Dover grunted. ‘Well, it all helps, I suppose, but I’d feel much happier if we’d something a bit firmer to go on.’
‘Surely this is enough, sir?’
The chief inspector blew disgustedly down his nose. ‘It’s all very circumstantial,’ he grumbled, as though it was MacGregor’s fault, ‘We can prove that whoever wrote that ransom letter had, at least, access to Juliet Rugg’s dead body. We can prove that the letter was sent in a parcel to this refugee place. We can probably prove that her clothes were sent there, too.’
‘And we can prove that Boris Bogolepov sent the parcel,’ MacGregor chipped in. ‘What more do you want?’
‘We can prove that Bogolepov sent a parcel,’ corrected Dover, ‘we can establish a strong possibility that his parcel was the one containing the ransom letter and Juliet’s clothes, but we haven’t actually got proof that it was.’
‘But what about the message he got via Juliet from the chemist?’
‘Proves that he saw Juliet after she got back to Irlam Old Hall on that Tuesday night. Very suspicious, I grant you, but it’s a damned long way from proving he killed her. No, there’s no doubt about it, what we’ve got is a bit on the thin side. I’d be much happier if I knew why he’d done it and what he did with the body after he’d done it We still don’t know a blind thing about that’
There was a depressing silence.
‘Oh, there’s one other minor point, sir,’ said MacGregor, ‘I think we can prove Bogolepov knew the address of Sir John’s bank. Do you remember he said he’d sold Sir John a six-speed electric razor? We can easily find out if the old man paid by cheque-if he did, well, that’s how our friend Boris got the bank’s address in London.’
‘Yes,’ said Dover with a shrug, ‘well, every little helps, doesn’t it? Even if it’s not much.’
‘I suppose the crux of the matter is, sir,’ began MacGregor, frowning in concentration, ‘Juliet’s dead body. If we could find out where that is, or what’s happened to it. . . ’
‘Well, I’m damned if I can see how he’s disposed of it. He hasn’t even got a car.’
‘No, but Miss Hoppold has.’
‘A two-seater sports!’ snorted Dover. ‘And Juliet Rugg weighed sixteen stone! Can you imagine anybody humping that much dead meat around in a tiny car? Besides, Miss What’s-her-name – Amy Freel – said that nobody took a car out on the Wednesday. Of course,’ he added with a sigh, ‘she may be wrong, but even if they got it away from Irlam Old Hall, where the devil is it now?’
‘How about getting a search warrant for Bogolepov’s house, and for Miss Hoppold’s for that matter?’
Dover sighed crossly. ‘I suppose we’ll have to, though where on earth you can hide a dead body in an all-electric bungalow,
I’m damned if I know! Of course, they might just have stuck it in a cupboard – that’s been done before, heaven knows – but it’s a terrible risk and those two have kept their heads pretty well so far. And what about the smell? Juliet’s been dead-how long?- nine days? And all that fat! Gawd, it doesn’t bear thinking about!’
He sighed again. ‘Oh well, we shall have to do something. We’d better go and pay a call on Mister Bogolepov and see if we can get anything out of him, one way or another. We’ll get a search warrant as well. Can’t do any harm.’
It was well after seven o’clock when the two detectives, armed with their search warrants, arrived once again at Irlam Old Hall. For some reason known only to himself Dover decided to go to the back door of Bogolepov’s bungalow. There was a light on in the kitchen and a radio was playing sofdy.
Dover thumped morosely on the door. After quite a long delay – Dover’s fist was already raised for the second assault – it was opened and Boris Bogolepov’s drawn, handsome face peered out into the darkness.
‘Good evening, sir,’ said Dover, very formal. ‘May we come in?’
Boris frowned. ‘We are just about to have dinner. It is not very convenient. Perhaps you will come back later, yes?’
Dover inserted his boot in the closing door.
‘And perhaps we won’t,’ he growled. ‘We want to have a word with you now, if you don’t mind, sir.’
Boris shrugged his shoulders. ‘Very well,’ he said, and turned back into the room.
Dover and MacGregor followed him into the kitchen.
‘Well, well! How very romantic!’ Dover, bowler hat still on his head, leisurely surveyed the scene. It was not quite what he had come to expect from the Bogolepov menage, though he was not surprised to find Eulalia Hoppold forming part of the decor. She was standing by the electric cooker and, as Dover and MacGregor came in, she pushed a casserole back in the oven and impatiently slammed the door shut.
‘Well, well!’ said Dover again. ‘We seem to have interrupted a little celebration.’
The kitchen table, rather incongruously, was formally laid out with a white linen cloth, long-stemmed wine glasses, silver knives and forks, a bowl of spring flowers and even a six-branched candelabra. Obviously an elegant little dinner party for two was about to take place.
Boris, looking quite respectable and even more handsome than usual in a clean white shirt and black jeans, silendy sat down on one of the chairs at the table, and, lounging nonchalandy, waited for what was going to happen next.
Eulalia took off her apron with resolution. ‘Well?’ she demanded in a hostile manner. ‘And what do you two want?’
Dover stared thoughtfully at her. He spoke, without turning his head, to MacGregor. ‘Switch off that bloody row !5 he barked, and waited grimly while the radio was silenced.
‘An Englishman’s home is his castle,’ drawled Boris to nobody in particular.
‘I hope you know what you are doing, Chief Inspector.’ Eulalia Hoppold’s voice was icy.
