‘You’ll be the policemen from London,’ he observed.
‘That’s right, landlord,’ said MacGregor with a winning smile. ‘I believe you’ve got a couple of rooms for us.’
Bert Quince’s eyebrows rose slightly at the ‘landlord’ bit but he made no comment. If this young fellow-me-lad thought he was going to patronize the inhabitants of Thornwich with his lah-di-dah ways and his lah-di-dah voice, he’d got another think coming. He’d soon learn, probably with somebody’s boot up his backside. They were a ruggedly independent lot in Thornwich.
‘I hope they told you,’ said Bert Quince, still warmly ensconced behind his bar counter, ‘that we’re only putting you up to oblige. We don’t let rooms in winter. Only in summer. To cyclists and suchlike. Still, you’re welcome to what we’ve got’ – his voice didn’t ring with anything approaching sincerity – ‘just as long as you bear it in mind that we’re only doing it to oblige. I reckon’ – this came out with grim relish – ‘I reckon you’ll find us a sight more rough than you’re used to up in London.’ He pushed two keys across the counter. ‘Up them stairs and you’ll find your rooms just at the top. Numbers one and two. You can’t miss ’em.’
‘We would like some supper,’ said MacGregor, producing another friendly smile.
‘Supper?’ Bert Quince scratched his head. ‘I dunno about that. The old woman’s out playing bingo. She always plays bingo on a Saturday night.’
‘But we’ve had nothing to eat,’ protested MacGregor, and Dover’s stomach rumbled loudly in support.
‘Charlie!’ Bert Quince turned ponderously to address the old man with the whippet. ‘How about popping across to Freda’s and bringing back a couple of plates of dinner? I reckon these gentlemen’ll think it’s worth the price of a pint.’
Charlie shot to his feet with that frantic spryness which, when it suits them, only the elderly and fragile can achieve. ‘Hot pie, chips and beans, do you?’ he asked, and was gone in the twinkling of an eye.
‘Well, that’s very kind,’ said MacGregor helplessly as the door banged to behind Charlie.
‘It’s across the road,’ explained Mr Quince. ‘It’s less dangerous for him. He’s used to it.’
‘Oh,’ said MacGregor. ‘Well, perhaps we should go up to our rooms and save a wash – shall we, sir?’
Dover, who had not so far opened his mouth in the confines of The Jolly Sailor, gave a disparaging and ominous sniff and headed for the stairs. Meekly MacGregor toted up the suitcases and followed him. He already had an uncomfortable premonition that this was going to be a typical Dover case. The signs were all pointing implacably in that direction.
Chapter Two
WHEN DOVER and MacGregor came back into the bar twenty minutes later their dinner was congealing on the counter. Bert Quince obliged by opening up the musty saloon bar and finding some cutlery. In solemn state the two detectives settled down to their pie, beans and chips followed by a couple of apple tarts in little cardboard boxes.
‘We can’t stay here!’ snarled Dover, spraying beans and chips in several directions.
Unhappily, MacGregor nodded his agreement. It wasn’t often he and the Chief Inspector saw eye to eye on anything but on this occasion there was no dissension in either mind. The Jolly Sailor just didn’t come up to scratch. Visiting detectives had every right to expect the taxpayer to provide them with something several stars better than this. The beds were hard, narrow and damp. Each miserable room was furnished with a bowl and ewer the like of which MacGregor had never seen outside a junk shop, and it looked highly unlikely that anybody would ever oblige with hot water for shaving. Both rooms faced the front and got the full benefit of the morning sun and the endless heavy traffic tearing past on the main road. With commendable selfishness the Quinces had commandeered the back rooms for themselves. And the toilet! In spite of the fact that the electric light bulb had expired, enough could be seen to make the strongest stomach heave. There was a wad of newspaper hanging on a nail, and MacGregor didn’t see how the piece of hairy string which served as a chain could long withstand the tugs of a man like Dover.
‘I don’t think there is anywhere else, sir,’ said MacGregor, examining the inside of his meat pie with some distress. ‘There’s nowhere nearer than Bearle and that’s seven miles off. And I don’t suppose those buses run more than once in a blue moon.’
Dover glared at him. Wet-blanket MacGregor sounding off again! ‘Well, you’ll just have to find somewhere, won’t you, laddie?’
‘But where, sir?’
‘Don’t ask me!’ snapped Dover crossly. ‘Use your initiative!’ He unwrapped his apple pie.
‘’Strewth! It’s got whiskers on it. They damned well want prosecuting, selling muck like this.’
Things, however, took an unexpected turn for the better. After supper MacGregor announced that, with the Chief Inspector’s permission, he would retire to his room and study the file on the case. Dover, not at his brightest and best, gave a ready consent – he was always glad to see the back of his sergeant – but no sooner had MacGregor gone than he realized that he had been left all alone in a public house with nobody to buy him a drink. He was just about to haul MacGregor downstairs again at the double, when one of the men who’d been patiently sitting in the public bar since the detectives first arrived nobly stepped into the breach.
‘I wonder if you would permit me to buy you a drink, Chief Inspector? Just to welcome you to Thornwich and wish you every success.’
No sooner asked than accepted, and Dover found himself clutching a glass of whisky and beaming quite happily at the donor as he joined him and the old man who had fetched the suppers. Introductions were soon made. The old man
