by Joyce Porter
‘Is it, sir?’
‘If you’d keep your trap shut for a minute, I’d tell you!’ snarled Dover. He gesticulated in the direction of the now open-mouthed Miss Whittacker. ‘This girl’s not one of your political agitators. Any fool can see that. And, if she’s been shut up in the nick for the last twelve months, she can hardly have had a hand in my kidnapping, can she?’
‘Well,’ began MacGregor doubtfully.
But Dover was after a cup of tea and a couple of buns in the prison officers’ sitting-room, not a bloody debating society session. ‘So, if somebody wants to spring her, it’s not for the sake of her vote at the next flaming general election, is it?’
‘You think she’s some kind of gangster’s moll, sir?’ asked MacGregor, being careful to keep the smirk off his face. ‘One – or all, perhaps – of the Claret Tappers wanted her released on account of her – er – physical charms?’
Dover’s face settled into a sullen pout. ‘You got a better suggestion?’
Support for his theory came from an unexpected quarter. Miss Whittacker, it turned out, was for it one hundred per cent. Most of her day-dreams so far had been concerned with extremely large amounts of money, but she wasn’t a complete stranger to sexual fantasies. After all, it wasn’t such a big change as all that. She could still have the white sports cars and the jewels and the posh food and everything. The thought that somewhere there was a Master Criminal nursing an unrequited passion for her was heady stuff. She sat up straight, moistened her lips and threw her chest out.
MacGregor looked at her dubiously. ‘Can you think of any of your boy friends who would go to such lengths?’ he asked.
Miss Whittacker let her breath out. A requited passion? That was a possibility which had not crossed her mind. ‘Maybe,’ she said.
MacGregor glanced at Dover to see if he was expected to play this silly farce out to the bitter end. He was. With a suppressed sigh he turned to a clean page in his notebook. ‘Perhaps you could let me have a few names?’
Miss Whittacker looked vacant. ‘Names?’
‘Of your boy friends. So that we can check them out and see if any of them could be involved in this kidnapping business.’
‘Oh.’ Miss Whittacker sagged a little. All that sort of thing seemed such a long time ago. Seemed? Jesus, it was a long time ago! ‘Well,’ – she groped about in the rag-bag of her memory – ‘there was Sid and . . . and Peter. Oh, and Black George. I shan’t forget him in a bleeding hurry. Rotten swine! And he nicked my bloody rent money when he went! Sod him. Then there was Freddie – not that he was much better. And Tony.’ She broke off to consult MacGregor on a technical point. ‘Do you count ’em if they couldn’t quite bring it off, dear? I mean, you had to give Tony full marks for trying but. . .’
‘Let’s forget about Tony,’ said MacGregor hurriedly. ‘What I would like, though, are a few names. We can’t really start looking for people if all we know about them is that they’re called Sid, can we?’
Miss Whittacker’s face fell. ‘Surnames?’
MacGregor could see what was coming. ‘Even one or two would be a help.’
Miss Whittacker shook her head. ‘I’ve got a shocking memory, you see.’ She reached under the table and retrieved her chewing gum. ‘Tony was called Jenkins – that I do know. But you say you’re not interested in him.’
MacGregor sighed. ‘Could he be one of the kidnappers, do you think?’
Miss Whittacker masticated slowly. ‘Shouldn’t think so, lovey. He went to Australia with his mum and dad three years ago and, as far as I know, he’s still there.’
Dover was already on his feet. ‘We’re wasting our bloody time here,’ he announced, giving the door a savage kick.
MacGregor closed his notebook and stood up, too. He smiled at Miss Whittacker. ‘Well, thanks very much, anyhow. If you do think of anything that might help . . .’
‘Oh, I’ll let you know all right, dear,’ she promised as she sorted out her funereal draperies preparatory to taking her own departure.
‘These any good to you?’
Miss Whittacker accepted the cigarettes gratefully. ‘I can always do with a bit of extra snout. Ta!’ The packet of cigarettes disappeared under a quantity of hand-knitted tatt that she was festooning round her shoulders. ‘There’s something else you could do for us.’
