‘I can’t think why,’ was Miss ffiske’s tart rejoinder. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, if you ask me. He should have dropped down dead years ago.’
‘Oh, you knew him, did you?’
‘I could hardly live next door to him for ten years without knowing him, could I? He was a dreadful man. He had the morals of a tom cat and when he’d been drinking – ugh!’ She shuddered.
‘But, surely he didn’t try to force his attentions on you, did he?’ asked Dover spitefully. Miss ffiske was in her early fifties and looked more like a retired bantam-weight boxer than anything else. She was small and wiry with a scrubbed pugnacious face and short stiff hair chopped into an uncompromising bob. She was not the type that any man, however lecherous and however drunk, would have accosted light-heartedly.
Miss ffiske seized Dover’s toes and bent them vigorously up and down. She ignored the howls this brief sample of manipulation produced. ‘ There, I told you there was nothing broken.’
‘If there wasn’t before, I should damned well think there is now,’ growled Dover. ‘Where did they train you? In the elephant house?’
‘No, unfortunately,’ Miss ffiske snapped back at him, ‘otherwise I should have been better qualified to handle you!’
MacGregor stepped in quickly before the situation could degenerate any further. ‘ You were telling us about Mr Hamilton, Miss ffiske?’
‘Oh, was I? Oh well, I haven’t really had much trouble with him personally for some years now. He was a nuisance at one time, always making suggestive remarks – you know the sort of thing – but I soon put a stop to that. He didn’t get any encouragement from me! But then he started going to this disgusting club they have and coming back blind to the world at all hours of the night. A couple of times he’s come hammering on my door at well past midnight and shouting that he couldn’t get in. I warned him if it happened again I’d send for the police, and I would have done, too. A man like that ought to be kept behind bars permanently. Of course, he said he’d mistaken the house. They do all look alike, I know, and you can’t see these dratted numbers in the day time, never mind late at night but, knowing him, I wasn’t prepared to accept any excuses.’
‘I said,’ said MacGregor. ‘ But on the night of the murder, or rather – well – the night he died, you didn’t hear anything at all, I understand?’
‘Not a squeak,’ said Miss ffiske. ‘ When I go to bed, I go there to sleep – unlike some people. And, anyhow, our rooms are at the back of the house.’
‘Our rooms?’
‘My receptionist. Miss Gourlay, lives here, too,’ explained Miss ffiske curtly. ‘Well, if you’ve no more questions I’d like to be getting on with my work. You can put your sock on now, Mr Dover.’
‘You couldn’t just have a look at that corn on my little toe while you’re about it, could you?’ asked Dover.
‘No.’ said Missffiske, ‘I couldn’t. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ve a room full of patients waiting out there and, not being part of the National Health, my time is money. That’ll be seven and sixpence and you can pay my receptionist on the way out.’
‘Perhaps I’d better ring for a taxi, sir?’ asked MacGregor.
‘Nonsense!’ said Miss ffiske sharply. ‘Plenty of exercise, that’s what he needs. The worst thing he can do is let that foot stiffen up. Keep him on the move, sergeant. A good brisk walk four times a day will do him a world of good. He’s grossly overweight, anyhow.’
Before Dover had time to think up some appropriate and cutting rejoinder, the surgery door opened and a young woman with a weak but pretty face came in. Like Miss ffiske she wore a white overall with the blue bow of the Ladies’ League pinned on the left breast. She seemed confused to find the two detectives still there and blushed deeply.
‘Oh, do excuse me,’ she stammered. ‘I didn’t realize … I’m so sorry …’
‘What is it, Janie?’ demanded Miss ffiske.
‘Oh, er, nothing. It doesn’t matter.’
‘You must have come in here to tell me something. What is it?’
‘It’s just Mrs Widgery-Smith, dear, but I can come back.’
‘What about Mrs Widgery-Smith?’ Miss ffiske sounded a trifle impatient.
Miss Gourlay blushed deeper and flung a reproachful glance at her employer. ‘It’s about her little pussy cat, dear.’
‘Well?’
‘She wants to know when she can bring it in for its operation.’ Miss Gourlay’s voice sank to an embarrassed whisper.
‘What operation?’
Miss Gourlay’s eyes flicked nervously at Dover and MacGregor. ‘Oh, you know, dear.’
‘No, I don’t know!’ retorted Miss ffiske stubbornly. ‘And I do wish you’d stop being so blasted namby-pamby, Janie! If she wants the damned cat neutered, why don’t you say so instead of beating about the bush like something out of a Victorian novel?’
‘I’m sorry, dear,’ murmured Miss Gourlay.
‘When does she want to bring it?’
‘Friday morning, if that’s all right with you, dear.’
‘It’ll do. Tell her ten o’clock. And just see you don’t forget to get the operating theatre ready this time.’
‘No, dear,’ said Miss Gourlay and thankfully withdrew.
‘Women!’ snorted Miss ffiske. She slammed a few drawers in her desk to relieve her feelings. ‘I sometimes wonder why I bother!’
MacGregor, on his knees fastening Dover’s bootlace, looked up politely.
‘You spend thousands of pounds on the best equipped operating theatre for a hundred miles and what happens?’ Miss ffiske addressed her question to the room at large and stayed not for an answer.
‘Some fool of a girl doesn’t even remember to take the blasted dust sheets off!’
‘It must be very annoying,’ sympathized MacGregor, rather forcefully assisting Dover to his feet. The Chief Inspector looked like sitting there all day.
Miss ffiske looked at the pair of them in some surprise, as though she had forgotten they were there. ‘Eh? Oh, well, yes,’ she said gruffly. ‘Still, she’s got some very good qualities. Devotion.
