“Chronic gastritis,” said Dover. “There’s only one treatment. Lots of rest.”
“Sir” — MacGregor was so pleased with himself that he burst straight through Dover’s favorite daydream, in which the chief inspector was a semi-invalid for life — “I’ve got the motive! It was a preemptive strike. Mrs. Ongar killed her great-nephew because she thought he was planning to kill her.”
Dover was getting very bored with all this Ongar business. “You’d be laughed out of court,” he grunted. “Not that you’d ever get it into court. Like I said, no bloody evidence.”
“There’s that torch, sir.”
Quite slowly and deliberately. Dover picked the torch up off the table and put it back in his pocket. “What torch, laddie?”
MacGregor nodded slightly to acknowledge defeat. The torch didn’t really make a ha’porth of difference. Dover was right. They’d never be able to make a case out against Mrs. Ongar. “I’ll get your brandy, sir.”
MacGregor stood up and walked over to the bar. He arrived just in time to see mine host drape the last towel over the beer pumps.
“We’re closed, mate. I called last orders ten minutes ago.”
MacGregor appealed to the landlord’s sense of decency, fair play, and compassion.
“We’ve all got sick friends, mate, and if I was you I’d get mine out into the fresh air before I give the pair of you something to take to casualty with you.”
MacGregor swore under his breath. Damn Michael Montgomery and damn old Mrs. Ongar. If he hadn’t been so preoccupied with their blooming troubles, he wouldn’t be faced with the problem of telling Dover that he couldn’t take his medicine for at least two and a half hours.
Detectiverse
Parental guidance
by John Large[13]
She was only a criminal’s daughter.
Who gave daddy no reason to boast,
Till she focused on what he had taught her
And was listed as one wanted most.
Taking lessons
by Mark Grenier[14]
Said a shoplifting lady named Nast.
Whose proficiency truly was vast.
“Pay attention, my son.
To the way that it’s done
And I know that you’ll pick things up fast.”
Undermined
by George W. Tudor[15]
I knew a detective named Slade.
Who confronted a murderous maid—
She confessed to the crime
But her charms were sublime
And that night in her bedroom he stayed.
But the morning sun found him alone—
He awoke with a start and a moan For his suspect had fled.
Leaving him in her bed—
With his wallet and car she had flown.
She was caught and was quickly confined.
Against Slade’s credit card she had signed.
And he smiled when he said,
“I had fun in your bed
But my payments are five months behind.”