Dover nodded his head. He had.
‘What I really popped across for, Mr Dover,’ said Mr Tompkins, lowering his voice, ‘was to see if you’d like to come back to the shop with me and have a cup of tea, or maybe something a bit stronger. It’ll be nearly an hour before they open up here and, although I’m not claiming our place over there is any palace, it’s a damned sight more comfortable – if you’ll pardon my French – and warmer.’
‘Well, that’s very nice of you, my dear fellow,’ said Dover, already half-way up the stairs to collect his hat and coat. ‘Very nice of you indeed. I shan’t be a jiffy.’
Solicitously Mr Tompkins piloted Dover across the road. ‘We don’t want you to get run over and killed, do we, Mr Dover?’ he joked as they nipped between a couple of lorries.
‘Nice little car you’ve got,’ remarked Dover politely as they reached the opposite pavement.
‘Oh, that!’ Mr Tompkins’s tone was contemptuous. ‘Nothing but a blooming soap-box on wheels. And about as fast. I’d like one of those nice little Mercedes sports. A white one. Lovely jobs, they are. But’ – he fished in his pockets for his keys – ‘Mrs Tompkins doesn’t like going fast and, of course, an open car’s quite out of the question with her neuralgia. Shall I go first, Mr Dover? It’s a bit tricky unless you know your way about.’
Dover followed Mr Tompkins into the shop and carefully shut the door behind him. Then he stood and waited while Mr Tompkins walked across to the light switch.
‘I’m always meaning to have another switch put in by the front door,’ he apologized, ‘but somehow I never seem to get around to it.’
Dover had smelled it as soon as he had entered the shop, but amongst the varied aromas coming from packets of detergents and dog biscuits, it had taken him a second or two to identify it. As soon as Mr Tompkins opened the door into the living-quarters at the back there was no mistaking what it was.
‘Here, can you smell gas?’ asked Dover, sniffing suspiciously.
‘Gas?’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Are you sure? I haven’t got a very acute sense of smell myself.’ He sniffed too. ‘My God, you’re right!’
Things started happening quickly and, not surprisingly, Dover got rather out of touch. Mr Tompkins, with a shout of ‘Winifred!’ flung himself into the corridor. He rushed up to a door on the left-hand side and seized the handle.
‘Oh my God!’ he shouted frantically. ‘It’s locked!’ He hurled himself at the door, trying to burst it open with his shoulder, but the door was much more stoutly built than Mr Tompkins was. Dover hurried along to help and found Mr Tompkins charging back up the corridor.
‘I’ll go round through the yard!’ shouted Mr Tompkins. ‘We’ll never break that door down. You go into the kitchen and turn the gas off at the meter!’
They did a panic-stricken jig in the narrow passage as each tried to push past the other. Dover flattened Mr Tompkins against the wall. ‘Where’s the kitchen?’ he bellowed.
‘Down there at the bottom of the corridor!’
Mr Tompkins, his hat falling off in the process, belted across the shop. He struggled a moment with the lock before he could get the door open and then he disappeared outside.
Dover headed at a dignified gallop for the kitchen. It took him some moments of feverish searching to locate the gas meter which was concealed in a cupboard under the sink, and then he had to lie down on his stomach before he could find the tap. Panting and groping and cursing he fumbled around in the dark. ‘Matches!’ he muttered to himself, rolling over on the floor to get to his trouser pocket.
‘’Strewth, no! Not matches!’ He rolled back on his stomach.
By the time he’d actually found the tap and turned it off, a white-faced, sick-looking Mr Tompkins came into the kitchen at a run.
‘It’s Winifred!’ he gasped as Dover picked himself up off the floor, wiping his hands on his overcoat. ‘I’ve got to go back to her. Get a doctor, quick!’
‘ ’Strewth!’ grumbled Dover again as he hurried in Mr Tompkins’s wake out of the kitchen. As he went heavily down the hall he glanced into the room from which waves of stinking, choking gas still seemed to be issuing. He got a vague impression of a sofa with Mr Tompkins bending over it.
Dover pounded back through the shop and reached the pavement outside. His hands were filthy and the front of his overcoat was covered in dust from the floor. His bowler hat had disappeared somewhere in the confusion and his hair sprouted in all directions like a golliwog’s. All in all he was not a sight to inspire either confidence or respect.
Naturally there was nobody about. Dover looked disconsolately up the hill. He had a hazy idea that Dr Hawnt lived in the same row of semi-detached houses as Mrs Leatherbarrow. It looked a long way. It would be far better to delegate the somewhat ignominious role of messenger-boy and get back inside to comfort and support Mr Tompkins, especially, as Dover realized with a start, since it was now raining.
‘Is anything wrong, Mr Dover?’
It was Charlie Chettle calling to him through cupped hands from across the road. Dover nodded his head and waved vigorously. Mr Chettle bided his time and then skipped smartly through the traffic with spry expertise.
Dover welcomed him as though he were manna from heaven. ‘Do you know where Dr Hawnt lives?’
Charlie Chettle nodded his head. His exertions in crossing the road had left him speechless. His eyes were watering and his nose was running, but Dover had no time to be bothered with petty details like that.
‘Right! Well, you run up there as fast as you can and tell him he’s wanted immediately. Mrs Tompkins.’
The
