The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “A letter signed by Mrs. Bertini, of course, as the owner.”

  “That’s right.” Marlene glanced at her mother, who nodded vigorously.

  “Mrs. Bertini,” said Henry, “you told me just now that you’d signed nothing recently in connection with the greyhound.”

  “Well…” Mrs. Bertini was thoroughly confused. She shot a look of hopeless appeal at Marlene, who said briskly, “Mum must have thought you meant official forms. You haven’t signed any official forms, Mum, have you?”

  “I should hope not!” Mrs. Bertini, rescued from her dilemma, managed to sound outraged.

  Henry said, “And that is all you can tell me, Mrs. Lawson?”

  “Yes, it is.” Marlene tossed her head, setting her long black hair swinging.

  “Very well,” Henry said. “Then I’ll tell you what I think is the truth of the matter. Your late husband acquired Marlene’s Fancy as a puppy, and registered her in Mrs. Bertini’s name for—as I was saying—reasons of his own. I daresay both you and your mother had quite forgotten about the greyhound, until a few days ago, when you were approached by a Mr. Bates—an associate of Mr. Lawson’s.” As Henry could easily have predicted, Marlene did not bat an eyelash; but Mrs. Bertini reacted with a sharp intake of breath, and was rewarded by a swift, steely glance from her daughter. Henry went on, “Bates demanded a letter authorizing him to take possession of the greyhound. He also made you ring the estate agent in Finchley to make sure that the Sandown Avenue house was still empty, and he took the spare key to the garden shed. The fact of the matter was that he had the bitch with him in his blue van, and he wanted to hide her for a few nights.”

  “Why would he want to do that, for God’s sake?” Henry realized, with a sinking heart, that Marlene sounded positively amused. His random shot seemed to have fallen well wide of the mark. And yet… He said, “I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Lawson. Marlene’s Fancy is a very valuable dog, you know. I think it is likely that, after your husband’s death, she may have…disappeared…from her kennels. Some of Mr. Lawson’s… er…competitors were undoubtedly anxious to get possession of the bitch, for reasons that we needn’t go into now. My theory is that last Thursday evening Mr. Bates regained possession of Marlene’s Fancy, and that he has been hiding her ever since, with your collaboration. Not because he has stolen her—I am sure he has Mrs. Bertini’s permission to keep her. On the contrary, I think he is afraid that she may be stolen from you, for the second time.”

  “Quite the little storyteller, aren’t you?” said Marlene. “You ought to be on the telly. And why are all these people supposed to be going round stealing the poor dog, may I ask?”

  “To race her and win the prize money, of course,” said Henry shortly. He did not intend to mention Lady Griselda or the possibility of substitution.

  “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Mister Chief Superintendent, but you’re wrong!” Marlene was a picture of smug triumph. “Marlene’s Fancy hasn’t raced for weeks, and nor will she. Look at this!”

  She stood up, walked over to the table, and picked up a magazine which she tossed carelessly to Henry. It was called Greyhound Express, and carried a cover photograph in color of several elongated, streaking animals racing ventre à terre against a background of green turf. Marlene said, “Inside. Page 10.”

  Henry turned to page 10, which was a sort of greyhound’s social gossip column, entitled “Kennel Whispers.” The very first item read as follows:

  Reliable sources inform us that Mrs. Rose Bertini’s promising bitch, Marlene’s Fancy, will not be seen on the tracks for some time to come. The reason? A happy event in the offing. A spokesman for Mrs. Bertini told me, “Marlene’s Fancy was mated several weeks ago, and is definitely in whelp.” The sire? For the time being, his identity is being kept secret.

  As Henry looked up from the magazine, Marlene said smugly, “See? Should have done your homework, shouldn’t you? That’s why I sold her and that’s why I got a good price—the puppies go with her. I didn’t want a whole litter to bring up and be responsible for, I can tell you.”

  “And where is she now? You must know.”

  “I told you, I don’t. Some kennels in Surrey or Sussex or somewhere, I think. Wherever she is, she’ll be staying there till the pups are born, that I can tell you. I may not know much about dogs, but I do know that nobody who intended to make money out of her or the pups would go carting her around in vans in her condition. They’d as like as not lose the lot.”

