Dover tossed the photograph back on the desk and went hurtling down the stairs with all the dignity and restraint of a bull elephant in rut. He burst into the little back room where the interview between MacGregor and the mildly dishonest, mildly libidinous Mr Kincardine was about to reach its climax.
Inspiration and sudden recollection had, as careful readers will remember, just struck Mr Kincardine. He had realized that there was something upstairs in his lounge which was connected with his cousin Muriel and which the dead girl might have seen. He was about to reveal all to MacGregor when Dover arrived.
‘Come on!’ roared Dover, in such a bustle that he didn’t even bother to sit down.
MacGregor scrambled to his feet, the chill hand of apprehension already clutching at his heart. ‘Come on where, sir?’ he enquired.
Dover was already on his way. ‘Back to civilization, laddie!’ he bawled over his shoulder. ‘I’ve solved the case! No point in mucking around this dump any longer.’
MacGregor felt everything begin to go black before his eyes. The shock of having his worst fears fulfilled was almost too much for him. Could that old fool, Dover, really have solved the case? MacGregor would have rather had a dozen murderers walk away scot free than . . . No! MacGregor pulled himself together. He mustn’t even allow himself to think such subversive thoughts.
Pausing only to snatch up his notebook, MacGregor chased through one of the most interesting selections of ironmongery in the Isle of Man and was just in time to see Dover clambering into the waiting police car. There had actually been a slight delay as the young police driver was unaware that Dover didn’t open doors for himself if there was some underling there to do it for him. The young police driver knew better now, of course.
‘Sir!’ MacGregor shoved the driver aside before he could shut the door. ‘We can’t leave now, sir! I haven’t finished questioning Mr Kincardine.’
‘Tough,’ said Dover who watched an awful lot of American cops-and-robbers on the telly.
‘You don’t understand, sir.’ MacGregor made a conscious effort not to sink begging to his knees. ‘While she was here, Pearl Wallace must have found some clue to her mother’s whereabouts. That’s why she left without waiting for Mr Kincardine to come back.’
Dover grinned like a particularly nasty-minded Cheshire Cat.
MacGregor swallowed his tears of frustration. ‘Mr Kincardine was just about to tell me what it was, sir.’
‘You don’t say!’ said Dover, still grinning.
‘Just five minutes, sir! Please!’
Dover settled himself well back. ‘Get in, laddie!’ he said. ‘This case is all over bar the shouting.’
MacGregor glanced at his watch. ‘We’ve got at least a couple of hours before the plane leaves, sir. Surely we .. .’
Dover’s beady little button eyes peered spitefully out from under the brim of his bowler hat. ‘They’ve got a bar at the bloody airport, haven’t they?’
MacGregor made one last effort. ‘Suppose I hang on here for a few more minutes, sir – just to get a proper signed statement from Mr Kincardine and tie up a few loose ends? Then I could get a taxi and join you later at the airport.’
Dover’s glance was almost pitying. MacGregor must be going bloody soft in the head if he thought a trick like that was going to work. ‘Get in, laddie!’ he grunted again. ‘There’s a hell of a draught with that door open.’
17
Now that he was in position to place his grubby hand on the shrinking shoulder of the murderer of Pearl Wallace, Dover had every intention of making a full-scale spectacular out of it. It so rarely happened that he brought a case to a successful conclusion that he was determined everybody should know about it when he did. He wanted the full VIP treatment waiting for him at Frenchy Botham – red carpet, TV cameras, brass band, civic welcome and a motor cycle escort. It was MacGregor’s unenviable task to organize this august reception, working from a public telephone in Ronaldsway Airport while Dover held court in the cocktail lounge.
Wearily MacGregor picked his way through the crowd of admirers and interrupted some yarn about how Dover (single-handed) had arrested a champion middle-weight wrestler who was running amuck in a Soho vice den with a meat cleaver. ‘I’m afraid it’s as I expected, sir,’ he said, wasting his irony on the smoke and whisky-ladened air. ‘The magistrates won’t issue a warrant without the name of the person involved. Of course, sir, if you could just tell me who it is, we could have the warrant all ready and waiting.’
Dover’s wits hadn’t been dulled that much by free drink. ‘You’ve got What’s-his-name standing by, though?’
MacGregor nodded. ‘Inspector Walters will be there, sir. I’ve just been speaking to him personally.’ MacGregor tried to get some consolation from the knowledge that he’d finally got it into Dover’s thick skull that the actual arrest had to be made by a member of the local police force. Dover didn’t seem to be aware of this and had been looking forward to slipping on the handcuffs, himself. He had not taken it well when he had been told that this moment of glory would belong to Inspector Walters. ‘And I’ve laid on supper at The Laughing Dog, sir, for after the arrest.’
Dover took that in all right. ‘After?’
‘There’s a dining car on the train, sir. I thought we could have something to eat on the way down and then . . .’
‘Yes, yes! All right!’ Dover was anxious to get back to his open-handed chums and finish off his tale of valour, derring-do and fiction. ‘That it?’
MacGregor consulted his list. ‘Car at Chapminster . . . local TV people warned . . . local newspaper people warned . . .’ He looked up. ‘There is just one thing, sir. It’s going to be rather late by the time we get to Frenchy Botham. Wouldn’t it be better to postpone the whole thing
