‘Oh, am I ?’ Maxine swung round on him, her eyes blazing with anger, ‘You’re such a damned fool that you can’t see what’s going on in front of your eyes! And how dare you say that I’m lying?’
‘Because you’ve never got up at six o’clock in your entire bloody life, that’s why! And our bedroom’s at the front, so you couldn’t possibly have seen Eulalia!’
Maxine replied with ice-cold dignity. ‘I got up to go to die bathroom,’ she stated, ‘and the bathroom is at the back of the house.’
Michael Chubb-Smith got up angrily and poured himself out a drink.
‘Are you implying, madam,’ asked Dover, ‘that Miss Hoppold and Mr Bogolepov spent the night together?’
‘Of course they did! It’s absolutely disgusting. She must be more than twice his age. And they’d had a fine old time, too. She was so exhausted she could hardly walk-filthy old cow-she looked as though she’d been pulled through a hedge backwards. And those great staring eyes! Ugh, it’s enough to make you sick.’
‘I see,’ said Dover, who didn’t by any means.
Half an hour later he was pounding wearily up the path to Boris Bogolepov’s front door once again. Neither Maxine Chubb- Smith nor her husband had been able to throw any more light on the disappearance of Juliet Rugg. Maxine knew of the girl’s existence, but was frankly surprised that Dover should even have expected her to have had any further connection with her. Dover toyed with the idea of giving Michael Chubb-Smith a really good grilling, and leaving him to sort out the consequences afterwards with his wife, but, masculine solidarity in these matters being what it is, he nobly restrained himself.
In any case the chief inspector felt he had got enough bits and pieces of useless information without going out of his way to collect any more. Michael Chubb-Smith would keep. No doubt the whole perishing lot of the Irlam Old Hall tenants would keep too, but Dover was only too well aware of the consequences of appearing to do nothing. Nasty, unsympathetic messages came shooting down from his superiors, and unkind remarks were made and old skeletons were taken out of dusty cupboards and rattled menacingly. But as long as Dover kept on interviewing people, however pointless and confusing it all was, nice full reports could be written (by Sergeant MacGregor) and everybody was kept more or less happy. Dover was, to put the matter bluntly, just filling in time until the body was found. As far as he could see, the only hope of solving Juliet Rugg’s disappearance lay in the clues which the discovery of her corpse would no doubt reveal. Everything was in such a glorious muddle that, unless a miracle of forensic medicine came to his aid, Dover was quite prepared to leave the whole damned case unsolved and get back to London as quickly as he could. For the moment, however, he would just have to plod doggedly on.
Boris Bogolepov was clearly not pleased to see him. The feeling was reciprocated.
As soon as the front door was opened Dover shoved his way in uninvited and thumped down the hall into the kitchen. He was not surprised to find Miss Eulalia Hoppold there. She closed the lid of the deep freeze into which she had been peering and smiled politely at the chief inspector.
‘Hullo, are you back again? I thought you’d finished with Boris. I was just looking around to see if the poor devil’s got anything for lunch.’ She grinned ruefully. ‘Apparently he hasn’t The cupboard’s bare.’ She turned to Bogolepov who was still dressed in his pyjama jacket. ‘Next time you invite me to lunch, my lad, just think on to get some food in, will you? I’ll pop across to my place and bring something back with me.’
‘You’ll stay here,’ said Dover firmly. ‘I’ve a few questions I want to put to the pair of you.’ He sat down at the kitchen table.
His two victims exchanged glances and then stared doubtfully at the chief inspector as he worked himself up into quite a passable state of righteous indignation about the iniquity of lying to the police. It was a subject about which he felt quite strongly. Lies meant more work for poor old Wilfred Dover who was already carrying more than his fair share of the burden.
‘Now,’ he snarled, having exhausted both himself and the theme, ‘let’s have the bloody truth this time! You’ – he waggled a fat, admonitory finger at Boris – ‘you told me that you spent Tuesday night here alone. And you’ – the finger waved at Eulalia – ‘you told me that you were alone in your house.’
There was a dramatice pause.
‘So what?’ said Boris, and shrugged his shoulders. The pyjama jacket rose alarmingly. Luckily Miss Hoppold’s eyes were riveted on Dover’s pouting countenance. She stared intently at the chief inspector with the air of one well versed in assessing the potential of animals of uncertain temper.
‘It’s no good, Boris,’ she said with decision. ‘We might as well come clean. Who told you?’ she asked Dover, still not moving her eyes from his in case he decided to spring.
Dover wrinkled his nose. ‘I am not at liberty to reveal my sources of information,’ he proclaimed pompously.
Eulalia snorted contemptuously and bared her gleaming white teeth in a humourless grin. ‘Such chivalry can only mean dear Maxine. Blast her eyes! Well, what do you want to know?’
‘Just the truth,’ said Dover.
‘By God !’ Boris flung himself on to a chair in disgust. ‘Just the truth, that is all he wants! “ ‘What is truth?’ asked jesting Pilate; and would not stay for an answer.” ’
‘Oh shut up, Boris! There’s a good chap! All right, Inspector, Boris and I weren’t alone in our respective houses on Tuesday night. We were here, together.’
‘All night?’
‘AH night.’
‘Doing what?’
‘My dear Inspector’ – Eulalia’s tone bore little affection – ‘surely we don’t
