by Joyce Porter
‘I’ll do what I can,’ said Dover, who had relaxed visibly when the true nature of Mr Tompkins’s final solution had become clear. ‘Er – all things considered, I think maybe you’re doing the right thing.’
‘Well, I think I am,’ said Mr Tompkins with an apologetic smile, ‘but I’ve been wrong before, haven’t I?’ He seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘Well, I’ll be saying goodbye, then.’
Under Dover’s amazed eyes Mr Tompkins unlocked the toilet door and opened it – a manoeuvre which brought him stomach to stomach with the Chief Inspector – and slipped out into the corridor. Dover’s reactions were never lightning fast, especially when he had a loaded revolver pointing at his midriff. Almost before he had pushed himself off his supporting wall, Mr Tompkins was out in the corridor. In a flash he’d got the outside door open and was standing in the pitch-black opening with the wind tearing at his clothing. He gave a final, brief little smile, put the muzzle of the revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
The noise of the shot was lost in the roar of the train as it sped furiously on its way. Mr Tompkins disappeared from the doorway into the inky darkness beyond. As he released his grip on the corridor door it swung back with uncanny precision and shut itself with a slam. Dover was left staring, pop-eyed, at a perfectly empty, perfectly innocent and perfectly normal train corridor.
With shaking hands he pulled out a grubby handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
He looked up and down the corridor. There was nobody about. He checked the inside of the toilet. No sign that Mr Tompkins had ever been there. He stood and thought. Then he made up his mind. He took a deep breath and walked slowly back to his compartment.
MacGregor looked up as the door slid open.
‘Are you all right, sir?’ he asked. ‘I was wondering what had happened to you. I say, you do look a bit seedy, sir.’
Dover flopped heavily back into his seat and let his body sag. ‘It’s my bowels,’ he said. ‘I reckon I’ll be on the trot all night. You haven’t got a drop of brandy on you, I suppose?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir.’
‘Trust you!’ grumbled Dover. He settled himself down in his corner, propped his feet up on the opposite seat and closed his eyes. In a few moments his jaw dropped open, the snores started and he was fast asleep, but with his lips, metaphorically speaking, sealed.
After all, he had got his reputation to think of.
JOYCE PORTER, an English lady living outside London, is the author of DOVER ONE and DOVER TWO.