Dover and the Claret Tappers

picked up the bulkiest file of the lot. ‘These are all the letters we’ve had from members of the general public about suspicious taxi cabs.’ MacGregor sighed and dropped the file back on his desk. ‘It looks as if every lunatic in London has taken time off to drop us a line. That’s the trouble with taxis. Everybody’s seen them doing something cock-eyed at some time or other.’
Dover pointed a nicotined forefinger at a much slimmer file. ‘How about that one?’
MacGregor read the title ‘ “Empty & Unfurnished Houses within Fifty Miles of Charing Cross”, sir. These are from people who think they might have found the place where you were held captive. There’s another hie, “Empty & Unfurnished Houses over Fifty Miles from Charing Cross”, but I didn’t bother to bring that. We can’t cover the entire country and, unless we get some positive . . .’
‘Gimme!’
‘The “Empty & Unfurnished”, sir?’
‘What else?’ Dover took the hie and opened it out on his desk. Resting his head upon one hand, he flicked over a few of the enclosures. Gradually his movements became slower and slower until, finally, they stopped altogether.
MacGregor smiled superciliously to himself and settled down to sift through Set another hie. Half an hour later he hung his pencil down in an agony of frustration and conceded that Dover had triumphed once again. That bloody snoring!
Dover gulped, snorted, smacked his lips, blew down his nose and opened one pink-rimmed eye. ‘Huh?’
‘Sorry, sir, I dropped my pencil.’
‘Huh.’
MacGregor got in quick before the old pig dozed off again. ‘I was thinking, sir. It might be a rather good idea if we sort of reconstructed the actual snatch When the taxi picked you up, I mean.’
Dover yawned.
‘I thought we might just go over the ground, sir, on the way to The Two Feathers, sir.’
Dover accepted the bribe of a pre-lunch drink with alacrity. He banged his unread tile shut and shoved his desk back. ‘Come on!’ he said.
MacGregor, whom the moving of the furniture had shunted up against the far wall, was taken aback by the success of his ploy. ‘But it’s only ten o’clock, sir!’
‘So we’ll be first in the queue, laddie!’
The West End of London on a chilly Sunday morning in January is not a very densely populated place and there was, mercifully, no-one about as Dover and MacGregor emerged through the huge glass doors of New Scotland Yard. From the entrance hall an indifferent uniformed policeman on guard duty watched them pick their way down the shallow steps and then went back to worrying about his own problems.
‘It’s bloody cold!’ complained Dover, shivering elaborately.
MacGregor had already taken a solemn vow that he was going to stick to his last, come what may. “You set off down Broadway towards Victoria Street, didn’t you, sir?
‘No,’ snarled Dover, waxing sarcastic, “I went up Broadway towards bloody Timbuktu!’
MacGregor silently counted up to ten. ‘How far had you got, sir, when you noticed the taxi?’
Dover flapped a languid paw.
‘Bout here.’ Well, he’d walked far enough and what flaming difference did it make anyhow?
MacGregor nodded wisely. ‘And the taxi came up behind you and overtook you, sir? Now, where precisely did it stop?’
Dover flapped another paw.
MacGregor nodded again. “Just far enough to make it difficult for you to see in the dark who it was. Clever. Did the light inside the taxi come on when the door was opened, sir?’
‘No.’ Dover flapped his arms in an attempt to keep warm.
MacGregor forebore to make any comment. Nevertheless, the non-functioning courtesy light was a point which should have put a trained and experienced detective on his guard. MacGregor led the way to where the mystery taxi had purportedly pulled up and, narrow-eyed, surveyed the scene. ‘And the third man approached from behind, sir, as you were standing here looking into the interior of the taxi?’
‘’Sright.’ Dover blew violently into his cupped hands.
‘He was probably lurking in the angle of the wall there, sir. It would be quite dark there at night because the street lighting wouldn’t. . .’
‘Are we going to be standing around here all blooming day?’ Dover stamped his feet.
MacGregor remained adamant. ‘I’ll come back later and make a sketch map,’ he conceded, ‘but there are one or two more points which really must be cleared up, sir.’
Bloody little Sherlock Holmes, thought Dover. ‘Well?’
‘You entered the taxi, sir. . .’
‘At gun point!’
‘. . . and it drove off?’
‘Yes!’
‘Which way?’
‘Towards Victoria Street, of course. The way it was facing.’
‘Good, good!’ MacGregor smiled encouragingly, much as he would have done at a backward child. ‘So, you go down Broadway and reach Victoria Street. Then which way did you go? Did you turn to the right or to the left?’
‘I don’t know,’ replied Dover impatiently. ‘I told you – soon as I got in the taxi, they jumped me. They were swarming all over me. I’d got enough to do without thinking which bloody way we were turning.’
‘Do you remember the cab stopping for the traffic lights, sir?’
But Dover had had enough. His flabby jowls wobbled crossly. ‘I don’t remember anything – and neither would you if you’d been in my bloody shoes!’
MacGregor would have liked to dispute that assertion but he didn’t. He permitted himself a slight shrug and then gazed around, seeking inspiration from the bleak grey sky which was hanging over London. Not that he could see much sky. There were buildings all around and the soaring facade of New Scotland Yard with its countless windows dominated the scene. MacGregor shook his head. ‘It’s strange that nobody saw anything, sir. You’d have thought somebody in the Yard would have been looking out of one of those windows at the right time, wouldn’t you?’
‘It was dark,’ grunted Dover. ‘And I don’t suppose it would look all that suspicious from up there. Now, are we going?’
‘Just a minute, sir!’ Selflessly disregarding all the health hazards that were likely to ensue from contact with Dover’s overcoat, MacGregor placed a restraining hand on his master’s arm.
Dover, who had