MacGregor managed to get Dover’s hands off Mrs Armstrong’s throat just in time. Somewhat dazed, the two combatants began to sort themselves out. Both were panting and dishevelled. Mindful of his priorities MacGregor helped his Chief Inspector back into his chair before turning to assist Mrs Armstrong. He was just disentangling her from the wreckage of the footstool and trying to get her on her feet when yet another figure appeared in the already overcrowded kitchen.
It was a young man, in pyjamas and with his hair standing up like a flue brush. He groped his way into the room and bumped into the kitchen table.
‘Arthur!’ screamed Mrs Armstrong, the prospect of yet more disaster acting on her like a tonic. ‘Stay where you are!’ She let go of MacGregor’s supporting arm and smoothed down her apron. ‘His glasses! He can’t see a thing without his glasses.’ She moved towards the mantlepiece.
‘Never mind,’ said MacGregor quickly, ‘ I’ll get them.’
Even with his glasses on young Arthur Armstrong had difficulty in distinguishing the various objects in the room, as his attempt to sit on Dover’s knees showed. For one heart-stopping moment MacGregor thought the whole thing was going to start up again, but the Chief Inspector was wide-awake now. He contented himself with employing the toe of his boot to propel Arthur Armstrong three quarters of the way across the room. Mrs Armstrong caught her son just before he reached the gas stove.
MacGregor, employing all his organizing ability and tact, finally got everybody sitting down at a safe distance from everybody else.
But Mrs Armstrong had not yet forgotten and forgiven. ‘I don’t know what come over you, sir,’ she complained to Dover. ‘I thought you was sitting there sound asleep like a baby.’
‘You banged my sore foot,’ retorted Dover accusingly. ‘You want to be more careful. Well, for God’s sake, MacGregor, get on with it! We haven’t got all blooming day.’
Arthur Armstrong seemed quite grateful when MacGregor spoke to him by name. He turned eagerly in the direction of the authoritative voice, called MacGregor ‘sir’ and answered the questions briefly and to the point.
Yes, he had driven Mr Hamilton to his house from the Wallerton Country Club on the night in question. No, Mr Hamilton was not drunk, just a bit merry like, sir. No, he had not seen anything suspicious or in any way out of the ordinary. He had just dropped Mr Hamilton outside his house. Mr Hamilton had paid the fare and given him, Arthur, a nine-penny tip. No, he had not seen Mr Hamilton actually enter his house. When he, Arthur, had driven away Mr Hamilton was still standing on the pavement. No, there was nothing at all unusual about Mr Hamilton’s behaviour as far as he had noticed, and Mr Hamilton had said, to the best of his recollection, nothing of any significance at all.
MacGregor sighed and looked disappointed. Dover was less downcast. He’d long ago given up expecting anything from anybody, and really helpful witnesses just didn’t, in his rather jaundiced experience, exist at all.
Dover gazed into the depths of the fire. ‘Had you driven this Hamilton chap back home at night before, laddie?’ he asked suddenly.
Arthur jumped and gawped vaguely in Dover’s direction. It seemed doubtful whether he really appreciated that there was a fourth person in the room, in spite of the kick he had received for lèse-majesté, ‘Well, yes, I think so, sir, a couple of times, or three maybe, since I’ve been driving.’
‘And how long’s that?’
‘Six or seven months now, sir.’
‘How did you find the house?’
‘Find the house, sir?’
‘That’s what I said, laddie. You got cloth ears or something? How did you find the house?’
‘Well,’ – Arthur seemed to have trouble in finding the right words – ‘Mr Hamilton, he told me the address and I just drove there.’
‘When you got to the street, how did you know where to stop the car?’
Arthur sighed. ‘Mr Hamilton had told me the number. When I seed it, I stopped. Is that what you mean, sir?’
‘It’ll do, laddie,’ said Dover, nodding his head. ‘ It’ll do.’
MacGregor looked at Dover suspiciously. He was the first to complain that the Chief Inspector’s contribution to their professional partnership was virtually nil, but in his heart of hearts he preferred it that way. He had a high opinion of his own ability, not unjustified when it was contrasted with Dover’s, and he rather fancied himself in the role of bright young detective solving everything while his senior colleague floundered about completely baffled. This was a somewhat optimistic, even romantic view of their joint exploits, but MacGregor had long ago convinced himself that it was a true one. This made it all the more distressing when Dover, by sheer accident or blatant good luck, occasionally saw the wood while MacGregor was still admiring the trees. And the Chief Inspector was not the man to share his rare inspirations with anyone, never mind a jumped-up, prissy detective sergeant who was getting a damned sight too big for his boots anyhow. MacGregor was thus forced to keep his weather eye wide open and start thinking furiously whenever Dover roused himself to ask some particular question. What did the old fool mean now, for instance, by asking about how Armstrong found the house. MacGregor cudgelled his brains and the light dawned. Of course! He waited for Dover to pursue the point.
The Chief Inspector switched his questions to Mrs Armstrong. ‘How,’ he demanded bluntly, ‘did this son of yours ever become a taxi driver? He’s as blind as a perishing bat.’
‘He’s not!’ Mrs Armstrong rose spiritedly to the defence of her offspring. ‘He can see near as good as anybody with his glasses on.’
‘It were Mrs Liversedge what fixed it,’ said Arthur with a stupid grin.
‘Yes, well there’s no call to go into all that,’ retorted his