‘What?’ As a precautionary measure MacGregor moved nearer to the door through which Dover had already disappeared. Well, twelve months is a long time for a nubile young woman to be shut up in . . . Much to his relief the female prison officer appeared in the doorway and rattled her keys. ‘What do you want?’
Miss Whittacker sidled closer. ‘These kidnappers,’ she whispered. ‘You might let us know who they are if you ever find ’em.’
‘Come on, Whittacker!’ bawled the screw.
Miss Whittacker smiled up at MacGregor and even laid a provocative hand on his arm as she went past him. He decided later that this must have been when she pinched his cigarette lighter. ‘I’d just like to know who he is – see? I mean, he must be pretty bloody hot stuff to go to all this trouble, mustn’t he?’ She drooped one mascara loaded eyelid. ‘And Les doesn’t stand for Lesbian, you know!’
It was MacGregor’s day for receiving irrelevant confidences. Even the female wardress opened her heart to him, bending down so that she could whisper in his ear.
‘Is your Mr Dover doing anything about his dandruff’, sergeant? I happen to have a really most effective formula that I’m sure would clear it up for him in no time. If I sent it to you, care of Scotland Yard, would you undertake to see that he . . .’
* * *
Having transported two cups of tea, a plate of sandwiches, a plate of cakes and a plate containing two sausage rolls and a pie from the cafe counter to the table, MacGregor pocketed the few coppers which had been handed to him in change and sat down.
‘Sugar!’
MacGregor pushed the plastic sugar dispenser across the table and stared dejectedly into the depths of his own cup of tea. On the other side of the table Dover was shovelling food into his mouth with considerable gusto. Talk about feeding time at the zoo! ‘Well, that didn’t get us very far, did it, sir?’
‘Could’ve told you that!’
MacGregor picked up his spoon and began to dredge out the flakes of sausage roll pastry which Dover’s ejaculation had blown into his tea. ‘So where do we go from here, sir?’
‘Dunno about you,’ grunted Dover, ‘but I’m going home!’ This was apparently one of Dover’s little jokes and he chuckled ecstatically over it.
MacGregor waited until the eruptions had subsided. ‘Are we going to work on the assumption then, sir, that neither Whittacker nor Gallagher knows the identity of the Claret Tappers?’
‘What else?’ asked Dover, washing down most of the pie with a swig of tea. ‘I told you they’d both turn out to be a dead loss. We’d have done better to stay in the office. It’d have been warmer, too,’ he added sourly.
MacGregor took it upon himself to look on the bright side ‘I don’t think our trips were a complete wash-out, sir. After all, the kidnappers did mention those two specifically, by name. There must be a connection somewhere.’
‘Why?’ Dover’s podgy paw was hovering over the last two cakes, trying to settle his order of precedence. ‘It could all have been a joke. While the Claret Tappers were asking for the bloody moon, they reckoned they might as well chuck in a couple of crummy cons for good measure.’ He gave the chocolate eclair his casting vote. ‘So they picked our two beauties at random.’
MacGregor frowned. ‘That won’t do, sir.’
‘Whawhanoo?’
MacGregor responded to the spirit If the question. ‘Well, you and I could probably produce the names of a number of convicts, sir, but I doubt if ordinary members of the public could.’
Dover licked the bits of chocolate off his moustache and reached for the shrinking maid of honour. ‘The Claret Tappers are policemen?’
; MacGregor bit his lip. God, it was like dealing with a gibbering idiot! There are other professions, sir, who might be familiar with the names of prisoners – lawyers, journalists, other prisoners, warders . . .’
‘And anybody bright enough to read a flaming newspaper! snorted Dover. ‘Which narrows the held down to about nine-tenths of the bloody population! What’s to stop these Claret Tappers just picking up the nearest daily rag and sticking a pin in the reports of the court proceedings, eh? I sometimes wonder what you use instead of brains, laddie.’
‘If that’s all they did, sir,’ objected MacGregor, stunned into defending himself, ‘why didn’t they land on somebody who was being tried and sentenced much more recently? Gallagher and Whittacker are a pretty un-newsworthy pair, sir, but, if their names ever did appear in the newspapers, it would have been at least a year ago. Are you suggesting that your kidnappers planned that sort of detail as much as twelve months ago?’
