‘Do you think I could have a look at your letter, sir?’ asked MacGregor, realizing that subtlety was going to get him nowhere.
‘She’s got to be stopped,’ said Dover, manfully finishing off Mrs Quince’s egg and reaching for the burnt toast. ‘The general public’s got to be protected from people like her. Here!’ – he licked the end of the butter knife suspiciously – ‘I think that old cow’s given us margarine!’
‘I don’t think we can make a case against Dame Alice, sir,’ ventured MacGregor, fairly confident that he had interrupted the Chief Inspector’s ramblings aright.
‘No,’ said Dover glumly. ‘She’s been very clever. Of course,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘we could, maybe, break her down a bit and get a confession out of her. All women are cowards when it comes to the push.’
MacGregor could feel the blood drain from his cheeks. Dover’s tendency to resort to his fists when more orthodox methods of investigation had failed was one which MacGregor had had to contend with before. Sooner or later, in practically every case he was concerned with, the point came when the Chief Inspector deemed it advisable to thump or rattle the truth out of some unfortunate individual who had not taken his fancy. MacGregor shuddered at the thought of what would happen if these strong arm, fist-in-the-ear tactics were employed on Dame Alice.
‘I don’t think that would be very advisable, sir, really I don’t.’ he said feverishly. ‘She is a woman, you know.’
‘Worse than the men,’ grumbled Dover, ‘and tougher, most of ’em.’
‘She’s a magistrate, too, sir, and Chairman of the Standing Joint Committee.’
‘I don’t care if she’s the Queen of Sheba,’ replied Dover haughtily. ‘It’s my job to crack down on criminals whoever they are and I pride myself, I don’t mind telling you, that I carry out my duties without fear or favour.’
‘She’s a friend of the Assistant Commissioner, sir!’ MacGregor was getting frantic. ‘If you start leaning on her and you don’t make the poison-pen business stick good and proper, she’ll crucify you!’
‘Garn!’ scoffed Dover. ‘I know what I’m doing, laddie.’
‘But you’ve absolutely no proof, sir, none at all! You haven’t got one single thing to connect Dame Alice with those poison-pen letters.’
Dover frowned. ‘Well,’ he admitted, ‘nothing that we could actually produce in court.’
‘You haven’t anything that you couldn’t produce in court either, have you, sir?’
Dover’s frown deepened. His mean little eyes regarded MacGregor sulkily. ‘All the more reason to push her around a bit until she confesses,’ he said without much conviction. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and pushed his chair away from the table.
‘You’re not thinking of going up to see her now, are you, sir?’ asked a horrified MacGregor.
‘As a matter of fact,’ said Dover with great dignity, ‘I was just going to the toilet.’
‘Oh,’ said MacGregor, sweating gently with relief.
‘When I come back we’ll have to talk over what we’re going to do.’ Dover scratched his chin. ‘I wonder if we could infiltrate Mrs Poltensky? If we could get her installed in Friday Lodge as a charwoman or something, she’d be sure to ferret out the evidence for us. She might,’ he added thoughtfully, ‘even plant it there for us.’
MacGregor looked shocked.
‘Oh, for God’s sake, laddie,’ said Dover crossly, ‘it’s been done before and it’ll be done again. It’s not as though we were framing an innocent woman. It’s just a matter of helping things on a bit and making it a bit clearer for the judge and jury.’
MacGregor was totally unconvinced. ‘I think it would be very dangerous, sir, apart from being highly unethical. You’d be putting yourself and your career right in Mrs Poltensky’s hands. Suppose she decided to talk? You’d never be able to trust her.’
‘No,’ said Dover with a sigh. ‘Maybe you’re right. Well, the only other thing I can think of is an intensive, round-the-clock watch on Dame Alice. If we could just catch her posting one of those letters we’d have her cold. Of course it’d mean a lot of work for you, laddie. We’ll not get any help from the local police, that’s for sure. Well, you just kick it around and think about it.’ Dover got to his feet. ‘I’ll be down in a minute.’
He was half-way up the stairs when the phone rang. It was his wife.
‘She’s going home this afternoon, Wilf,’ said Mrs Dover.
‘And about time, too! I was beginning to think she’d taken up residence for life.’
‘She’s been very good, Wilf, I don’t know how I would have managed without her.’
There was a snort from Dover.
‘How have you been keeping, Wilf?’ asked his wife hastily.
‘Rotten,’ said Dover. ‘My stomach’s still not right, you know. I think I’ll have to see a specialist. These ordinary doctors just don’t seem able to get to the root of the trouble. I have this sort of dull ache all the time, you see, and as soon as I’ve had anything to eat – not that I’ve got any appetite, but I force myself – I’ve got to keep my strength up, haven’t I? Well, when I do, I get the most terrible shooting pains. Agonizing, they are, and they needn’t tell me it’s wind. I’ve had wind and . . . ’ Dover talked with enthusiasm until the pips reminded him that the call would be appearing in due course on his telephone bill.
‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Dover when, at last, she could get a word in, ‘I am sorry you’re having such a rotten time, Wilf. I’ve been feeling a lot better these last couple of days but . . .’
‘Some people have all the luck,’ said
