ’Strewth, give him half a chance and this stuttering moron would stretch it out from now until tea-time! ‘All right, all right!’ he snapped. ‘Have it your way. If you want to kid yourself it was manslaughter, that’s fine by me. Just get on with it!’
Lord Crouch appeared to be trying to unscrew both of his hands at the wrists. This interview was turning out to be even more of a nightmare than he had envisaged. ‘I had nothing to do with Gary’s death at all!’ he wailed in an unhappy splutter.
‘Don’t gimme that!’ snarled Dover, glaring from screwed up, piggy eyes.
‘But it’s the truth!’
‘Then what are we doing here, for God’s sake?’
‘I just wanted to tell you about the interview I had on the Sunday night with the poor boy, before he left to catch his train.’
Dover realized that it was a lost cause; he wasn’t known as the Clinging Ivy of Scotland Yard for nothing. ‘ You quarrelled over something,’ he prompted hopefully. ‘And then you sneaked out into the darkness and bashed his head in.’
‘No, no!’ Lord Crouch beat himself on the temple in an effort to get the words out. ‘It’s just that I haven’t been entirely honest and above-board with you about the subject of that interview.’
Dover sagged back sulkily in his chair. ‘You can get twenty years for misleading the police,’ he said.
‘I have to admit that I was evasive.’ Lord Crouch, a man of honour, made the acknowledgement painfully. ‘At the time it seemed essential that I should be. It was important to other people, you see.’
‘What other people?’
‘My business associates,’ croaked Lord Crouch. ‘ My business associates in the merger.’
‘Oh, blimey!’ groaned Dover. To think that he was having to wait for his lunch for this load of old codswallop. ‘What bloody merger?’
‘I think,’ panted Lord Crouch, mopping his brow and collapsing into a chair, ‘that I had better begin at the beginning.’ There were few words better calculated to strike dismay into Dover’s heart. ‘You see, I have considerable business interests, quite apart from the running of Beltour. Actually, the house barely breaks even as a strictly commercial enterprise. The overheads are incredibly high. The herd of zebras alone …’ Lord Crouch broke off and shook his head miserably as he thought of the herd of zebras. ‘Well, I have for several years been connected with a large catering firm and recently we have been looking to expand and – er – diversify our interests. Take-overs and things, don’t you know. Well, one of the concerns we had our eye on was the hotel in Dunningby in which Gary was currently working.’
The flicker of interest which twitched over Dover’s face was faint, but it was there.
Vastly flattered and encouraged, Lord Crouch resumed his narrative with what was for him considerable animation. The fact that he had already written his story out and learnt it off by heart in the train was, of course, a great help and it was lucky for him that Dover didn’t realize that one simple question could have wrecked the whole performance. ‘You will understand how these things are done,’ said Lord. Crouch, baring his tomb-stone teeth in a shame-faced grin. ‘The main point about take-overs, as I understand it, is secrecy. Once you let your victim get so much as a whiff of what’s in the offing, the price goes up like a rocket.’ On the train Lord Crouch hadn’t cared much for the sound of the word ‘victim’but he had been quite unable to think of an alternative. He was not, of course, a proper business man and had only become involved in city affairs because some companies still think a title on the board inspires confidence. ‘So, you see, we had to be most frightfully careful. We had to find out as much as we could about this hotel – turnover, overheads, profit margins, visible and – er – invisible assets, staffing – and all without letting the present owners know of our interest.’ Lord Crouch’s long, hang-dog face split into another of his nervous grins. ‘That’s where Gary came in.’
‘As a spy,’ said Dover, who could always make the effort to be nasty.
‘We called him our under-cover agent,’ said Lord Crouch sadly. ‘He was able, over a period of several months, to find out a great deal for us. When he came home on his free days I used to arrange for him to call in at Beltour and report to me. Our chairman thought it better not to have anything in writing, don’t you know. So, that’s what Gary was doing here on the Sunday evening before he met his death.’
‘And you reckon the owners of this hotel found out what he was up to and bumped him off?’ Dover screwed up his nose doubtfully.
‘Good heavens, no! Such an idea never crossed my mind. Besides, they didn’t find out. We completed our take-over this morning and I can assure you that the whole business came as a complete shock to them.’
Dover put on a show of considerably more indignation than he felt. ‘ Why didn’t you bloody well tell me all this before?’ he demanded.
Lord Crouch gulped and sawed the air desperately with his hand for several seconds before he got his vocal chords functioning again. ‘Our negotiations for the take-over had entered a most delicate and critical stage. One untoward word and the entire thing might have come crashing down about our ears. Like a pack of cards,’ said Lord Crouch with a sudden burst of inspiration. ‘ I felt I owed it as a duty to my fellow directors, you see, to preserve a discreet silence.’
