Dover Beats the Band by Joyce Porter

Author:Joyce Porter [Porter, Joyce]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 0881501956
Published: 2017-11-04T04:00:00+00:00

Ten

‘OK!’ said Osmond, a trifle more breathlessly than he might have wished. ‘OK. Now, let’s cool it, shall we? Everybody just stay nice and quiet and then nobody’ll get hurt. Right?’

Dover, MacGregor and Elvira gawped goggle-eyed.

‘That’s more like it!’ said Osmond, pathetically grateful when he saw that nobody was about to play the hero. ‘Good! I’m glad you’re going to be sensible. Now,’ – he took a deep breath to steady himself – ‘I’m just going to make a phone call. Right?’ He backed off towards the telephone. His next manoeuvre caused some anxiety amongst his audience as he tried to dial and keep his revolver trained on them at the same time. That nobody got shot probably owes much to the fact that Osmond had forgotten to slip the safety catch off.

The first fumbling attempt at dialling resulted only in the unmistakable tone of the engaged signal.

‘Oh, bugger!’ moaned Osmond.

Dover reckoned that this could go on for ever and, very gingerly, raised one hand in the air like an incontinent schoolboy wanting to leave the room. For one blush-making moment, MacGregor thought this was precisely what the chief inspector had in mind, but he was wrong. Dover was merely seeking permission to go on with his lunch.

This comparatively innocuous request seemed to arouse the beast in Osmond. ‘You move one bloody muscle,’ he threatened in a voice verging uncomfortably on the hysterical, ‘and I’ll let you have it right between the eyes!’ He gulped and, after glaring fiercely at his victims, began dialling again.

This time his efforts were successful and eventually the burr-burr was replaced by a faint, interrogative and high-pitched squawk.

‘I want to speak to Sven,’ said Osmond, his eyes flickering everywhere.

Another squawk.

‘Sven!’ repeated Osmond irately. He spelt it.

More squawks.

‘Of course I’ve got it right, you silly bitch! It’s the du Maurier code. Why don’t you bloody look it up?’

The squawks grew offended.

‘I don’t give a monkey’s whether it’s your first effing day on the effing switchboard or not!’ screamed Osmond, threatening the telephone with his revolver. ‘Put me through to Sven and be bloody quick about it. For God’s sake, this is a flash-flash call, you incompetent cow! You know what a flash-flash call is, don’t you?’

The telephone gave forth a few more peculiar sounds but eventually Osmond sagged with relief. ‘Sven?’ he asked. ‘This is Trill. Yes, Trill! Rabbits my end, by the way. Rabbits!’ You know – ears! Yes, that right. Now, listen, my seams are giving way. What? Well, yes of course I’m bloody sure! I wouldn’t be ringing otherwise, would I? What?’ Osmond listened tensely for several moments and then took another of his deep, nerve-steadying breaths. ‘I am perfectly calm, Sven,’ he said slowly and deliberately, ‘but I need help. No, there’s absolutely no way we can paper over the cracks. Or stitch things together again. I’m telling you – it’s all gone in one big bang. What? No,’ – he laughed contemptuously – ‘not them, not in a million years. No, it was some bloody little tart of a policewoman who just happened to remember me from way back.

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