‘I’ll see you get copies of all our reports,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow stiffly, ‘and our chaps’ll finish off the routine investigations they’re doing.’
Dover’s fat hands closed greedily on a bottie which, according to its home-made label, contained cough mixture. His face broke into a gratified smile as the memory of Miss Kettering’s words came flooding back to him.
‘That’s very kind of you, sir.’ Out of the corner of his eye MacGregor watched the superintendent surreptitiously watching Dover.
‘We’ll have to clear it with the chief constable first,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow absently as Dover removed the cork from the cough mixture with his teeth, ‘but I think you can take it as definite that the investigation is now your responsibility.’
MacGregor murmured his appreciation without really taking in what was being said. He was far more interested in Dover, who now tipped the bottle up and poured a generous quantity of the contents down his throat.
‘Oooowagh!’ gasped Dover, wiping his lips appreciatively on the back of his hand. ‘That hit the spot, all rightie!’
The aroma of fine old Scotch whisky wafted gently through the room.
Superintendent Underbarrow took his leave.
‘And good riddance to bad rubbish!’ sniggered Dover as the superintendent’s footsteps faded away down the stairs. ‘He should stick to waggling his arms at motor cars, that one, and leave the detective work to them that’s got the brain for it.’
‘What exactly did he mean, sir, when he said that the investigation’s now our responsibility?’
‘What do you think he meant, moron?’ asked Dover, apparently quite unmellowed by Mrs Boyle’s medicinal whisky. ‘They reckon the two cases are linked, don’t they? Whoever tried to murder me was the same one that did for Chantry.’ He took another swig out of his bottle and smacked his lips with gusto.
‘I see, sir.’
Dover’s eyes wandered idly over the contents of Mrs Boyle’s handbag and came to rest with an almost audible click on a nicely bulging wallet.
MacGregor put a stop to that before the temptation proved irresistable. ‘Excuse me, sir, but all the money and everything’s been very carefully counted.’
Dover withdrew his hand and tried to look as though the idea had never entered his head. That was the trouble with police work these days, he thought indignantly – too much checking and counter-checking.
‘And you agree with Superintendent Underbarrow, sir?’
‘What about?’
MacGregor prayed for patience. ‘About the two cases being connected, sir.’
‘Of course,’ said Dover, through a jaw-cracking yawn. ‘It’s the only logical explanation.’ He finished off the rest of the whisky and gave vent to his appreciation with a loud belch. ‘Besides, it’ll keep that bunch of muck-spreading clod-hoppers out of our hair.’*He stuck the cork back in the empty bottle and tossed it down on the bed.
‘You intend to handle the investigation yourself, sir?’
Dover’s eyelids began to droop. ‘What else?’ he replied sleepily. ‘I’m the one who was damned near murdered, aren’t I?’
‘But sir . . .’
Dover began to get fractious. ‘I do wish you’d stop yacking for five minutes,’ he whined. ‘Why don’t you make yourself useful and push off for a bit? I’ve had a very disturbed night, you know.’
MacGregor wasn’t exactly a worm but even he had his turning point. If he didn’t do something drastic he could see himself mouldering on in Sully Martin until he was eligible for his pension. The idea of Dover, who was as near to solving the murder of Walter Chantry as he was to flying to the moon, blithely taking on a second case was almost more than flesh and blood could endure. No, subservience and deference were all very well in their way but the time had come when Dover must be saved from himself. Surely even he would be grateful to be spared the humiliation of not catching his own murderer?
There was a cold glint in MacGregor’s eye as he glanced at the recumbent lump on the bed. Sometimes you had to be cruel to save your sanity. He turned resolutely on his heel and marched out of the bedroom.
Ten minutes later he was back again, with a large mug of strong black coffee. He put the mug down on the dressing-table while he flung the bedroom window open to its widest extent and then soaked the bit of old rag Dover apparently used as a facecloth in cold water. This done, he stormed over to the bed, shook Dover until his dentures rattled, dragged him into a sitting position and slapped the ice-cold cloth over his face.
‘Oh, heck!’ moaned Dover, flapping feebly as MacGregor retreated out of range. ‘What’s going on?’
MacGregor was back at the bed-side again. He whipped the damp cloth off Dover’s face and plastered it across the top of his head. ‘Drink this!’ he shouted.
Dover goggled at the steaming cup which was thrust under his nose. ‘Warisit?’ he enquired.
‘Never mind what it is! Drink it!’
Thoroughly cowed, Dover did as he was told. I It’s horrible!’ he complained.
MacGregor turned a deaf ear. He was too busy arranging a hard upright chair squarely in the path of the young gale that was blowing through the open window. When this was settled to his satisfaction, he swept across to the bed again.
‘Finished?’
Dover gulped down the last mouthful and the mug was snatched from his hands. 'Here,’ he began as MacGregor got him by the scruff of the neck and dragged him off the bed, what the blue blazes do you think you’re . . .’
‘You’ll be much more comfortable over here, sir,’ panted MacGregor, manhandling his chief inspector over to the window and dropping him unceremoniously on the waiting chair. You and I are going to have a little conference.’
‘A conference?’
‘That’s right!’ MacGregor pulled up another chair and sat down facing Dover. ‘It’s what detectives have from time to time, particularly when their investigations grind to a complete halt.’
‘Hey, watch it, laddie!’
