Dover Strikes Again

silence and at an incredible speed. Mr Lickes, who did the serving, flashed round the dining-room like a dancing dervish but even he had his work cut out. The trouble was, though, that while the diners had the table manners of ravenous wolves they hadn’t got the appetites to match.
Dover, unsustained by a couple of mouthfuls of thin soup, regarded his fish fingers glumly. ‘It’s not enough to keep a bloody sparrow going!’ he whined.
MacGregor tended to go off his food when he ate at the same table as Dover and so the sacrifice he was clearly being expected to make was not too severe.
Dover accepted the proffered plate and shovelled the contents on to his own. ‘It still doesn’t add up to more than half a proper helping,’ he grumbled as he grabbed his knife and fork. ‘Isn’t there any tomato ketchup knocking around?’ He removed a tiny fishbone from the back of his upper plate and dropped it fastidiously on the floor. ‘ ’Strewth, we’d be better off in one of those prisoner-of-war camps. First thing tomorrow morning you get on to that Wheelbarrow chap and tell him we want some parcels sending up.’
MacGregor made the mistake of smiling. ‘Yes, sir.’
A mouthful of ginger-coloured breadcrumbs, which Dover could ill afford to lose, came spattering across the table. ‘I’m not joking, you bloody fool!’
‘No, sir!’ MacGregor, knowing only too well the unpleasantnesses that could result from rubbing Dover up the wrong way, hastened to offer the only olive branch that lay to hand. ‘I never eat sago pudding, sir. If you’d care to have mine . . .’ Coffee was served in the lounge but only half the Blenheim Towers contingent repaired there to consume it. Wing Commander Pile and his daughter hurried off immediately to their rooms and were followed at a slightly more dignified gait by Mrs Boyle and the still-blushing Miss Dewar. Dover, who had an eye for these things, beat the rest of the field to the most comfortable chair while MacGregor politely undertook to pour out the coffee. Old Mr Revel shuffled off into a dark comer and switched on the television set. Miss Kettering tiptoed elaborately after him and turned the volume control right down.
‘He can’t hear a thing,’ she confided in Dover as she joined him by the fire with a coy giggle, ‘and he’s perfectly happy just watching the pictures.’
There was an unencouraging grunt from Dover but, good heavens, if Miss Kettering allowed herself to be put off by little things like that, she’d never make friends with anybody!
‘I think we watch too much television these days, don’t you?’ she pressed on. ‘Everybody says it’s ruining the art of conversation.’
Dover snorted unpleasantly and rudely down his nose.
Miss Kettering responded with a merry laugh. ‘You’ve got a bit of a cold coming on, haven’t you?’
‘More than likely,’ said Dover, brightening up a bit.
‘Bed,’ said Miss Kettering firmly.
‘Eh?’
‘Two aspirins, a hot whisky and stay in bed until you feel better – it’s the only treatment.’
Dover began to regard Miss Kettering in a more favourable light. He was second to none in appreciating people who took a sympathetic interest in his health. ‘There’s only one snag,’ he said, trying to talk down his nose. ‘No whisky.’
Miss Kettering glanced round to make sure that they could not be overheard. ‘Mrs Boyle has a small bottle in her handbag,’ she whispered. ‘Purely medicinal – so she says.’
‘Perhaps she’d lend me a drop?’ Dover whispered hopefully back.
‘Not if you were dying in front of her, dear! She’s terribly mean. Oh,’ – Miss Kettering jumped a little as MacGregor bowed in front of her with three cups of coffee on a tray – ‘how very kind!’
When Miss Kettering had refused sugar and Dover had dug out his six spoonfuls, MacGregor sat down too. Unlike some people he could name, he never forgot that he was a detective or that he was supposed to be on duty. After one refreshing sip of his coffee, he got down to business.
‘Were you here when the earthquake happened, Miss Kettering?’ he asked as though merely making polite conversation.
Dover rolled his eyes and sank back resentfully in his chair as the flood gates burst open.
Miss Kettering certainly was here when the earthquake happened and she couldn’t begin to tell them what a horrifying experience it had been. She would remember that dreadful night until her dying day, and probably after it. ‘Of course,’ – she was perched on the edge of her chair, transported by the joy of addressing a masculine and (as far as earthquakes were concerned) virgin audience – ‘it came completely without warning, you see. That’s what made it such a terrible shock. If only they’d told us on the weather forecast . . .’
‘Were you in bed?’ asked MacGregor.
Miss Kettering’s heart fluttered. That was twice already that bed had reared its fascinating head in the conversation!
‘Yes, I was,’ she admitted daringly. ‘It was the middle of the night, you know. Of course, I simply leapt out when I felt everything rocking and shaking. The awful part was not knowing what it was. My first thought was that those dreadful Chinese had struck at last. There wasn’t as much noise as I would have expected but they’re supposed to be frightfully cunning, aren’t they? I’m sure a silent atomic bornb wouldn’t be beyond their fiendish minds.’
MacGregor avoided catching Dover’s jaundiced eye and concentrated on steering Miss Kettering back on more profitable rails. ‘What did you do after you’d jumped out of bed, madam?’
‘Well, I grabbed my crystal ball, as a matter of fact,’ said Miss Kettering with a deprecating laugh. ‘I wasn’t going to let that get broken if I could possibly help it. It’s such a comfort to me, you know, and they’re terribly expensive things to replace. I wrapped it up in my best bed-jacket and rushed off to see if Miss Dewar was all right.’
‘And was she?’
‘Oh, yes – apart from being scared out of what few