Not long after two o’clock in the morning the train was rocking along merrily at high speed. MacGregor and Dover were sitting at diagonally opposite ends of their compartment. MacGregor was scratching a few desultory notes in his notebook and worrying about his future. Dover, staring glassy-eyed in front of him, was wondering anxiously about his wife. He sincerely hoped she had fully recovered her health and strength under the administrations of her horrible sister, because he had an idea she was going to need both in the near future. His stomach didn’t feel at all good. Maybe it was Mrs Quince’s parting kipper, or maybe it was those sausage rolls MacGregor had bought him at the station buffet, or maybe he’d caught a chill with standing about waiting for all these buses and trains. It could, he thought, be almost anything, knowing his stomach. But, whatever it was, he was sure it was going to force him to take to his bed for the next six or seven days. By the time he reported fit for duty, the worst of the unpleasantness which was sure to come would have blown over, and the Assistant Commissioner (Crime) and his various underlings would have found something else to tear their hair about.
You could regard the Thornwich poison-pen case either as a qualified success or a qualified failure, depending on your personal point of view and standards. Dover didn’t think that, in the circumstances, he had done too badly. God knows, there were plenty of occasions when he’d done a hell of a lot worse. But his superiors were a carping, fault-finding crew and it might be pleasanter all round if he didn’t turn up at the Yard for a few days.
And his stomach really did feel queasy. Slowly he heaved himself to his feet. What a life! Nothing but go, go, go! MacGregor looked up from his notebook.
‘I’m just going down the corridor,’ explained Dover as he pushed open the sliding door.
MacGregor’s eyes dropped back to his notes and he sighed.
Dover sat moodily in the little room at the end of the corridor for a good five minutes. It was warm and comfortable there and he’d nothing else to do. From time to time a faint grin passed over the broad expanse of his face as he thought of Dame Alice’s discomfiture, past and present. The investigation had not been entirely without its minor satisfactions.
Eventually he decided it was time to be getting back. MacGregor might be getting worried. With a sigh and a grunt he twisted the lock from ‘engaged’ to ‘vacant’ and opened the door. Immediately outside, to Dover’s vast astonishment, stood a steely-eyed, grim-faced Mr Tompkins holding a large revolver in his hand. The revolver was pointing unwaveringly at the dead centre of Dover’s stomach.
‘ ’Strewth!’ said Dover, backing away instinctively.
Mr Tompkins stepped towards him into the toilet and, still not removing his eyes from Dover’s face or his gun from pointing at Dover’s stomach, locked the door behind him with his left hand.
For a long, dramatic moment the two men stood staring at each other.
‘You think you’ve been very clever, don’t you, Mr Dover?’ said Mr Tompkins in a quiet voice.
‘Eh?’ said Dover, glancing despondently at Mr Tompkins’s gun.
‘It’s a Colt 36,’ explained Mr Tompkins helpfully. ‘The U.S. Navy model. It’s over a hundred years old but it’ll still blow the living daylights out of you if you so much as move a muscle.’
‘Oh, quite,’ said Dover, swallowing hard. ‘You won’t have any trouble with me.’
‘Good,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘Now, what was it we were talking about? Oh yes, you think you’ve been very clever, don’t you? Well, you’ve just got to realize that, this time, you’ve not been quite clever enough. I saw you get on the train at Grail ton, you know. You thought you were going to catch me unawares, didn’t you? But I saw you getting on the train and I’ve had time to make a few little arrangements of my own.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Dover as soothingly as he could. ‘Why don’t you just put that gun thing away and come back to my compartment and have a quiet little chat about it, eh?’
‘Don’t give me any more of that dumb ox act!’ retorted Mr Tompkins impatiently. ‘You’ve fooled me all along the line with that! There was me thinking you were just a great fat stupid lump – all this complaining about your stomach and spending half your time in bed . . . oh, you really pulled the wool over my eyes!’
Dover looked unhappily at Mr Tompkins’s gun which was now being waggled up and down in a rather excitable manner.
‘It’s not fair,’ complained Mr Tompkins. ‘If they’d just sent an ordinary detective down, I’d have got away with it. Even you’ve got to admit, it was a brilliant plan.’
‘Oh, yes, it was,’ said Dover, smarmily eager to agree. ‘Really brilliant!’
‘It didn’t deceive you, though,’ Mr Tompkins pointed out crossly.
‘Oh, well,’ said Dover with a deprecating smile.
‘I’d worked it all out very carefully,’ insisted Mr Tompkins, ‘and I took my time about it. I think patience is a great virtue, don’t you? I typed all the poison-pen letters out months and months ago – in my shed out at the back. Nobody ever went in there. It took me a long time, just a few letters every day. Then, when I’d finished, I destroyed everything: the typewriter, the notepaper, the rubber gloves, everything! I just kept the letters, all stamped and addressed and sealed up.’
‘Quite,’ said Dover, nodding his head slowly and trying not to look as though all this was news to him.
‘The timing was most important,’ said Mr Tompkins. ‘As soon as she
