‘How the hell do I know?’ grumbled Dover.
‘We must do something!’
‘Maybe you could grill that taxi-driver, Armstrong? They must have taken him somewhere. If you thumped him around a bit it might make him remember.’
‘We haven’t time!’ wailed the Chief Constable.
Yet another sodden uniformed figure approached the car. This time it was Sergeant Veitch. He touched the peak of his cap perfunctorily with one finger and sneezed. ‘Will you be wanting us much longer, sir? The men are …’
The Chief Constable ignored him. ‘ You must have some idea,’ he said to Dover. ‘We can’t just leave it like this.’
‘It’s not my fault,’ protested Dover. ‘We’ve tried Miss ffiske’s and we’ve tried Mrs Jolliott’s. You can’t blame me if they’re not there.’
‘Was you wanting Miss ffiske or Mrs Jolliott then, sir?’ asked Sergeant Veitch, sneezing again.
The Chief Constable clutched at him like a drowning man reaching for the lifebelt. ‘Do you know where they are, Sergeant?’
‘Well, of course, sir. It’s the monthly meeting of the Ladies’ League. They’ll be in the Civic Hall, same as usual.’
‘Monthly meeting?’ gasped the Chief Constable. ‘In the Civic Hall?’ The colour drained from his face.
‘That’s right, sir,’ said Sergeant Veitch. ‘They usually take the Beatrice Bencher Memorial Room, seeing as how there’s getting on for a hundred of ’em attend regular, even on a stinking night like this.’
‘A hundred of ’em? Oh, my God!’ The Chief Constable turned an ashen face to Dover. He cleared his throat. ‘You don’t think they’re going to make a sort of ceremony out of it, do you?’
‘’Strewth!’ said Dover, feeling distinctly queasy.
‘A sort of horrible orgy?’ breathed the Chief Constable in a shaky voice. ‘ One hundred self-righteous, middle-aged, middle-class harpies, all gloating while your poor sergeant’s lying there bound and helpless …’
‘Here,’ said Dover, ‘steady on!’
‘What else can it be?’ the Chief Constable demanded, his eyes popping. ‘ Sergeant MacGregor’s missing, you’ve uncovered what these she-devils have been doing to every man with a spark of life in him in the town, and now we know that they’re all gathered together in some unholy conclave in the Civic Hall – and in the Beatrice Bencher Memorial Room at that. My God! I remember that boot-faced old battle axe, and her husband, too, poor swine. I should think he’d have volunteered for castration if he’d been given the chance. I know I would in his shoes.’ He shivered. ‘Well, don’t just sit there like a great lump, Dover! We’ve got to get cracking!’
‘Now, don’t let’s be too hasty, sir,’ said Dover, jibbing, not unnaturally, at the thought of tackling the flower of Wallerton’s womanhood en masse and on the rampage.
‘Hasty?’ snorted the Chief Constable, his face now red with excitement. ‘ We haven’t a moment to lose! Sergeant!’
Once again the orders flew in all directions. The Chief Constable prided himself on being a man of action and he welcomed every opportunity to live up to his reputation. Disgruntled constables moved unwillingly out of the doorways where they had been sheltering from the rain. Unkind remarks were made about silly old buggers who changed their minds every five minutes and who ought to get out of that bloody car and see what it’s like hanging round all bloody night in a cloud-burst. In spite of confused and contradictory instructions and a widespread lack of enthusiasm, the Chief Constable managed at last to get his troops on the move.
The sound of the car roaring into life roused Dover. He regarded his surroundings miserably. It hadn’t been a nightmare, after all. This was for real. Sukey was snarling to herself on the back seat and the Chief Constable was bouncing about like a cat on hot bricks on the front. By now Dover had got round to blaming the whole business on MacGregor. Serve him damned well right if he got what was coming to him!
‘Faster!’ roared the Chief Constable, setting the siren wailing.
Much to Dover’s relief the journey was a short one. He got out of the car and wrapped his overcoat round him. In a few seconds the rest of the party assembled and were placed strategically round the Civic Hall, a gaunt building decorated with two strings of coloured lights and standing exposed to all the elements in the centre of the promenade.
‘Right!’ said the Chief Constable, squaring his shoulders. ‘Forward!’
Dover shambled after him as the Chief Constable strode up the wide ceremonial steps, his chin jutting out and a little swagger-stick tucked militantly under his arm. Sergeant Veitch and half a dozen dripping policemen feil in behind. Sukey and her handler marched proudly in the rear. The Alsatian had an unerring instinct for the limelight? and had insisted on being let out of the car. Even now, ears pricked and eyes alert, she was looking around for the gentlemen of the press.
They all tramped into the entrance hall. Posters advertising jumble sales and classes in flower arrangement flapped frantically in the gale which blew through the open door. A man in shirt-sleeves and a peaked cap emerged from a cubicle. The Chief Constable charged across to him with a yelp of delight.
‘The Ladies’ League, my man! Are they still here?’
Sullenly the caretaker nodded.
The Chief Constable slapped his swagger-stick on the side of his leg. It hurt him but he stiffened his upper lip and took it like a man. ‘Lead us to them!’
The caretaker shook his head. ‘Can’t. Got me orders. Nobody’s to be allowed in.’
‘This is a police matter.’
‘They’d scalp me.’
‘I take full responsibility.’
‘You can take a dose of salts, mate, it makes no odds to me.’
The Chief Constable bristled and drew himself up even straighter. ‘I am the Chief Constable of this county.’
‘And I am the Custodian of the Civic Hall and I’ve got my orders.’ The caretaker had but recently retired after twenty-five years service as a private soldier in the army and
