Dover sighed again over the ‘don’t tell the police’ bit. If the kidnapper was one of the Irlam Old Hall lot – or had an accomplice there – they’d probably gathered by now that the police had been informed. They wouldn’t know exactly which post would bring the letter, but his and Sergeant MacGregor’s early-morning arrivals at Sir John’s house would surely appear significant to anybody watching – if anybody was watching.
The kidnapper had certainly worked out a pretty foolproof scheme for collecting the money (incidentally, there was obviously a woman involved somewhere, and one who knew the layout of the underground convenience, too), and perhaps he counted on getting away with it, police or no police. And he was probably right at that, thought Dover grimly as he recalled the ludicrously inadequate arrangements which were all he had been able to make.
Dover put the photostat back on his bedside table, stubbed out his cigarette and switched off the light. His thoughts were still chasing erratically round his head like white mice on a miniature treadmill. Why only five hundred pounds? Why the finger-print? Was it somebody at Irlam Old Hall? How was the letter posted in London? What was going to happen tomorrow? Would the money be collected? Would anybody ever see Juliet Rugg again?
Dover turned on to his other side and found himself churning through the older questions which had been bothering him all through the case. How did they get Juliet away from Irlam Old Hall? Where was she now? Why had nobody seen her?
Sleep eventually came but it was shallow and troubled, and Dover awoke on the fateful Wednesday morning very annoyed that his subconscious hadn’t come up with any bright suggestions which would have solved everything in one awe-inspiring, Sergeant-MacGregor-rocking explosion of brilliance.
When Miss Mathilda, if that’s who it was, opened the door of her Tea Shoppe at half-past nine on market-day, she was surprised to find that she had two customers already waiting on the doorstep. They pushed, somewhat unceremoniously, inside.
‘Two coffees,’ said the fat one, who was wearing a bowler hat.
‘I’m afraid we don’t start serving coffee until ten o’clock,’ said Miss Mathilda.
‘In that case,’ retorted Dover, barging his way through a tightly-packed jungle of chairs and little tables, ‘we’ll wait!’
‘Oh, Pm afraid you can’t sit in the window! That table’s reserved.’
‘Hard luck,’ said Dover, sitting firmly down and drawing back the lace curtain. ‘We’re from the police, madam – show the old trout your card, Sergeant! -and we shall probably be here all day. Just treat us like a couple of ordinary customers and don’t tell anybody else who we are. We shan’t get in your way.’
‘But Lady Williams always sits at that table on Wednesdays,’ protested Miss Mathilda feebly.
Dover peered callously through the window. ‘Well, she’ll just have to sit somewhere else today. It won’t kill her, will it? And don’t forget to bring us a couple of coffees when you get round to it.’
Outside it was, much to Dover’s satisfaction, pouring with rain. He and Sergeant MacGregor sat snug and dry at their table with its excellent view of the entire Market Square, including both the ladies’ and the gentlemen’s conveniences.
At ten o’clock two cups of weak, pale coffee arrived just as Eve Counter descended the steps of the ladies’ to deposit the money. It had been put, in accordance with the instructions, in an empty tin of Vim, and Eve also had an old dish-cloth to place on top. It was not the sort of thing that any casual patron, however lightfingered, would be likely to pick up and take away. One of the snags of checking whether or not the money had gone lay in the fact that the cylindrical tin had to be opened every time, because there was no guarantee that the kidnapper or his accomplice would make off with both the canister and the money.
Just before Eve Counter emerged into the upper air the two policewomen arrived to take up their stations.
‘Oh my God!’ howled Sergeant MacGregor, his composure for once deserting him. ‘Just look at them!’
Dover’s comment was unprintable.
Sergeant Kempton and Woman Police Constable Smith had, of course, been instructed to wear plain clothes, an unhappy phrase when applied to what Sergeant Kempton at least had put on her back. The most striking feature of her ensemble was a huge hairy coat in a scarlet so glowing that you could almost have warmed your hands on it. It was unlikely that anyone who had once seen Sergeant Kempton in her finery would not recognize her again five years, never mind five minutes, later.
Til kill her!’ snarled Dover. ‘I’ll kill her with my own bare hands! So help me, I will! What the hell does she think this is? The bloody Chelsea Arts Ball?’
Sergeant MacGregor, dabbing his eyes in a near hysterical condition, could find no words of cheer or consolation.
‘Well,’ he gasped, choking with irrepressible joy, ‘the other one, she. . . Oh, God, I haven’t laughed so much for years!-she’s dressed quietly enough, isn’t she, sir?’ He took another look at W.P.C. Smith and once again dissolved into bubbles of surging mirth.
W.P.C- Smith was indeed quietly, even soberly, dressed. She had wrapped her enormous broad shoulders in a short off-white riding mac, and below the mac, long, strong, sinewy legs were unconvincingly shrouded in nylon and ended up in a pair of massive regulation shoes. The final macabre touch was a pair of large, white-rimmed sun-glasses worn, with no little pride, on a day which was so gloomy and overcast that all the shops had their lights on. The girl had already been attracting some very peculiar glances as she strode athletically through the market stalls in the Square.
‘Dear God,’ yelped Sergeant MacGregor, who just couldn’t help himself, ‘what does she look like?’
‘She looks
