The Donkey Rustlers

by Gerald Malcolm Durrell

  Of everyone in the vicinity, it was probably the eighteen donkeys and the Mayor’s little horse who were the most satisfied with life at that moment. They had spent a quiet day dozing and munching, and now here were the same friendly children bringing them still more food. What more could any donkey ask for?

  CHAPTER 8

  Solution

  The following morning, to the consternation of Inspector Steropes and the entire village, another notice saying DONKEYS OF THE WORLD UNITE was found pinned to the Mayor’s front door. Amanda and David were no less amazed and alarmed than the villagers.

  “It must have been Yani,” said David. “Silly fool.”

  “He’s got them all buzzing like a hive of bees, anyway,” said Amanda.

  But when they went down to see Yani, he hotly denied all knowledge of the poster.

  “Well, who did it?” asked Amanda.

  They all looked at Coocos as being the most likely suspect and Coocos nodded his head vigorously and beamed at Amanda. He explained, with great difficulty, because of his stammer, that since they had put a notice like that up on the first night when they took the donkeys, he was under the impression that one had to be put up every night.

  “Oh, Coocos,” said David in despair, “you are an idiot.”

  “Don’t say things like that to him,” said Amanda indignantly. “The poor boy was only trying to help.”

  “I don’t think it’s going to be much help,” said Yani grimly. “It’s got the villagers and the Inspector so angry that I think they’ll redouble their efforts.”

  And indeed the villagers were angry.

  “To think,” roared Papa Nikos, his face going purple, “that in spite of the Inspector being here, Communists are creeping in and out of our village as if they owned the place. Something must be done.”

  “Yes,” growled the villagers, “something must be done.”

  “Keep calm, keep calm,” said the Inspector placatingly. “This morning we are going to have another search. Yesterday we almost succeeded. To-day we will succeed.”

  But it was obvious from their demeanour that the villagers did not share the Inspector’s high hopes. However, with his two faithful hounds and his band of policemen and volunteers, the Inspector spent a hot and sticky morning scrambling over the hillsides all round Kalanero to return, at midday, defeated and donkeyless.

  “I’ll go,” the Inspector said to the Mayor, “to see Major-General Finchberry-White. After all, he’s a man of great bravery and courage and brain, and moreover he’s a compatriot of Sherlock Holmes, I am certain he will be able to give us some helpful advice.”

  So Prometheous Steropes made his way up to the villa. “Good lord,” said David as they saw him approach. “You don’t think he’s found out, do you?”

  “No,” said Amanda, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sure he can’t have. I think he’s just come up to say hallo to father.”

  “Ah, my sweet ones,” said Steropes, beaming fondly at the two children. “Is your father at home? I would very much like to talk to him.”

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Amanda meekly. “He’s out on the terrace painting.”

  “Is it permitted to interrupt him?” inquired Steropes.

  “Oh, yes,” said Amanda. “It doesn’t matter how often you interrupt him, the paintings are still as bad,”

  “You shouldn’t say that,” said the Inspector, shocked, “Your father is a very fine artist.”

  He made his way out on to the terrace where the General was putting the finishing touches to a sunset that looked like an atomic explosion.

  “My dear Inspector,” said the General, putting down his paint brushes and limping forward to shake hands. “How very nice to see you.”

  “If you would be so kind as to let me interrupt your work for a few minutes?” asked Steropes.

  “Of course, my dear chap,” said the General.

  He took his pipe out of his pocket and beat a rapid and complicated rhythm on his leg.

  “Congo,” he explained to the Inspector. “What they call talking-drums. They send messages by them. I’ve just been teaching my wife. We’ll see if it works. Sit down, sit down, do.”

  At that moment Mrs Finchberry-White appeared on the terrace with a large tray of bottles and glasses.

  “By Jove!” said the General in astonished delight, “you’ve got it, Agnes!”

  “Got what, dear?” said Mrs Finchberry-White, bewildered.

  “My message,” explained the General.

  “What message?” asked Mrs Finchberry-White.

  “The message to bring out the drinks,” said the General.

  “Oh,” said Mrs Finchberry-White. “Oh, yes. Amanda told me.”

  The General sighed sorrowfully.

  “Have a drink, Inspector,” he said.

  They sat sipping their ouzos for a moment and the Inspector made polite comments about the General’s latest painting.

  “Tell me,” asked the General, “what brings you to Kalanero!”

  “Well,” said the Inspector, “that’s really what I came to see you about. I’m here investigating one of the worst crimes of my career.”

  “By George! Really!” asked the General.

  “Is it possible that you haven’t heard about the donkeys?” inquired the Inspector.

  “Donkeys!” said the General blankly. “What donkeys?”

