‘Boris Bogolepov!’ MacGregor’s excitement grew. ‘He was posting a parcel, too. That must be the one he mentioned to Mr Simkins. Miss McLintock read the address, didn’t she? He was sending it to some refugee organization.’
‘My God!’ exclaimed Dover, his jaw dropping in astonishment. ‘I’ve had an idea!’
There didn’t seem any appropriate or tactful rejoinder to this statement, so MacGregor observed a respectful silence.
‘My God!’ said Dover again in a voice of awe. ‘I believe I’ve got it!’
‘Got what, sir?’
‘The ransom note, you fool! How they could have got it posted in London without ever leaving Irlam Old Hall! That silly old cow, Miss McLintock, and the parcel! It’s so simple and with that address to Sir John’s bank on it, it’s nearly a hundred per cent safe!’
‘Miss McLintock and the parcel, sir? You don’t mean she’s involved in it, too?’
‘Oh, wake up, MacGregor!’ barked Dover irritably. ‘Of course, she’s not involved in it. It was just thinking of her that gave me the idea. You remember all that drivel she talked about her hobby? Saving the damned fool things she found in her blasted library books?’
‘Yes, she had a little “museum”, didn’t she?’
‘That’s right. Now, MacGregor, use your brains for once! Suppose you found a stamped and addressed envelope in a library book —what would you do with it?’
‘Well, I’d post it, sir. Anybody would, wouldn’t they? But Miss McLintock wasn’t in London on Saturday, so how could she have posted the ransom note?’
‘She didn’t!’ yelped Dover. ‘The letter was in the bloody parcel, don’t you see?’
‘Er, no, sir!’ admitted MacGregor, privately thinking that this was not entirely his fault.
‘Look,’ said Dover, trying to be patient about it, ‘let’s suppose Boris Bogolepov croaked Juliet Rugg. How and why, we don’t know, but he’s killed her. Now, just to put everybody off the scent, he thinks up this kidnapping idea. Right? He writes out the ransom letter and sticks the dead girl’s finger-print on it Then he addresses the envelope to Sir John Counter, care of his bank. Then he bundles up a parcel of old clothes. . . ’Strewth! They probably were Juliet’s! It’d be a much safer way of getting rid of them than trying to bum them, besides, he hadn’t got a boiler in that bungalow, had he? I’m pretty certain it was all electric central heating-probably hadn’t even got a fireplace. Well, that doesn’t matter now. He bundles up a parcel of old clothes and sticks the letter inside. When he goes into Creedon on the Friday morning, he posts the parcel to this refugee organization – in London. Now, with a bit of luck the parcel would arrive in London on Saturday morning. Somebody opens it, finds the letter, thinks it’s been packed by accident and, like any decent citizen, when they go off to lunch they slip it in the nearest pillarbox. There’s no Irlam Old Hall address on it to catch their eye – just Sir John Counter’s name – and the odds are they’d never link that up with some fat girl who was missing from home a couple of hundred miles away. The bank would get the letter Monday morning, readdress it and send it on Monday afternoon.’ Dover paused and mopped his brow. ‘How about that for a piece of reconstruction, my lad?’
‘It was brilliant!’ said MacGregor, who’d hardly been able to believe his ears, ‘It was just brilliant, sir!’
‘Yes, not bad, I reckon,’ agreed Dover with great self-satisfaction. ‘You need imagination to be a successful detective, you know, Sergeant! And a good logical brain, of course.’
‘Well, that’s that, isn’t it, sir?’ MacGregor closed his notebook. ‘What are you going to do now? Get a warrant?’
Dover frowned horribly and began to gnaw at a bit of loose skin near his thumb-nail, ‘I’m sure we’ve got the answer,’ he said doubtfully, ‘but we haven’t got an ounce of proof. Supposing Bogolepov and the Hoppold woman both saw Juliet Rugg on Tuesday night – it still doesn’t prove they killed her! There may be some quite normal explanation. And this letter business, it’s only a theory.’ He chewed his thumb a bit more.
‘Well, we can easily check the ransom letter bit, sir,’ proffered Sergeant MacGregor. ‘Miss McLintock may even remember the name and address, but, even if she doesn’t, there won’t be all that many refugee places that get bundles of old clothes. We can get the London boys to go round the lot and ask whether anybody remembers posting a letter.’
‘All right,’ said Dover grudgingly, ‘you’d better try that straight away. Be very useful if we could tie up that letter definitely with Bogolepov – but I’d be surprised if he’s been such a fool as to put his name and address on the parcel.’
‘Well, you never know your luck,’ said MacGregor with the unquenchable optimism of youth.
‘Hm,’ grunted Dover, ‘I know mine, all right!’ He sighed. ‘Well, we’ll wait and see what results you get from the refugee organization side of things. It may give us the whole case in a nutshell and we’ll have something to go on that’ll stand up to examination in court’ If it doesn’t – well, I dunno what we can do, other than poke around a bit more. At least we know where to look now.’
‘We could go and see Bogolepov,’ suggested MacGregor.
‘Yes,’ agreed Dover, ‘I don’t think he’ll be a very tough nut to crack, all things considered. If the worst comes to the worst, we can always try thumping the truth out of him. I’ve been itching to get my boot up his backside ever since I first clapped eyes on him.’
‘You don’t mean that we should go and beat him up, do you, sir?’ MacGregor had heard some horrifying stories about Dover’s rather unorthodox methods but this was going a bit too far. He began to sweat gently at the prospect of standing up in court to justify a confession obtained by the toe