  It struck Henry that Marlene Lawson knew rather more about greyhounds than she cared to admit. However, for the moment it seemed that she had played a trump card, and there was little to be gained by staying in Nelson’s Buildings any longer. He stood up.

  “Take the magazine, if you want,” Marlene added, with a positively insulting grin. “Give you something to read on the bus. I’ve got plenty more copies.”

  As Henry went out into the corridor of Nelson’s Buildings, he was thinking that Marlene Lawson most certainly did know where Marlene’s Fancy was currently quartered; and this conviction was confirmed by a remark made by Mrs. Bertini just as the front door was closing behind him.

  “Oh, Marlene, I thought you were splendid.” And then, urgently, “You’d better ring her right away, hadn’t you, dear?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  HENRY ARRIVED BACK at Scotland Yard deep in thought. The jigsaw puzzle was at last beginning to take shape, and with every new piece that fitted, the pattern became clearer; but there were still gaps.

  He found Sergeant Reynolds in a very bad humor indeed. It appeared that, a few minutes earlier, the Runworth magistrates—needled, no doubt, by press allegation of bias in favor of the police—had turned down the prosecution’s continued objection to bail in the case of Robert “Calypso” Smith. Smith’s persuasive and expensive advocate had found it easy to convince the bench that the charge of unlawful wounding might well be dismissed as self-defense, and that the mere possession of a firearm was no reason to incarcerate a citizen still presumed innocent under the law. The subtle hint that a white man would not have been so persecuted had been enough to tip the balance. Accordingly, Cal Smith was free to return to the splendors of Parson’s Drive—at least for the time being—and Sergeant Reynolds was very cross.

  He found a somewhat unsympathetic audience in Henry, who was too preoccupied with his own problems to pay much attention to the sergeant’s tale of woe. It was almost as an afterthought that Reynolds imparted a much more important item of news: that Red Dicky Marsh had died in the hospital at five o’clock, still without giving the authorities any useful information about his attacker. The case was now classified as murder. Henry issued certain instructions, asked Sergeant Reynolds to check certain facts, and then, just before six o’clock, left Scotland Yard and took a taxi to Waterloo Station.

  It was a slow journey, in the evening rush hour, and Henry whiled away the traffic jams by studying the Greyhound Express. What he read, combined with his recent visit to Hilltop Kennels, had the effect of quickening his interest in greyhounds—their breeding, training, and qualities. He realized that, up to now, he had been associated only with the seamier side of the sport—the gamblers and crooks and touts who were attracted to the tracks solely by the idea of making money. Reading the magazine opened up a whole new aspect of the subject, which was fascinating as well as potentially useful to his present investigation.

  At Waterloo, Henry paused at a newsstand and thumbed through a rack of sporting periodicals in search of more greyhound literature, but he could find nothing. The only publication available was a cheaply printed sporting daily, which concerned itself mainly with race results, including those from the smaller tracks. Still, it had a few editorial articles. Henry bought it.

  In the six-thirty-two train for Gorsemere, Henry settled into his corner seat and began to turn the pages of the paper. No, he decided, it was really very tatty and bad. Nothing to interest the serious enthusiast. And then, suddenly, a stop-press par
agraph caught his eye. SURPRISE WIN FOR OUTSIDER, the headline ran. And underneath:

  The form book was upset at Kevingfield, Northants, this afternoon when a 100-to-1 outsider romped home in the 1:30 race to beat the 2-to-l favorite. The surprise winner was Mr. Henry Heathfleld’s Lady Griselda, trained by Mrs. Bella Yateley.

  Henry’s first thought was of Harry Heathfield, sitting in the bleak visiting room at Middingfield Jail, and putting his impossible daydream into those exact words. Then he pulled himself together and began to consider the implications of what he had read.

  He was still deep in thought when he became aware that the train had stopped, and that a bored, raucous voice was shouting, “Gorsemere Halt!” Quickly, he folded the newspaper, put it into his raincoat pocket with Marlene’s magazine, and stepped out onto the platform.

