Funny, he thought, how everybody in Wallerton seemed to do things for a week. There was Cochran going to bed for a week. There was that Chauncey whatever-his-name-was having amnesia for a week. There was Arthur Armstrong going away for a week’s treatment and coming back cured.
Dover dropped his cigarette end into his coffee cup. Oh well, he pushed his chair away from the table, no use sitting here all day. He’d be much more comfortable in his own room. Quite worn him out, it had, all that thinking.
The head waiter was holding the dining-room door open for him. Dover acknowledged the service with an absent-minded grunt.
‘Goodnight, sir!’ snarled the head waiter.
Dover yawned.
Twenty-four hours later he was still yawning, but his heart was no longer in it. There was a limit to the amount of sheer inactivity that even Dover could endure. He was moreover feeling lonely, even neglected. He missed having somebody to talk to. MacGregor, with a lack of consideration which was so typical of the younger generation, had completely abandoned him. The selfish young swine hadn’t even been on hand at mealtimes. God knows what he was up to. He appeared from time to time, bright-eyed and excited, gabbled incoherently about being hot on the trail and then dashed off again before Dover could ask him any questions. The only consolation left to the Chief Inspector was an unshakable conviction that his sergeant was heading straight up a gum tree and doing no harm to anyone. Still, it would be nice to know exactly what the young fool was up to, even if it was only to pour cold water on his boyish enthusiasm. There is no doubt that if Dover had not sunk so far in black lethargy this is precisely what he would have done.
He sat glumly in the hotel lounge, an exile while they made his bed and dusted his room. The receptionist appeared.
‘There’s a telephone call for you, Mr Dover.’
‘Who is it?’ said Dover scowling. He had no intention of answering the phone if there was somebody like that potty Chief Constable puffing and blowing down the other end.
‘Somebody called Veitch, I think,’ said the receptionist who prided herself on her total indifference to everything and everybody connected with her work.
‘Never heard of ’em,’ grunted Dover, sinking back in his chair and closing his eyes.
‘Oh, charming, I’m sure!’ The receptionist tossed her head haughtily and minced away.
In a few moments she minced back again. ‘ He says, he’s Sergeant Veitch from the police station. He said to tell you he’s the station sergeant.’
‘I don’t care if he’s the Queen of Sheba,’ retorted Dover. ‘What does he want?’
‘He didn’t say, dearie.’ The receptionist’s tone sharpened. ‘I expect he’s waiting to tell you that himself.’
‘Tell him I’m not in.’
‘I’m afraid I can’t do that. I’ve already told him you said you didn’t know who he was.’
Dover regarded her sourly as she tripped off. ‘Stupid cow!’ he muttered and dragged himself resentfully to his feet.
At the reception desk in the entrance hall he picked up the telephone. ‘Well?’
‘It’s Sergeant Veitch here, sir …’
‘I know that, you damned fool! Wadderyewant?’
There was a slight hesitation at the other end. ‘Well, sir, I was wondering if you’d like to come round and have tea with us this afternoon?’
Dover regarded the telephone receiver with mixed surprise and suspicion. ‘Who’s us?’ he demanded cautiously.
‘The wife and me, sir.’
‘Where do you live? I’ve damaged my foot pretty badly, you know, and I can’t …’
‘Oh, I’d come and fetch you from the hotel in the car, sir. And bring you back afterwards.’
‘What time?’
‘Well, how about, say, a quarter to five, sir?’
Dover thought it over. It’d make a change if nothing else. But, tea? There was a funny thing for one copper to invite another to. Doubtless it was a tactful euphemism for something a sight stronger.
‘All right,’ said Dover. ‘A quarter to five.’ He put the phone down.
The receptionist shuddered. If there was one thing she did like to see in a man it was nice manners.
The station sergeant presented himself at a quarter to five on the dot, which was just as well as Dover was a great stickler for punctuality in others. With a depressing lack of graciousness the Chief Inspector allowed himself to be shepherded out to the waiting car. It was big and new and the heater was going full blast.
‘Glad to see you can afford to run a car like this,’ he remarked. ‘It’s more than I can on my pay.’
The station sergeant managed a smile and gave Dover a cigarette.
Unmollified, Dover slumped back in his seat and unburdened himself of a carping and endless commentary on the station sergeant’s driving. The station sergeant was a good driver, which is probably why they reached his house all in one piece. A less controlled man would have headed the car straight for the nearest lamp-post out of sheer vexation.
‘Well,’ said Dover as they slid to a gentle halt before a neat-looking semi-detached, ‘maybe I’ve been a bit too hard on the wife. She isn’t the worst driver in the world after all.’
Chapter Eleven
By the time Dover was installed in the place of honour
