Dover opened his eyes. He stretched himself and yawned. Oh?’ he said, blinking. ‘Are you still here, laddie?’
‘I’m just going, sir,’ replied MacGregor coldly.
‘Well, don’t forget what I told you. Tomorrow evening you stop in the hotel and wait for the summons. And don’t worry, laddie! I’ve got it all planned out. You’ll be as safe as houses.’
When MacGregor had gone Dover bestirred himself with a most unusual display of energy. He rummaged around in his suitcase until he found the pile of headed writing paper that he had already pinched from the hotel lounge. He selected the grubbiest sheet and then began to search for a pen. He eventually unearthed a rather nasty ball-point bound together with sticking plaster. Lamenting, not for the first time, that finders can’t be choosers, he sat himself down on the edge of his bed and began laboriously to compose a letter to the Chief Constable.
It took him a long time as he was rather out of practice when it came to putting pen to paper. Nowadays he shoved all that sort of menial drudgery on to MacGregor. However, he got to the end at last and read the epistle through. Clear as daylight. Any fool could understand what he was getting at. He crossed out the odd word here and there, which didn’t improve the general appearance. With some regret he addressed one of his envelopes. He’d only been able to collect ten of them and it seemed a pity to use one. Still, the letter was highly confidential and the sacrifice must be made. He licked, the sticky stuff and stuck the flap down, leaving a perfect thumb print on the back as he did so.
With a considerable sense of martyrdom Dover trudged off to make arrangements for the delivery of his letter. On the way he saw a little notice pointing to the railway station. He looked at it thoughtfully. He supposed he might as well go there first. He turned in the indicated direction and found himself thirty seconds later at a complicated road juncture and completely lost. Being a great believer in using his head to save his legs, he grabbed the nearest passer-by and, detaining him by brute force, demanded to be told where the bloody station was.
Six passers-by later Wallerton’s Central Station was actually in sight. Dover was glad. He was getting worn out manoeuvring the conversations he had forced upon perfect strangers from a simple request to be put on the right way to an elaborate account of how he and MacGregor were going to shake the dust of Wallerton off their heels in a couple of days’ time. Some of the perfect strangers had been resigned and listened to. All this rigmarole with kindly indulgence. Other perfect strangers got highly obstreperous and objected strongly to being detained in the cold and the pouring rain. Dover had had quite a job with some of them, being obliged to clutch them firmly by the collar or by the arm. However, the Chief Inspector stuck to his self-appointed task, priding himself quite erroneously that, having put his shoulder to the wheel, he was not the man to turn back.
He staggered into the booking hall at the railway station and flopped down on the nearest bench. While he recovered his strength he stared sullenly at posters of semi-naked lads and lassies romping on sunlit beaches. The edges were already peeling in the damp. There were very few people about and those that were looked as though they were sheltering from the rain.
Dover pulled himself to his feet and went across to the ticket office. He bent down and peered through the glass partition which is placed there to prevent travellers breathing germs on the booking staff.
There was nobody there.
Dover waited a full fifteen seconds before his patience gave out. He hammered on the glass and bellowed through the little slit at the top.
Eventually a young man appeared. He had long flowing locks which he was combing tenderly with a pink pocket comb held in his left hand. In his right hand he clutched a partially eaten bar of chocolate.
He looked at Dover. ‘Hello, darling!’ he said cheerfully, ‘where do you want to go? Or don’t it matter, eh? I ’spect you’re like me, eh? It don’t matter as long as it’s far far away from Squaresville here. And to think I come for the surfing! I shoulda gone to the North Pole. Well, now, Daddy-o, we’ve got some real pretty tickets for Sudley Burbiton and all points east. You pays your money and you takes your choice.’
‘I don’t want to buy a ticket,’ snarled Dover.
‘Oh, just come for a chat, have you, darling? Well, I’d like to oblige but I’m already spoken for. We could never be nothing more