  The train, while too late to be a real commuter special, was nevertheless well patronized by businessmen who had been kept late at the office—or who had slipped out to a city pub to slake their thirst after a hard day’s work. Some twenty or so dark-suited executives joined Henry on the platform, and, as the train moved off toward the south, made their collective way toward the car park, where a selection of vehicles awaited them, each with a wife in the driver’s seat, some complete with dogs and children. Only Henry, it seemed, had nobody to meet him—and he directed his footsteps in the opposite direction, to the road.

  As he walked down the lane which led from the station to the village, Henry was passed by a succession of homeward-bound cars. Had he bothered to look back toward the parking lot after the last commuter had sped past, he would have noticed that one vehicle, with its driver, still remained behind; but he did not bother. Nor did he even look around when he heard the whisper of tires coming up the lane behind him; he simply stepped a little closer to the hedge to allow the vehicle plenty of room to pass him. And then, without warning, the sky fell, the world spun dizzily, and everything went black.

  ***

  Jane glanced at her watch. “He can’t have been on the seven-thirty-two, or he’d be home by now.”

  “I wouldn’t worry,” Emmy said. “I’m most terribly sorry, Jane. It’s absolutely inexcusable, and I’ll tear him to pieces when he does arrive. Is it ruined?”

  “Not quite,” said Jane Spence, with commendable restraint. “But I suggest we eat it now. I can do an omelet or something for Henry when he finally turns up.” She hesitated. “You don’t think we ought to telephone and make sure he’s all right?”

  Emmy shrugged hopelessly. “Telephone who?” she asked, ungrammatically. “We know he left the Yard hours ago, because of Sergeant Reynolds’ call.” The sergeant had telephoned at eight o’clock to leave the cryptic message that the answer was “yes,” and that Henry would understand what he meant.

  “That’s what worries me,” said Jane. “Surely he ought to be back by now.”

  “You don’t know Henry,” said Emmy gloomily. “He’s onto something—I’m certain of that. And once he gets his teeth into a case, he’s absolutely impossible. If you ask me, he’s probably either having dinner with one of his barrister friends, like Michael Barker, picking his legal brains; or he’s on a train to Manchester because the man he’s following is on it too; or he’s visiting every pub south of the river looking for somebody. Whatever he’s doing, you can be sure of two things—he’s completely forgotten that he said he’d be back for supper, and he’s thoroughly enjoying himself.”

  ***

  Emmy could hardly have been more wrong. When Henry recovered consciousness, the first thing he was aware of was a super-headache made in hell—as though an exceptionally well-nourished torturer were driving iron spikes through his cranium with a mallet. It took him a minute or so to sort out that there were two separate and distinct causes for his agony: the first, a simple and skull-splitting headache, caused by a blow or buffet with a blunt instrument, and the second, the fact that he was lying on his back, his hands and feet pinioned, on the corrugated iron floor of a small, vibrating cell—which every second or so lifted his aching head and threw it down again to clatter against the adamant irregularities of the floor. Another few seconds, and he had identified his prison. He was in the back of a small closed van, which was traveling at considerable speed.

  With a great effort, Henry managed to roll over onto his side, so that he could vary his original viewpoint, which was a monotonous panorama of the ridged metal roof of the van. The new position afforded little improvement. From here, he could see that the vehicle had been firmly departmentalized, and that his only possible contact with the driver and passenger seats was through a small barred window behind the driver’s left ear. Very much, in fact, like a police van, or Black Maria—but on a smaller scale.

  Henry was still contemplating his next move—purely as a matter of form, because as far as he could see no move in any direction was possible—when the van slowed down and began to move tentatively, as though the driver were unsure of his way. From the darkness inside the van, and the occasional flickers of light through the barred window, Henry judged that it was deep twilight outside, and that the van was being driven along lamplit streets—although the absence of traffic roar indicated that they were not on a main road.

  At last, the van slowed to near-stationary, and then swung to the right, as if into a narrow alley or driveway. With his hands tied behind him, Henry was incapable of bracing himself against the turn, and rolled helplessly over the hard metal floor. Then the van turned right again, and finally stopped. There was a double slamming of doors as the driver and passenger alighted. Then Henry heard footsteps approaching the double doors at the back of the van.