  “All the donkeys of Kalanero,” said the Inspector, making an all-embracing gesture with his arms and nearly upsetting his think. “They’ve all been stolen by Communists.”

  The General screwed his monocle firmly into his eye and surveyed the Inspector.

  “You don’t say?” he inquired.

  “Indeed, yes,” said the Inspector. “I’ve been investigating for the past twenty-four hours without success and so I came to ask for your advice. For, after all, you are a compatriot of Sherlock Holmes.”

  “I keep telling you,” said the General with a long-suffering air, “that Sherlock Holmes is an entirely imaginary character.”

  “Ah, he couldn’t be entirely imaginary,” said the Inspector, “not with such brilliant powers of mind. I intend some day to go to London and see the place where he lived. But, to return to the donkeys. As I have so far met with no success in my investigations (and you can rest assured that I have left no stone unturned) I would be most grateful for your advice.”

  The General took his monocle out, polished it carefully and replaced it, frowning slightly.

  “My dear Inspector,” he said, “I come here once a year for a little peace and quiet in order to paint. During my sojourn I endeavour not to get mixed up in any island politics. The first year they tried to get me to decide whose cow belonged to who. The second year they wanted me to decide whether Papa Yorgo had swindled Papa Nikos out of three hundredweight of olives and the third year they wanted me to decide whether it was right that Kouzos should put a lock on his well so that nobody could drink out of it. On all three occasions I refused to participate, so I really don’t see how I could help you with your problem.”

  Amanda and David, standing behind the half-closed shutters of the living-room, were listening to this conversation with bated breath.

  “That’s a jolly good thing,” whispered Amanda. “With Father helping him, he might get somewhere.”

  “But, General,” pleaded the Inspector, “my whole future depends upon you. If I solve this case successfully, who knows, it might get to the ears of my superiors in Athens and I might even earn a promotion.”

  The General got to his feet, lit his pipe and limped slowly down the terrace, the Inspector loping along beside him. Amanda and David were mortified, for as their father and the Inspector paced up and down, they could only hear snatches of the conversation.

  “. . . and similar cases,” said the General, “frequently happens . . . I remember once in Bangalore, where I lost my leg . . . However, this is what you should do . . .”

  They straine
d their ears, but they could not hear what it was the General was suggesting. Presently the Inspector, wreathed in smiles, took his leave.

  The Finchberry-Whites sat down to lunch. Amanda and David glanced uneasily at each other, for their father seemed in a particularly good mood. He kept humming snatches of “The Road to Mandalay” in between mouthfuls of food.

  “What did the Inspector want, Father?” asked Amanda at last, her curiosity getting the better of her.

  “The Inspector?” asked the General. “Oh, he just popped in to pass the time of day and ask my advice on a little problem.”

  “Were you able to help him, dear?” inquired Mrs Finchberry-White.

  “Oh, I think so,” said the General airily.

  Amanda and David gulped their food down and hurriedly left the table. It was obvious that the General was not going to disclose what his advice had been, so their only hope was to stick as close to the Inspector as possible. They ran down to Yani’s house and panted out the news to him. Then the three of them made their way to the village. Here they found that the Inspector had called an extraordinary meeting of the village council. Needless to say, most of the village attended it as well.

  “Now,” said the Inspector, clenching his pipe firmly between his teeth, “as I have said before, this case has many unusual aspects. I have endeavoured, as you know, to solve it by the most modern and up-to-date methods of detection. But detection, as you know, is based upon fair play and Communists, as you know, don’t even comprehend the meaning of the word. That has been our undoing.”

  “Quite right, quite right,” agreed Papa Yorgo. “I remember once having my entire strawberry crop stolen by a man from Melissa who was an avowed Communist. As the Inspector says, they have no sense of fair play.”

  “Quite so,” said the Inspector. “Now I have decided to try another method.”

  “What is it? What is it?” asked the villagers, eagerly.

  “I have decided,” said the Inspector, looking stern and noble, “that we, or rather, that is to say, you, should offer a reward for your donkeys.”

  There was a gasp of dismay at this.

  “But where can we find enough money for all those donkeys?” quavered Mama Agathi.

  “I have here,” said the Inspector, taking a piece of paper out of his pocket and laying it on the table, “I have here a list of all the missing animals, and their approximate market prices. It comes to 25,000 drachma.”

  A wail of dismay went up from the villagers.

  “But where,” asked Papa Nikos in despair, “can we possibly find 25,000 drachma.”

  “This is precisely the point,” said the Inspector cunningly. “You don’t offer a reward of that amount. You offer a smaller reward, but one sufficiently big to be attractive. It is a well-known fact that Communists like money, and so if we offer this reward, one of the band of robbers is sure to betray the others since, as I say, they have no sense of fair play.”

