‘Shut up!’ snapped Dover. ‘I’ll deal with you in a minute. Right now I want to have a chat with Mister’ – the word was a sneer – ‘with Mister Bogolepov.’
He swung a chair up to the table and sat down facing Boris.
‘But, please, don’t let me stop you getting on with your dinner,’ he said with mock consideration, ‘I should hate to cause you any inconvenience.’
‘Perhaps, my dear sir, you will join us?’ Boris was not to be outdone in the exchange of politenesses. ‘I am sure there will be enough for all – that is, if you do not mind taking pot luck.’ He gave a rather disagreeable snigger.
For a second Dover hesitated. He was, he realized, extremely hungry. He’d not had a bite to eat since lunch, except for two cups of tea and a pork pie in the police canteen, and the stew or whatever it was in the cooker was sending out a most delicious aroma. Then, with a manful effort, he put the temptation aside. After all he was, he hoped, practically on the point of arresting Bogolepov for murder and it might be going a bit too far to start sharing his dinner with him. Besides, he didn’t want the blooming business dragging on all night. No, better not.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ he said at last, and there was an audible sigh of relief from Sergeant MacGregor who, using the deep freeze as a rest for his notebook, had been anxiously awaiting his chief inspector’s answer.
‘A glass of wine, perhaps?’ tempted Boris.
‘All right,’ said Dover, and quite unperturbed watched Boris remove the bottle from its bucket of ice and pour him out a glass of a cool, yellow-white liquid.
Dover sipped it cautiously. It wasn’t at all bad.
‘A glass for you, Sergeant?’ asked Boris with a grin.
‘No, thank you, sir,’ replied MacGregor as frigidly as he dared.
‘Well now, my dear Inspector,’ said Boris, running his hand carelessly through his black hair, ‘what can we do for you?’
‘Just one or two litde points we want to clear up, sir,’ said Dover blandly.
Eulalia moved away from the cooker. ‘Perhaps you’d like me to go?’ she asked.
‘No, I’d like you to stay, too, madam. There are one or two little points you might be able to clear up for us as well.’
Eulalia glared at him and then sat down at the table.
‘Now, sir’ – Dover turned back to Boris – ‘can you remember selling a six-speed electric razor to Sir John Counter some little time ago?’
Boris frowned. ‘Yes,’ he said, looking puzzled.
‘How much did Sir John pay you for it?’
Boris’s frown deepened. He flashed a quick glance at Eulalia whose eyes, however, were riveted on Dover’s face.
‘Ten pounds.’
‘I see. Did he pay for it by cash or by cheque ?’
‘He gave me a cheque.’
‘I see, sir. And how long ago was this?’
Boris shrugged. ‘About a month, five weeks, perhaps.’
‘A month or five weeks,’ repeated Dover slowly. ‘I see, sir. Now, this business of you being a registered drug addict, sir, could you give me the name and address of the doctor who’s dealing with your case, the one who authorizes your prescription?’
Boris’s face became more guarded, but he still looked puzzled. He shrugged his shoulders again and gave the address of a doctor in London.
‘And how do you actually get these drugs, Mr Bogolepov? Are they sent to you by post or what?’ Dover was playing it very kid glove.
‘No, I collect them from Simkins the chemist in Creedon.’
‘How often, sir, once a month or once a week?’
Boris’s eyes narrowed swiftly. ‘Once a week.’
‘Which day, sir?’
Boris picked up his wine glass. ‘Oh, it varies. Sometimes one day, sometimes another.’
Dover sighed, more in sorrow than in anger. ‘We can check with the chemist, sir,’ he said wearily.
Boris rose angrily to his feet. ‘Are you calling me a liar?’ he shouted. ‘I have told you, I do not have a special day! I go when I feel like it.’
‘Boris!’ Eulalia’s voice rapped out in an authoritative warning.
The German hesitated a moment and then sat down again.
‘Mr Bogolepov,’ Dover pointed out mildly, ‘no genuine drug addict could be quite so casual about getting hold of a “fix” as you appear to be. He’d want it as soon as the chemist would let him have it, wouldn’t he? Now, which day was it?’
‘Wednesday,’ mumbled Boris sulkily.
‘You go into Creedon to the chemist’s every Wednesday?’
Tes.’
‘Without exception?’ probed Dover relentlessly.
Boris grabbed a knife off the table and began to bend the blade between his strong, nervous fingers. From under lowered brows he shot another glance at Eulalia. This time she stared back at him.
‘No,’ he muttered at last through clenched teeth, ‘last week I went on Friday.’ He waited tensely for the next question. Eulalia seemed to be holding her breath.
Dover didn’t oblige. He always enjoyed a bit of the old cat- and-mouse business.
‘Oh, so you were in Creedon last Friday, were you? Did you go anywhere else except the chemist’s?’
‘No,’ snapped Boris.
‘Mr Bogolepov!’ Dover waggled a reproving finger.
‘Oh, I. . . I went to the post office, I think.’
‘What for?’
‘To post a parcel !’ Boris almost shouted his answer.
‘Who to?’
‘It is none of your damned business! I want to know by what right you are asking these questions. I do not answer any more!’ He leapt up from the table again and MacGregor got ready to stop him if he attempted to dash for the door.
Dover looked at him in surprise. ‘Was there anything wrong about that parcel, sir?’ he asked innocently.
‘Of course not!’ Eulalia took charge. ‘Boris, sit down and don’t be such a damned fool!’ She swung back to the inspector, her eyes boring watchfully into his. ‘You must forgive him, Chief Inspector. As you’ve probably noticed, he’s a rather unstable character. He likes to pretend he’s very tough and detached, a misanthrope in fact, but underneath he’s as much humanity as most of us. The parcel he posted on Friday contained some