Dover’s stomach rumbled loudly at this point but Lord Crouch had been nicely brought up and pretended not to notice. ‘What was Marsh getting out of this?’ asked Dover curiously.
‘Marsh? Getting out
of it?’ Lord Crouch’s attempt to stall for time was rather pathetic.
‘Don’t tell me he was doing all this snooping just for the sake of your big blue eyes!’ sneered Dover. ‘How big was the bribe?’
‘Good gracious,’ bleated Lord Crouch, ‘there was no bribe! That would have been highly unethical.’
‘But promising him the job of manager of your new motel wouldn’t be, I suppose?’ asked Dover, very sarcastic.
Lord Crouch went a painful red. ‘There was no connection between the two transactions. Gary was a very – er – capable young man. He warranted the offer of such a position on his merits.’
‘Ho, ho,’ jeered Dover, ‘now pull the other one! Here,’ – he leaned forward and spoke to Lord Crouch as one man of the world to another – ‘is it true that Marsh was your son?’
‘Certainly not!’ Lord Crouch spluttered furiously but he got the indignant denial out with admirable speed.
‘That’s what they say down in the village.’
Lord Crouch drew himself up stiffly. ‘I am well aware of what they say down in the village, about both myself and my sister. They have been saying it for years and it is still nothing but scurrilous gossip. I am surprised that a man of your standing should give ear to it.’
Dover slumped back in his chair. ‘You’ve always taken a great deal of interest in the lad,’ he pointed out resentfully.
‘My family has always taken a great deal of interest in the careers of any likely young people in the village. In Gary’s case, we felt a double obligation. His aunt, Miss Marsh, has given us devoted and loyal service over many years and, then, the unfortunate circumstances of his birth …’ Lord Crouch left the sentence unfinished and, after rather a long pause, began again. ‘Besides …’
‘Besides what?’
‘Well, I have wondered from time to time whether one of our chaps might not have been responsible. For fathering Gary, I mean. Gary’s mother would never apparently say anything about who his father was – she may well not have known for sure, of course – but my regiment was stationed up there at about that time. Henniford, where Gary’s mother lived, is only a bicycle ride from Tuppeny Hill Camp, and you know what soldiers are.’
‘Bloody young hooligans, most of ’em,’ said Dover. ‘This place you mentioned …’
‘Henniford?’
‘You know it?’
Lord Crouch squirmed unhappily. ‘Well, I knew of it, of course, when I was serving in the Royal South Shires Fusiliers, but I never actually went there. There was a sort of unofficial rule, you see, at Tuppeny Hill Camp. Henniford was kind of out-of-bounds to officers. It was the preserve of the Other Ranks. When we wanted a drink or a bit of a night out, we used to go to a place called Cranleigh. That was several miles away in the other direction.’
Dover was frowning horribly. It might have been indigestion or even hunger, but it wasn’t. Almost in spite of himself, a faint glimmer of light was trying to penetrate the murky recesses of his mind. ‘There are other ex-soldiers from your regiment in this village, aren’t there?’
‘Of course. The South Shires is the county regiment. Round here has always been one of our best recruiting areas. And, naturally, when I have been engaging men for any position here at Beltour, I have always tried to give my ex-comrades priority. My own service career was, regrettably, very brief. My father’s death, you remember. However, I always look back upon it as one of the happiest periods of my life. It’s only natural that I should take an interest in the men who shared it with me, isn’t it?’
Dover didn’t bother answering. He was thinking. If he could just sort out one or two things, he was sure he’d get to the bottom of Marsh’s murder – and wouldn’t that make MacGregor sick! A few details to work out here and there – like who did it – and he’d be ready to spit right in his sergeant’s eye. Dover didn’t let his sudden burst of enthusiasm carry him away. All problems could well be postponed until after the inner man had been fortified.
Dover stood up. ‘Time for lunch!’ he said and waited impatiently for Lord Crouch to open the door for him.
Chapter Sixteen
Dover wasn’t very good on the telephone, especially when the operator was a spirited lass who wasn’t going to stand for that kind of foul language, no, not from nobody she wasn’t. Dover reckoned his call was a matter of extreme urgency and he had only waited to have his lunch and a short period for digestion before rushing to the telephone to make it. The operator was unimpressed. Saying tartly that she sincerely hoped it was a matter of life and death, she pulled the plug out on him.
Dover screamed for assistance.
Lady Priscilla came at an extended trot. ‘The Bull Reborn, chief inspector? Oh, but you can dial that direct. You don’t need to bother the exchange.’
Not wishing to admit that his fingers were too fat to fit comfortably in the holes, Dover turned on the charm. ‘When I need a lesson from you about how to use the bloody telephone,’ he roared, ‘ I’ll ask for it!’