  “This is a very good idea,” Papa Nikos pointed out, “but we are all of us poor.”

  “Yes, yes,” agreed the Mayor hurriedly. “we are all of us poor. Indeed, I am what you might almost describe as poverty-stricken.”

  “Bah!” said Papa Nikos with infinite scorn. “You poverty-stricken? It is well known that you are the richest man in the village. I don’t see why you shouldn’t offer the reward.”

  “Yes, yes,” chorused the villagers. “It’s only right. After all, he is the richest man in the village and he is the Mayor.”

  “Yes,” said the Inspector, “I think you are quite right.” The affair of the Mayor’s bitch had rankled with the Inspector and he had been waiting for a suitable opportunity to try to get his own back, and this seemed to be the ideal time.

  “But, I tell you, I am a poor man,” moaned the Mayor.

  “Then, perhaps soon you will be a poor man and not even a Mayor,” said Papa Nikos grimly.

  “Yes,” said Papa Yorgo. “I wonder if the Inspector would like to know the story of the sweet potatoes?”

  The Mayor went white, for he had not realised that anybody knew about the big swindle he had pulled off the year before.

  “I was going to say,” he said desperately, “if only you would let me finish, that in spite of being a poor man, I am willing to offer a modest reward of, say, five hundred drachma.”

  The villagers laughed derisively.

  “That’s not going to get our donkeys back,” they chorused.

  “No,” agreed the Inspector. No, that’s far too little. It’ll have to be much more than that.”

  “Well, say one thousand drachma,” suggested the Mayor with an effort.

  “Fool,” said Papa Nikos scornfully. “Do you think that if you had stolen donkeys worth 25,000 drachma you would come and give information as to their whereabouts for a paltry thousand drachma?”

  “Yes,” said the Inspector, “I am inclined to agree. It will have to be much more substantial than that.”

  “Five thousand drachma,” said the Mayor, the sweat running in rivulets down his fat face and into his walrus moustache.

  “Make it twenty,” suggested somebody from the crowd.

  “Yes, that’s much more like it,” agreed the Inspector. “That’s a fairly nice, substantial sum.”

  “Very well, then,” said the Mayor, taking out his handkerchief and mopping his brow, “Twenty thousand drachma.”

  A hum of approval ran through the crowd.

  “Tell me,” Papa Nikos asked the Inspector. “When this Communist comes to you with the information, what do you intend to do to him?”

  “Why, give him the money, of course,” said the Inspector.

  “But aren’t you going to arrest him?” asked Papa Nikos surprisedly. “After all, he is a Communist.”

  “It is a well-known fact,” said the Inspector wisely, “that when a Communist has money, he ceases to be a Communist. So there will therefore be no reason to arrest him.”

  The villagers were much struck by this powerful piece of logic.

  “Tell me,” asked Papa Yorgo, “how are we going to let them know about the reward?”

  They thought about it for some minutes.

  “Posters,” said Mayor Oizus suddenly, smitten with the first original idea he’d had since gaining office. “We will put up posters.”

  “But where will we put them up?” asked Papa Yorgo.

  “We should really scatter them like they did during the war,” said Papa Nikos.

  “An aeroplane would be the answer,” mused the Inspector. “or a helicopter, but it would take too long to get one sent from Athens. No, I suggest that we put them in all the places where the Communists are likely to see them.”

  “But, where’s that?” asked Papa Nikos. “Normally we hang up posters in the village.”

  “Out in the olive groves,” explained the Inspector, waving his hands, “down in the vineyards and in the fields where they’re lurking.”

  “How are we going to get these posters?” asked the Mayor.

  It was the Inspector’s big moment. He drew himself up majestically.

  “I,” he said, “have a cousin in Melissa who owns a printing press and he will print them for you . . . free.”

  The burst of applause and cries of “Bravo!” from the crowd were almost deafening and the Inspector sat there smiling smugly, secure in the knowledge that he had once again won the approval of the villagers.

  “What do we say on these posters?” inquired Papa Nikos. “We can’t address it to anybody, because we don’t know who they are.”

  “I have given that some thought,” said the Inspector proudly and he produced another piece of paper from his pocket.

  “This,” he continued, writing busily, “is what I suggest we put. “To whom it may concern — particularly Communists. We, the people of Kalanero, in return for receiving information as to the whereabouts of our donkeys, are willing to pay the sum of twenty thousand drachma.”

  “Signed,” he continue
d, “Mayor Oizus.” Now I’ll take this in to Melissa and get it printed. They should be ready by to-morrow.”

  He drove off in the police car to the cheers of villagers and they dispersed to their various houses, chattering animatedly. Only the Mayor had a despondent look. The children were breathless with excitement.