Sergeant MacGregor looked moodily at his notebook’
‘Well,’ he agreed, ‘we haven’t really got anywhere much, have we, sir?’
‘Have we hell!’ said Dover bitterly. ‘What it boils down to is that nobody who’s in any way connected with the case made any attempt to collect that money. And, blast it, nobody who’s not connected with it did either!’
His subsequent interview with the Chief Constable -‘Just to keep me in the picture, old boy’ – was not a particularly happy one.
‘Well, Dover,’ Mr Bartlett began grimly, ‘we’ve spent eleven shillings and fourpence out of the funds of this police force for the slot machine and received nineteen complaints about suspicious characters hanging around the ladies’ convenience in the Market Square. Seven of the ladies spotted that Woman Police Constable Smith was a man, unconvincingly masquerading as a girl, and ten reported that Woman Police Sergeant Kempton was blatantly engaged in luring young girls away to South America for immoral purposes. The remaining two complainants plumped for a Communist spy ring.
‘I have further been deprived of the services of fourteen male constables on the busiest day of the week, with the result that my crime figures since nine o’clock this morning have just about doubled. I have also had a complaint from the mayor about two men, posing as police officers, invading private premises and generally behaving with Gestapo-like brutality – I’m using the mayor’s own words. The mayor’s sister is the proprietress of Miss Mathilda’s Tea Shoppe.
‘I have also had a telephone call from Miss Eulalia Hoppold, the well-known authoress and explorer, complaining about being followed by two suspicious-looking thugs while she was out shopping this morning in Creedon. She would, she said, have reported the matter to a policeman at the time, but,’ the Chief Constable paused deliberately, ‘but she couldn’t find one!’
There was a pregnant silence.
‘Well,’ Mr Bartlett went on, ‘those are my results! What are yours?’
‘None,’ said Dover sullenly. ‘There was no attempt to touch the money!’
‘And where does that leave us?’
‘Just about where we were before,’
‘And what do you deduce from the fact that they didn’t try to collect the ransom money?’
‘Well, either the whole thing was a hoax, somebody’s idea of a practical joke or . . . ’ Dover’s nose twitched.
‘Or?’ prompted the Chief Constable.
‘Or,’ repeated Dover, who always believed that attack was the best means of defence, ‘thanks to the unbelievable incompetence and lack of co-operation of the members of your force, the whole operation was bungled from beginning to end and the kidnappers were scared off!’
‘Now look here!’ roared the Chief Constable slamming his fist down on his desk rather more painfully than he had meant. ‘Don’t you try to leave me holding the baby! The whole operation was your idea and if it didn’t work, then it’s because the overall plan was at fault. I thought it sounded pretty bloody disastrous when I heard about it, but you’re supposed to be the expert in charge of the case and I’ve never believed in interfering with the man on the spot. The whole affair’s been bungled from beginning to end! You’ve spent six days here, and what have you discovered? That Juliet Rugg is missing-and we damned well knew that before you came! You’ve no more idea now of what’s happened to her or where she is than when you first arrived! Well, if this is an example of how Scotland Yard works, you can keep it! I’m not satisfied with your handling – if that’s the word for it – of the case and I’m telling you here and now I’m going to ring up the Yard first thing tomorrow morning and get you taken off!’
Dover’s piggy little eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared out ominously as he took a deep breath preparatory to launching himself into the battle. It wasn’t the first time this sort of thing had happened to him and it probably wouldn’t be the last. He had managed to wriggle out of worse situations with a fairly whole skin and he wasn’t going to go down this time without a fight. He’d pin Mr High-and-Mighty Bardett’s ears back for him with a few home truths about the collection of mental deficients posing as a police force and then he’d . . .
Luckily the phone rang.
‘It’s for you.’ The Chief Constable almost flung the receiver at Dover. ‘Finger-print division at the Yard.’
Dover listened silently with a set, heavy face. Once or twice he said, ‘I see’, thoughtfully, and then he sighed.
‘Right! Thanks very much.’ He put the receiver down.
‘Well,’ demanded the Chief Constable, who’d calmed down a bit, ‘anything new?’
Dover gaped vacantly at him for a second and then pulled himself together. ‘They’ve given the ransom letter a good going over,’ he explained, ‘no clues as to who wrote it, naturally. I didn’t expect there would be.’
The Chief Constable waited for him to go on.
‘They examined the finger-print too – you know the one Juliet Rugg was supposed to have made.’
‘Do you mean it isn’t hers?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Dover slowly, ‘it’s hers all right, but, apparently she was dead when she made it!’
Chapter Twelve
WHATEVER might be Dover’s failings as a detective, he had one most important, even essential, attribute — luck. As he and the Chief Constable sat staring dumbly at each other they both realized that, once again, by a miracle, Dover’s bacon had been saved.
In the face of the knowledge that Juliet Rugg was dead, and had been for some days, the howling fiasco of the unsprung trap for the kidnappers oozed gently away. It would be unfair to say that Dover was delighted at the gruesome news which he had just received over the telephone, but he was certainly relieved. With an unconscious gesture he mopped his brow with his handkerchief and relaxed back comfortably in his chair.
‘Well,’ he said benignly, ‘this certainly changes the picture, doesn’t it?’
‘I suppose it does.’ The Chief Constable
