‘Yes,’ said MacGregor doubtfully.
‘Then there was that stuff she said about smoking.’ Dover pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes significantly. ‘Fancy a lady using language like that in her own drawing-room! Breast substitute! That shows what sort of a woman she is. If my wife came out with words like that in mixed company, she’d get the back of my hand, I can tell you. Must have a mind like a cesspool, that woman – Dame Alice, of course, not my old woman. No wonder she’s venting her spite by writing a lot of dirty letters to all and sundry.’
‘Oh, steady on, sir!’ warned MacGregor hastily and added a nervous laugh to show that his natural caution should be taken in good part. ‘We’re a long way off being able to say definitely that Dame Alice is the poison-pen letter writer.’
‘She’s enjoying every minute of it.’ said Dover. ‘She’s patting herself on the back for outwitting the police. She’s upsetting all her favourite enemies by writing dirty letters to them. And she’s a widow, isn’t she?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said MacGregor.
‘Well, there you are!’ said Dover with relish. ‘Sexually repressed! You can always tell. Oh, it fits her like a glove. I’ll bet she can type, too.’
‘But, why should she insist on the case being properly investigated, sir?’ asked MacGregor, trying to preach caution without getting Dover’s goat. ‘She was taking a terrible risk, wasn’t she?’ he added. Well, after all, the Assistant Commissioner might have sent one of his more competent detectives down to Thornwich.
‘Satisfies her power complex!’ Once Dover got his teeth into a theory it took more than MacGregor’s cautious bleatings to get them out again. ‘Bigger audience to be shocked by the muck she’s writing. All adds to the fun. Yes, I think we can relax now and take things easy for a bit, laddie. We’ve got our woman. Just a question of tying up a few loose ends and making up a neat parcel for the public prosecutor.’
In spite of his aching feet and protesting stomach, Chief Inspector Dover achieved the demeanour of a conquering general as MacGregor held the door open for him to sweep into The Jolly Sailor, his latest case as good as solved.
Chapter Seven
ALTHOUGH HE put a brave face on it to impress Sergeant MacGregor, Dover wasn’t all that optimistic about the progress he was making. Nothing would give him greater pleasure than to pin the poison-pen letters fairly and squarely on Dame Alice, but even he realized that there was a formidable gap between the desire and its achievement. He grew more depressed as the evening wore on. The Jolly Sailor wasn’t exactly the last word in luxury, and Dover had got past the age, if he’d ever been at it, when he willingly sacrificed his bodily comforts in the chase for glory. His room was cold, damp and noisy. His bed was lumpy. The food on the whole wasn’t bad, but Mrs Quince thought more about bingo than she did about the needs of the inner man. She’d rushed off again to another session and their evening meal had been brought, once more, across the road from Freda’s Cafe by the ever-willing Charlie Ghettle. It wasn’t really good enough, but any remonstrance floundered upon the rock of Mrs Quince’s already limited sense of obligation. Even after dinner, things got no better. Mr Tompkins didn’t put in an appearance and MacGregor was a remarkably slow drinker, almost as though he wasn’t trying.
At half past nine Dover decided that nothing ventured, nothing won. He phoned his home. His sister-in-law answered. As soon as he heard her voice Dover replaced the receiver. There was no hope from that quarter. He’d just have to stick it out in Thornwich a bit longer. He hoped his wife would have the decency to let him know the instant it was safe for him to return to his own bed and board.
Wednesday morning dawned, bright and sunny for a change. It was still quite a nice day when Dover opened his eyes and wondered how he was going to get through the next twenty-four hours. He could, he supposed grumpily, go out and interview a few more of these dratted women, but the prospect was uninviting. It was all so boring and, besides, what was the point? He’d already unmasked the nigger in the woodpile and it was unlikely that anybody else in the village would be able to give him concrete evidence of Dame Alice’s guilt. He turned ponderously over in bed and tried to shut out the sounds of the traffic which was tearing noisily past his window.
‘Strewth, thought Dover miserably, what a life! He screwed his eyes up as a sudden ray of sunshine pierced the grubby lace curtains which covered the window. Typical of the blasted place: when it wasn’t soaking you with rain it was blinding you with sunshine! He’d have to do something, damn it. Well, he’d have to look as though he was doing something. Dame Alice had a set-up in Thornwich which could well be the envy of the OGPU or the Gestapo, and until she was safely behind bars or tied up in a strait-jacket – according to the whim of the judge – it would be as well not to provide her with additional ammunition. Dover drifted off on a side speculation as to what the real relationship between Dame Alice and the Assistant Commissioner had been all those years ago. Could they really have . . .? Mind you, they were younger then. Dover wrinkled his nose thoughtfully. Even so . . . Oh well, it was probably like female hippopotamuses. Still, it conjured up a pretty revolting picture all the same. Oh, be fair, Dover, who could spend hours on this sort of thing, told himself, there is a Mrs Assistant Commissioner and there was a Mr Stote-Weedon, so . . .
A scream of brakes and