‘Yes,’ said Dover firmly. He’d had more than enough for one day. ‘That’s why you’ve got it all wrong as usual, laddie! There must be a connection but you’re just not bright enough to see it. Anyhow, I’m not sitting here all day arguing the toss with you. Nip out and get a taxi and let’s be getting home!’
‘A taxi, sir?’
‘You said old Brockhurst authorised one, didn’t you, moron?’
There were some moments in his life with Dover that even MacGregor enjoyed. ‘Ah,’ he pointed out with a great deal of relish, ‘but that was for going to Hlolloway, sir. The commander said nothing about having a taxi for the return journey.’
‘In that case, sonnie,’ sniggered Dover, confident that he could out-smart MacGregor with both hands tied behind his back, ‘you’ll have to foot the bill, won’t you?’
Six
WHENEVER HE WAS ENGAGED ON A CASE involving serious crime MacGregor adhered strictly to the best traditions of the C.I.D. and worked through at least the first seventy-two hours without a break. He fully appreciated how important speed was and how essential it was to make full use of the first few days after the perpetration of any crime. Every detective knows, to his sorrow, how quickly memories fade and clues get themselves erased.
Dover, on the other hand, had his own methods. Self educated in the ‘more-haste-less-speed’ school, he never did today what he could postpone to the middle of next week. In his spare time he was also a staunch supporter of the Lord’s Day Observance Society and extraordinarily scrupulous in his acknowledgement of every holiday permitted by either church or state.
Nobody, therefore, was more surprised than MacGregor when the door of their office opened and the dejected figure of Detective Chief Inspector Dover shuffled in. ‘Er – good morning, sir! I – er – wasn’t expecting to see you at the Yard today.’
‘Why not?’ Dover, retaining his overcoat and bowler hat, squeezed with some difficulty into the chair behind his desk. ‘Hie room he was obliged to share with MacGregor was little more than a glorified broom cupboard and it was a tight fit when the two of them were there.
‘Well, it’s Sunday, actually, sir.’
‘Very funny,’ said Dover, mentally consigning all members of the opposite sex to endless torment and hell fire. Had it not been for his lady wife and so-called help-mate, he could have been spending the Sabbath where any red-blooded man ought to be spending it – in bed. The trouble was that Mrs Dover, having set her heart on spending the first few days of her widowhood with a married niece in Clacton, didn’t see why she should change her plans just because an enigmatic Providence had dashed her fondest hopes. So Dover had reluctantly had to come in to work, there being no fun in staying at home without somebody to wait on you hand and foot. ‘Watcherdoin?’ he asked.
MacGregor gestured at several files which were spread out over his desk. ‘I’ve just been going through these crank letters, sir, in the hope that I might be able to winnow out a little corn from all the chaff’.’
Dover grunted. He didn’t go much on these agricultural metaphors.
‘Er – would you like to help, sir?’
Dover reacted as though MacGregor had made an improper suggestion to him – which, in a way, he had. ‘Doing what?’ he asked suspiciously.
‘Well, I thought you might like to go through one of these files, sir. There’s this one, for example.’ MacGregor picked up the bulkiest file of the lot. ‘These are all the letters we’ve had from members of the general public about suspicious taxi cabs.’ MacGregor sighed and dropped the file back on his desk. ‘It looks as if every lunatic in London has taken time off to drop us a line. That’s the trouble with taxis. Everybody’s seen them doing something cock-eyed at some time or other.’
Dover pointed a nicotined forefinger at a much slimmer file. ‘How about that one?’
MacGregor read the title ‘ “Empty & Unfurnished Houses within Fifty Miles of Charing Cross”, sir. These are from people who think they might have found the place where you were held captive. There’s another hie, “Empty & Unfurnished Houses over Fifty Miles from Charing Cross”, but I didn’t bother to bring that. We can’t cover the entire country and, unless we get some positive . . .’
‘Gimme!’
‘The “Empty & Unfurnished”, sir?’
‘What else?’ Dover took the hie and opened it out on his desk. Resting his head upon one hand, he flicked over a few of the enclosures. Gradually his movements became slower and slower until, finally, they stopped altogether.
MacGregor smiled superciliously to himself and settled down to sift through Set another hie. Half an hour later he hung his pencil down in an agony of frustration and conceded that Dover had triumphed once again. That bloody snoring!