A woman from a less deprived stratum of society would have promptly wrapped the telephone round Dover’s thick head, but Lady Priscilla merely flinched and began meekly to dial the requisite number.
After an interminable delay of nearly thirty seconds, it appeared that Sergeant MacGregor was not available. He had gone out.
‘Ask ’ em where to!’ hissed Dover, never one to bark himself.
Lady Priscilla asked. The Bull Reborn didn’t know. Could they take a message?
‘Bloody fool!’ snarled Dover, conveniently forgetting that he himself had given MacGregor strict instructions to get lost for the afternoon. ‘Trust him to go missing the minute you want him.’
‘Perhaps the police in Claverhouse would know where he was,’ suggested Lady Priscilla diffidently. ‘Should I try them?’
‘Suit yourself!’ grunted Dover. ‘Tell him I want to see him double-quick when you do get hold of him. And’ – his appeal was more of a snarl than a supplication – ‘ try not to take all bloody day about it!’
Meanwhile, the object of all this trouble and ill will was bowling happily along the road on his way, as it happens, to Claverhouse. The relief of getting Dover’s dead-weight off his back even for an hour or two was making MacGregor feel positively light-headed. So light-headed, in fact, that the sergeant was taking the supreme risk of pursuing his own line of enquiry, although he knew perfectly well that this was not what Dover had intended he should do with his free afternoon. So, MacGregor told himself cheerfully as he overtook yet another car, we shall just have to see that the old fool remains wallowing in his normal state of pig ignorance!
MacGregor, unlike his lord and master, had been giving considerable thought to the murder of Gary Marsh and had come to the conclusion that the murderer was not going to be found in Beltour. Dover had only been concentrating his attention on the village because it involved him in less effort than searching further afield, but MacGregor flattered himself that he was more than capable of embracing wider horizons. It was really the sinister and shadowy figure of Taffy O’Sullivan that had tempted MacGregor to strike out on his own. MacGregor, it must be appreciated, was a town dweller and, in spite of his police training, had some very romantic ideas about people who lived all the week in the country. In his heart of hearts he felt that they were really all pretty easy-going types, peasants who bickered amiably with their neighbours but who rarely, if ever, killed them. Townees, on the other hand, were quite different. Especially when they ran betting shops and had gangs of strong-arm men at their beck and call. No, the more MacGregor thought about it, the more attractive Claverhouse’s underworld looked as the happy hunting ground for Gary Marsh’s killer. Of course he’d no real evidence to back up his feeling but MacGregor, an unwilling pupil in the Dover school of detection, didn’t bother to much about that.
He began his exploration of the seamier side of Claverhouse by calling at the police station. His reception was friendly enough on the surface, but it was only on the surface
. Dover’s methods had at first bewildered, and then outraged the local force and a rather icy politeness was now the order of the day. Everybody, from the chief constable down to the pimpliest cadet was intent on keeping well clear of those clowns they’d sent down from Scotland Yard.
‘Taffy O’Sullivan?’ queried Inspector Dawkins. ‘Yes, I know him.’
‘Officially?’ MacGregor was concentrating so hard on appearing young, lean and keen that the question came out a mite more sharply than he had intended.
‘No, not officially.’ Inspector Dawkins was dying to know why the London jacks were suddenly taking an interest in Taffy O’Sullivan, but he would sooner have died than ask. ‘He may run a couple of betting shops in our area, but we’ve not had any trouble from him. As far as we’re concerned, he’s as sober and upright a citizen as the next man.’
‘Ah!’ said MacGregor, now looking shrewd. He wished that Inspector Dawkins would be a trifle more inquisitive so that he could demonstrate that one member at least of the unholy partnership which had descended on Beltour wasn’t an unmitigated slob.
Inspector Dawkins didn’t weaken. ‘ Do you want his address?’
MacGregor, not to be outdone in stoicism, stifled his disappointment. ‘If you’ve got it handy.’
‘Well, his main office is just down the street from here. On the left hand side, just past what was the Bijou Bioscope Picture House.’ Inspector Dawkins, over sensitive, realized that this might sound dafter than it actually was. ‘It’s a bingo hall now,’ he explained, ‘but you can still see it used to be a cinema. Mr O’Sullivan is usually there about this time of day.’
‘Thanks!’ MacGregor flashed his juvenile lead smile on the grounds that you never knew when you might need a friend. He gave Inspector Dawkins one last chance to relax. ‘You busy?’
Inspector Dawkins was unrelenting. ‘So, so,’ he said and, rather pointedly, opened one of the pile of folders in front of him.
‘Well,’ – MacGregor’s smile became a fraction less engaging – ‘ I mustn’t keep you. There’s no rest for any of us, is there?’