  It was no moment for heroics. He was outnumbered by two to one, he was securely trussed hand and foot, and the twofold right turn had undoubtedly brought the van to a secluded back alley, well hidden even from the small street on which it had been traveling. Henry slumped onto the floor of the van, muscles relaxed, eyes closed; as far as his captors were concerned, he decided, he had not yet recovered consciousness.

  The back doors of the van swung open, and Henry was aware, through closed eyelids, of the momentary brightness of a torch beam as it flickered over him. Then a voice said, “Still out cold. Just as well. Don’t want any trouble.” Without either difficulty or surprise, he identified the speaker as Harold “Shorty” Bates. The voice continued. “All right. You take his shoulders and I’ll take his legs. That way, if he does come round, he won’t see your ugly mug. And whatever happens, keep your trap shut.”

  With a certain amount of grunting and groaning, Bates and his companion lugged Henry’s inert body across the floor of the van to the open doors, and finally hoisted it outside. Henry felt himself being carried a short distance—not more than a few feet—and then there was a pause and more grunting as Bates evidently succeeded in opening a door or gate of some sort. A few more feet—another door or gate—and Henry was flung down unceremoniously into what felt like a concrete floor, in pitch darkness.

  “Right,” said Bates. “Now let’s get the hell out of here.” A door slammed, making the darkness even more impenetrable, and a key turned in a lock. Henry was left alone. As he began to work, slowly and painfully, to free his hands from the rope that bound them, he meditated on a curious fact. Whoever had been carrying him by the shoulders had certainly been no taller than Bates, and probably shorter; moreover, the hands which had momentarily touched his neck as they grabbed the back of his collar were small and reasonably soft; and Bates had been the brawnier of the two, taking most of the weight of the shared burden. Also, Bates’ injunction that the other should “keep your trap shut” indicated that his voice was probably known to Henry. “His?” Or could it be “hers?”

  ***

  At a quarter past nine, the Reverend Mr. Thacker arrived at Cherry Tree Cottage, unannounced as usual. Supper had been eaten and cleared away, and Jane, Emmy, and Bill were beginning to feel distinctly uneasy about Henry. They could have done without their unexpecte
d caller, but Jane was too polite to snub him, and soon he was settled in an armchair with a cup of coffee, and in full spate.

  “So very glad I caught you at home, Mrs. Spence…no luck with my other visits this evening…bicycled all the way up to Hilltop for a talk with Mrs. Yateley, only to find nobody at home…whole place dark and locked up, and the noise those dogs made when I rattled the gate! Goodness me, you’d have thought I was a burglar! Then I thought I’d have a word with young Amanda Bratt-Cunningham about her vegetable stall, but Sir Arthur tells me she’s up in town this evening…gone to the theatre…no harm in that, I suppose, although some of the things they put on the stage these days…well, I don’t know how the Archbishop can just sit there in the House of Lords, prancing around with no clothes on…not the Archbishop, don’t misunderstand me, but so-called entertainments like…what is it?…‘Oh, Bombay!’—curious title; I understand the show has no connection with India…where was I?”

  “You were saying that Amanda was in London,” said Jane.

  “That’s right. I fear I’m boring you with my tale of woe. However, I am most delighted to find you at home. You see,” added Mr. Thacker, with a grisly ecclesiastical ogle, “I have designs on your sister.”

  Bill Spence let out a snort of involuntary laughter which he quickly turned into a cough, and Emmy suppressed an hysterical desire to giggle. Mr. Thacker went on, waggishly, “Don’t get me wrong, dear ladies. My motives are pure as driven snow. Nothing that the good superintendent could object to. Where is Mr. Tibbett, by the way? Not with you? I understood that he was spending a few more days down here. He has been taking such a kind interest in poor Heathfield and his dogs. Or so I hear.”

  Emmy flashed a quick glance of warning to Jane, who said easily, “Oh, he had to go up to town for an Old Boys’ Dinner. He’ll be back tomorrow to finish his holiday.”