‘To who?’ asked Dover sceptically. ‘ That stupid old cow, Mrs Hamilton?’
‘Maybe to Cochran, sir. They were friends, you know.’
‘Garn! Who says so? Only that old sponger of a station sergeant and he’s probably talking through the back of his fat head. Still,’ – Dover scratched his jaw – ‘you may be right about somebody intending to croak Hamilton and he thwarted ’em by dropping down dead. Not that that gets us much further.’
‘The two men in the green van, sir?’
‘You don’t think that sodden old biddy could see a barn door across the room, do you?’
‘She told a very coherent story, sir, and she’s stuck to it. I checked her original statement in the file. As far as I can tell it’s word for word exactly the same as the one she told us.’
Dover blinked. ‘Is it really?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dover moved his bulk uneasily in his chair. ‘ By the way,’ he asked with elaborate casualness, ‘do you know if that Doughty woman is a member of this blooming Ladies League or whatever it is?’
‘Oh yes, definitely, sir. She’d got one of those blue bows pinned on her kimono.’ MacGregor regarded Dover suspiciously. ‘Why did you ask, sir?’
‘Oh, just wondering.’ Dover gazed with interest at the ceiling. ‘Just that they seem thicker on the ground in this godforsaken town than leaves in autumn. That animal doctor woman is one. So’s her girlfriend assistant. Those two women who damned near killed me with their first aid are. So’s Miss Doughty, and Cochran’s landlady. There can’t be much that goes on in this town that they don’t know about.’
MacGregor yawned. ‘That’s what the station sergeant said, sir. He said they practically run the place. No wonder it’s not exactly jumping with life.’
‘There must be something to do somewhere,’ complained Dover, scratching his stomach this time. ‘ Here, didn’t Hamilton spend his last evening in some night-club or other?’
‘Yes, sir, the Wallerton, er, Country Club, I think, though it doesn’t sound very likely, does it?’
‘It sounds a damned sight better than here,’ said Dover, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Come on!’
‘Where are we going, sir?’
‘To this Club, you damned fool! Where else?’
‘Now, sir?’
‘Well, not if you’re too worn out with your exertions, of course,’ said Dover caustically. ‘We don’t want to over-tire you.’
‘Oh no, sir, I’m all for it,’ said MacGregor, not considering it polite to point out that if anybody dragged their feet in the partnership it wasn’t him.
‘Good,’ said Dover, sitting down again. ‘ Well, you go and phone for a taxi and then nip upstairs for my hat and coat.’ He settled back in his chair and closed his eyes. ‘ Tell me when you’re ready.’
When the taxi dropped the two detectives outside the Wallerton Country Club their hopes for a gay evening took a severe battering.
‘Where the hell is it?’ demanded Dover crossly.
MacGregor peered round. The taxi had abandoned them in an insalubrious part of Wallerton. They seemed to be surrounded by decrepit garages, untidy builders’ yards and mouldering warehouses. The street lights were few and far between, and a cat ran squawking out from under MacGregor’s feet as he picked his way through old cabbage leaves and broken bricks towards a partially open doorway. The yellow light which oozed through the crack was just sufficient to allow him to read the shoddy, handwritten board hanging on the door.
‘I think this is it, sir!’ he called to Dover.
Dover, limping markedly to emphasize the inconvenience he was patiently suffering, groped across the street to join his sergeant. ‘You’re joking, of course,’ he observed in his surliest tone.
‘Oh no, sir. This is it, I’m afraid.’
‘Wallerton Country Club,’ said Dover firmly. ‘ Wallerton Country Club, that’s what you said.’ He surveyed the masses of brick and concrete which hemmed them in. ‘ This isn’t what I call a country club.’
‘It isn’t what I call a country club, either, sir,’ MacGregor pointed out with commendable patience. ‘But I’m afraid this is it. Are we going in?’
‘Might as well,’ said Dover gloomily. ‘ Oh no, laddie,’ – as MacGregor pushed the door open and stood back politely ‘after you.’
MacGregor imperceptibly shrugged his shoulders and stepped across the threshold. Somewhat to Dover’s disappointment nobody smacked him across the head with a pick-axe handle or inserted a flick-knife between his ribs.
MacGregor found himself in a small square entrance hall. The floor was not only uncarpeted but unswept as well and the walls were blank slabs of concrete relieved only by some illegible graffitti. In the right hand wall was a minute lift, its ornate bronze gates blackened with dirt and dust. MacGregor, urged to proceed further by the toe of Dover’s boot scraping down his heel, took another step.
‘And what do you want?’
The hoarse, unfriendly voice had come from the dim recess on the right, an area of Stygian shades partially concealed by the opening door. Hesitantly MacGregor moved forward and peered into the gloom.
An enormously fat man, sitting on a kitchen chair in the corner, sullenly returned his gaze. Apart from the fact that the fat man was completely bald, was tieless and collarless and had a pair of old white tennis shoes on his feet, there was nothing especially remarkable about his appearance.
‘Er, good evening,’ said MacGregor, uncomfortably aware that the smile that had the old ladies swooning was going to get him nowhere here.
‘What do you want?’ repeated the fat man with an asthmatic wheeze.
‘The Wallerton Country Club?’
‘You a member?’ said the fat man, hardly moving his lips as he spoke. He appeared to be conserving his energy for more strenuous exertions, like breathing.
‘Well, not exactly,’ began MacGregor. Dover, having judged that there was going to be no violence, elbowed him aside.
The fat man registered the new arrival with the faintest jerk of his head. ‘ Cops,’ he remarked and for a moment seemed as though he was going to follow this condemnation with the traditional expectoration. However, he refrained, apparently