Dover gulped, snorted, smacked his lips, blew down his nose and opened one pink-rimmed eye. ‘Huh?’
‘Sorry, sir, I dropped my pencil.’
‘Huh.’
MacGregor got in quick before the old pig dozed off again. ‘I was thinking, sir. It might be a rather good idea if we sort of reconstructed the actual snatch When the taxi picked you up, I mean.’
Dover yawned.
‘I thought we might just go over the ground, sir, on the way to The Two Feathers, sir.’
Dover accepted the bribe of a pre-lunch drink with alacrity. He banged his unread tile shut and shoved his desk back. ‘Come on!’ he said.
MacGregor, whom the moving of the furniture had shunted up against the far wall, was taken aback by the success of his ploy. ‘But it’s only ten o’clock, sir!’
‘So we’ll be first in the queue, laddie!’
The West End of London on a chilly Sunday morning in January is not a very densely populated place and there was, mercifully, no-one about as Dover and MacGregor emerged through the huge glass doors of New Scotland Yard. From the entrance hall an indifferent uniformed policeman on guard duty watched them pick their way down the shallow steps and then went back to worrying about his own problems.
‘It’s bloody cold!’ complained Dover, shivering elaborately.
MacGregor had already taken a solemn vow that he was going to stick to his last, come what may. “You set off down Broadway towards Victoria Street, didn’t you, sir?
‘No,’ snarled Dover, waxing sarcastic, “I went up Broadway towards bloody Timbuktu!’
MacGregor silently counted up to ten. ‘How far had you got, sir, when you noticed the taxi?’
Dover flapped a languid paw.
‘Bout here.’ Well, he’d walked far enough and what flaming difference did it make anyhow?
MacGregor nodded wisely. ‘And the taxi came up behind you and overtook you, sir? Now, where precisely did it stop?’
Dover flapped another paw.
MacGregor nodded again. “Just far enough to make it difficult for you to see in the dark who it was. Clever. Did the light inside the taxi come on when the door was opened, sir?’
‘No.’ Dover flapped his arms in an attempt to keep warm.
MacGregor forebore to make any comment. Neverthel
ess, the non-functioning courtesy light was a point which should have put a trained and experienced detective on his guard. MacGregor led the way to where the mystery taxi had purportedly pulled up and, narrow-eyed, surveyed the scene. ‘And the third man approached from behind, sir, as you were standing here looking into the interior of the taxi?’
‘’Sright.’ Dover blew violently into his cupped hands.
‘He was probably lurking in the angle of the wall there, sir. It would be quite dark there at night because the street lighting wouldn’t. . .’
‘Are we going to be standing around here all blooming day?’ Dover stamped his feet.
MacGregor remained adamant. ‘I’ll come back later and make a sketch map,’ he conceded, ‘but there are one or two more points which really must be cleared up, sir.’
Bloody little Sherlock Holmes, thought Dover. ‘Well?’
‘You entered the taxi, sir. . .’
‘At gun point!’
‘. . . and it drove off?’
‘Yes!’
‘Which way?’
‘Towards Victoria Street, of course. The way it was facing.’
‘Good, good!’ MacGregor smiled encouragingly, much as he would have done at a backward child. ‘So, you go down Broadway and reach Victoria Street. Then which way did you go? Did you turn to the right or to the left?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dover impatiently. ‘I told you – soon as I got in the taxi, they jumped me. They were swarming all over me. I’d got enough to do without thinking which bloody way we were turning.’
‘Do you remember the cab stopping for the traffic lights, sir?’
But Dover had had enough. His flabby jowls wobbled crossly. ‘I don’t remember anything – and neither would you if you’d been in my bloody shoes!’
MacGregor would have liked to dispute that assertion but he didn’t. He permitted himself a slight shrug and then gazed around, seeking inspiration from the bleak grey sky which was hanging over London. Not that he could see much sky. There were buildings all around and the soaring facade of New Scotland Yard with its countless windows dominated the scene. MacGregor shook his head. ‘It’s strange that nobody saw anything, sir. You’d have thought somebody in the Yard would have been looking out of one of those windows at the right time, wouldn’t you?’