‘Er, yes, sir.’ The sergeant stood for a moment as though unsure of what to do. ‘Well, good morning then, sir.’
There was no reply.
It was half past two before Dover sallied forth from the hotel. The rain, for once, had stopped and it was quite sunny. People, residents and visitors alike, looked happier. In Wallerton you soon learnt to be grateful for small mercies. What matter that a cold sea breeze was cutting down the streets and blowing sand into everybody’s face?
Dover, with the help of two or three passers-by, eventually found his way into the street in which Hamilton, alias Sunny Malone, had lived and died. He shuffled down it at a leisurely pace, pausing only to stick his tongue out at the front door from behind which Mrs Hamilton had struck him such a dastardly blow. At the next gateway he stood still and examined the house in front of him. It looked exactly the same as all the others except for the small brass plate on the door bearing Miss ffiske’s name, qualifications and profession.
Dover ambled up the steps and rang the bell.
Miss Gourlay put up a gallant resistance. ‘I’m very sorry, Chief Inspector, but it’s quite impossible for Miss ffiske to see you now. She’s just going out on her rounds. She’s a very busy woman, you know, and these poor sick animals; they’re absolutely dependent on her. If you like, I’ll make an appointment for you to come back this evening.’
‘I want to see Miss ffiske now. You just nip along and tell her.’
‘No!’ said Miss Gourlay in a sudden rush of bravery. ‘ I will not! She works far too hard as it is and I’m sick to death of people thinking she’s at their beck and call.’
‘Do you know, miss, what the penalty is for obstructing the police in the execution of their duty?’
‘No!’ Miss Gourlay retorted cheekily. ‘Do you?’
As it happens, Dover didn’t. Not specifically at any rate. ‘Six years!’ he blustered.
Miss Gourlay burst into a peal of girlish laughter. ‘ Rubbish!’ she squeaked. Really, she was quite enjoying herself. Men weren’t so awful after all, not if you stood up to them and treated them like human beings. She must tell Hazel about it afterwards.
Meanwhile Dover had had enough. It was undignified for a detective of his seniority and experience to be seen standing on doorsteps bandying words with stupid chits of girls. He’d tried the diplomatic approach. Now it was time for action.
‘Oh, dear!’ said Miss Gourlay as Dover began merely to walk forward over the threshold. She tried to stop him but she would have had more success against a tank. Dover triumphantly entered the hall to find himself confronted by an agitated Miss ffiske, hurrying to see what all the commotion was about. She was wearing a trilby hat of almost unbelievable ugliness and a good heavy overcoat.
‘What on earth is it now?’ she demanded.
‘Just a few more questions about the night Mr Hamilton died,’ said Dover blandly, pushing his bowler hat back on his head.
‘I told him you were too busy to see him now, dear,’ wailed Miss Gourlay, ‘but he just wouldn’t take any notice. I told him he couldn’t see you without an appointment. I said …’
‘For God’s sake, Janie, shut up!’ Miss ffiske, arms akimbo, swung round to face Dover. ‘ Now, look here, you, I’m just getting a bit fed up with this. I told you all I know, which is precisely nothing, the first time you called. I told your dratted sergeant all I know, which is still precisely nothing, when he was here wasting my time this morning. I happen to have my living to earn and I don’t propose …’
‘What?’ Dover rolled his eyes and clutched at the hall stand for support. ‘What did you say?’
Miss ffiske stared at him in some stupefaction, as well she might. Dover hamming it up was enough to make the blood run cold. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘What,’ gasped Dover, his chest heaving spasmodically to signify surprise and horror, ‘what did you say about my sergeant?’ He rolled his eyes again for good measure.
Miss Gourlay skipped agilely past him and took shelter behind Miss ffiske. ‘I just said that I told your sergeant for the second time …’
‘When?’ howled Dover, his voice trembling with a sense of impending doom. ‘Oh, when?’
‘This morning,’ Miss ffiske stammered, her self possession beginning to desert her in the face of this histrionic orgy.
Dover fell back against the wall and clutched his heart. ‘This morning?’ His voice rose to a hoarse shriek. The English stage lost nothing when he decided to become a policeman. ‘Do you mean that Detective Sergeant MacGregor was here this morning’ – a long dramatic pause – ‘alone?’
Miss ffiske looked anxiously at Miss Gourlay. ‘Well, yes,’ she said at last.
Dover, never one to underplay a scene, grabbed his head with both hands and sank quivering on to a convenient chair. ‘Oh, my God!’ he groaned.
‘Is anything the matter?’ asked Miss ffiske, backing a little way down the hall.
‘You may well ask,’ intoned Dover. ‘You may well ask.’ He managed to inject a sob into the phrase on the repetition.
‘Should I telephone for the police, dear?’ whispered Miss Gourlay.
‘Don’t be a damned fool, Janie, he is the police.’
Dover looked annoyed. He groaned to swing the attention back to him. ‘Sergeant MacGregor,’ he said in a sepulchral voice, ‘should not have come here by himself.’
‘Oh,’ said Miss ffiske, much relieved, ‘is that all?’
‘Sergeant MacGregor has been expressly forbidden to interview members of the opposite sex unless he is chaperoned by a senior police officer.’
‘Good grief!’ said Miss ffiske. ‘Why?’
Dover dropped his voice a couple of octaves for the punch line. ‘He is not to
