Dover Strikes Again

ground. ‘I suppose it really started last night – when they saw their rooms.’
‘It’s Chief Inspector Dover and Sergeant MacGregor we’re talking about, is it?’
Mr Lickes nodded. ‘I knew that fat one was going to be a trouble-maker as soon as I saw him. You develop a sort of instinct .’
‘What did he do?’
‘Played merry hell when he found they were up on the top floor. You should have heard him! Well, I know those rooms are only converted attics but they’re none the worse for that. Besides, where else could I put him? All the rooms on the first floor are full.’
‘I did wonder about those stairs,’ mused Superintendent Underbarrow. ‘They’re none too well lit.’
‘They’re perfectly safe, if you’re careful.’
‘Steep, though,’ said Superintendent Underbarrow, ‘and narrow. Even I found ’em a bit awkward and I’m a jolly sight nippier than he is.’
‘It’s those two rooms on the second floor or a tent out on the lawn. I told him that.’
‘He’s a big man,’ Superintendent Underbarrow went on.
‘Clumsy. One slip and he’d break his bloody neck. I didn’t think he’d relish those stairs.’
Mr Lickes pushed his left fist desperately against the palm of his right hand. ‘It wasn’t only the stairs.’
‘No?’
‘Well, the stairs and the bathroom, really.’
‘Goon!’
‘The bathroom’s on the first floor.’
‘Ah!’
‘It was pure spite. I’m sure of that.’
‘Really?’
‘Five times last night.’
‘Never!’
‘And he woke the whole house up every time. Clumping up and down those stairs with his boots on, slamming doors, flushing the cistern as though it was Niagara Falls. Nobody got a wink of sleep all night.’
Superintendent Underbarrow glanced thoughtfully at the dining-room door. ‘So that’s what they’re kicking up their fuss about?’
‘You can hardly blame them, can you? Mrs Boyle’s a martyr to insomnia at the best of times. I knew we’d be in for the mother and father of all rows this morning.’
Superintendent Underbarrow tried to be helpful. ‘Maybe if you had a quiet word with him?’
The dining-room door burst open before Mr Lickes had time to reply and a dishevelled looking MacGregor came hurtling out. He was balancing a loaded breakfast tray in his hands.
‘Morning, sergeant!’ said Superintendent Underbarrow, relieved that things seemed to be working themselves out without his assistance.
MacGregor all but dropped his tray. ‘Oh, good morning, sir!’ He turned back and closed the dining-room door. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see you this morning, sir.’
‘I thought I’d just pop in and take you on a conducted tour of the battlefield – you know – where the body was found. You’ve got all the photographs and plans, of course, but it’s a bit of a job deciding what’s what, even so.’
‘That’s extremely kind of you, sir.’ MacGregor glanced down in some embarrassment at the tray in his hands. ‘I’m not sure whether Chief Inspector Dover will be able to make it. As a matter of fact, he’s still – er – in bed.’
Superintendent Underbarrow kept his voice nicely neutral. ‘Is he?’
‘He’s not feeling very well,’ explained MacGregor, looking as awkward as he felt.
‘I hope it’s nothing serious.’
‘He thinks he may have caught a bit of a chill. Anyhow,’ – MacGregor took a firmer grip on his tray – ‘I’ll just run upstairs, sir, and see what he says.’
What Dover said, as he stretched out both hands to grab the tray, was regrettably predictable. ‘ ’Strewth, you’ve taken your bleeding time, haven’t you? I could die of starvation up here for all you care.’
MacGregor struggled to get his breath back and decided that it was no time to regale Dover with even a tactful account of the protest meeting in the dining-room. ‘Superintendent Underbarrow is downstairs, sir.’
The response arrived mixed with Rice Crispies. ‘Well, you bloody well see he stops there!’
‘He was going to show us where Chantry was found, sir.’
Dover pushed the remaining Rice Crispies on to his spoon with his finger. ‘Who’s Chantry?’
One day, MacGregor promised himself grimly, I’ll split the stinking old bastard’s skull wide open for him. ‘Walter Chantry is the man who was murdered, sir.’
Dover, well into his bacon and eggs, wasn’t interested. ‘Old Wheelbarrow can show you the sights,' he decided. ‘Just keep him out of my hair, that’s all.’
‘You’re going to stay in bed all day, sir?’
‘You’ve got to look after a cold,’ retorted Dover peevishly, ‘or it might turn into something serious. I should have thought even a fool like you would have known that.’
MacGregor began to edge towards the door. ‘Well, I’ll just carry on alone until you’re feeling better, shall I, sir?’
Dover paused in mid-mastication as all the warning bells began ringing. Give this toffee-nosed pup an inch and he finished up solving your blooming case for you! Dover had had trouble with this sort of thing in the past. He didn’t give a monkey’s whether the Sully Martin murderer was ever brought to book or not, but he was blowed if he was going to sit idly by while MacGregor sneaked in and garnered all the kudos. ‘Hold it!’ he rumbled.
MacGregor removed his hand from the door knob.
‘Don’t you go questioning anybody!’
MacGregor’s face fell. ‘But, sir . . .’
‘But nothing! I’ll do the interviewing, so you keep your greedy paws off!’
MacGregor tried to argue. In all police investigations, particularly murder ones, speed was essential. This was an elementary point which Dover had not yet grasped and it seemed unlikely now that he ever would.
‘Poppycock!’ he scoffed, covering his toast and most of the eiderdown with marmalade. ‘Make haste slowly, that’s my motto. And don’t start yapping about preserving clues and all that textbook tripe you’ve picked up! In this case there aren’t any bloody clues left. They wouldn’t have called us in if there had been. And now, push off! I don’t want to see your ugly mug again till you bring my lunch up at one o’clock sharp.’
‘Have you any message for Superintendent Underbarrow, sir?’ asked MacGregor, the prospect of a morning free from Dover’s company making him careless.
Dover had – but it was not one which a sergeant could very well pass