To Fetch a Thief

by Spencer Quinn

  She reached up, shook hands with Bernie. She had a ponytail, tied back in that real tight way you see sometimes, kind of stretching the skin around the eyes; doesn’t that hurt?

  “Everyone calls me Fil,” said Filomena. They did? We already knew a Phil: Phil “Shoulders” Schraft, now breaking rocks in the hot sun. This Fil was very different.

  “Uh,” said Bernie. “Er.” Some women did that to him. “I’m Bernie,” he said.

  “Caught that,” said Fil.

  “And, um, this is Chet.”

  Fil turned to me. “What a handsome fellow,” she said.

  I knew one thing right away. If this was a case and something bad had happened, this woman was not the perp. She held out her hand, a small hand but beautifully shaped. I gave it a quick lick, caught a faint taste of oranges; very nice.

  “You were first on the scene?” Bernie said.

  Fil nodded. “I went jogging—it was just getting light—and when I came by, Peanut was gone. I ran right to Uri’s trailer and he was gone, too. I called the colonel and I guess he called you guys.”

  “Who’s the colonel?” Rick said.

  “Colonel Drummond,” Fil said. “He owns the circus.”

  “Is he around?” Rick said.

  “He’s on his way,” Fil said.

  “From?” said Bernie.

  “The colonel’s got a place in the north Valley,” Fil said.

  “He lives here?” said Bernie.

  “None of us really lives anywhere,” Fil said. “We’re on the road forty-eight weeks a year.” She turned to the empty cage. “It’s a cliché, I know, but we’re like a family.”

  Popo moved closer, put his arm around her. He wore white gloves, made of some material that looked soft; I couldn’t help wonder how gloves like that might feel, in my mouth, for example. While I was in the middle of wondering, Rick said something I missed, and then Popo and Fil were walking away, his arm still around her.

  “Like a family—there are upsides and downsides to that,” Bernie said.

  “Thinking the same thing,” said Rick.

  Bernie reached out, tried the padlock. “Who has keys for this?”

  “Still checking on that.”

  Bernie gazed down at the ground. There were tire tracks all over the place, crisscrossing and mashed up, a big mess.

  “Not going to get much out of that,” Rick said. He glanced over at me. “Wonder if Chet might pick up something.”

  “I don’t know,” Bernie said. “He’s never worked with elephants, and if we’re operating on the theory that Peanut didn’t get out of here on foot, then—”

  And more of that kind of talk, but I wasn’t listening. There’s a time for action—pretty much any time, in my opinion. I took a quick sniff at the base of the wall, picked up Peanut’s scent again no problem, and started following it. A piece of cake, as humans say. I’m not a big cake eater myself, although if cake just happens to be sitting there . . .

  I pushed all thoughts of cake clear out of my mind—even Charlie’s last birthday party, lucky thing about that second cake arriving so fast—and trotted along the scent trail, a nice slow trot I can keep up all day.

  “Hey, Chet, ease up, for God’s sake.”

  The trail led back toward the trailers, then made a sharp turn onto a paved road that ran inside the fence at the edge of the fairgrounds. There were lots of other smells on the paved road—including cotton candy—and lots of other smells can sometimes confuse you, but not this time: Peanut’s smell overpowered them all. I followed that smell right up to where the road came to a closed gate and stopped there. A man standing in a gatehouse peered out.

  Bernie and Rick hurried up behind me, huffing and puffing; always fun when you can get humans huffing and puffing. Suppose you have something in your mouth, a magazine, say, and when some human makes a grab for it, you twist away, letting them come closer and closer every time: humans start huffing and puffing pretty quick in a game like that. But this was no time for games. We were on the job, and besides there were no magazines in sight.

  The guard stepped out of the gatehouse. Hey! He had a toothpick sticking out of his mouth. Hadn’t seen that in way too long. Humans: you just had to like them.

  Rick flashed his badge. “Torres, Missing Persons,” he said.

  “Heard what happened,” the guard said, the toothpick bobbing up and down. “Don’t know nothin’.”

  “In my experience,” Rick said, “nobody ever knows nothing.”

  “Huh?” said the guard.

  Bernie’s lips curled up a bit, like he was about to smile. I didn’t know why, just knew he and Rick were pals.

  “This gatehouse manned at night?” Rick said.

  “Twenty-four seven,” said the guard.

  “Who was on last night?”

  “Yours truly. Weekends we go midnight to noon.”

  “You work for the circus?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Got some ID?” The guard handed over his ID. Rick gazed at it, then looked at the guard. “Darren P. Quigley?”

  “Yup.”

  “Mind losing the shades, Darren?”

  Shades? Hadn’t even noticed them, what with that toothpick. Darren took off his shades, maybe in a way that was a little too slow; I felt Bernie stiffen beside me. Darren had small bloodshot eyes with dark circles under them. I liked him better with the shades on.

  “So you came on at midnight?” Rick said.

  “Yup.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “Darren,” Rick said. “An elephant is missing.”

  “Tole you. Didn’t see nothin’, didn’t hear nothin’.”

  “Were you here the whole time?”

  “That’s the job.”

  Rick’s voice rose. “Answer the question.”

  “Yeah, I was here.”

  “Awake?”

  Darren nodded, the toothpick moving fast, like he was chewing on it hard.

  “Let’s hear a verbal answer.”

  “Yeah. Wide awake every goddamn minute. No one came in. No one went out.”

  Silence.

  “Can I get my ID back now?”

  Rick turned to Bernie. “Any thoughts?”

  “Darren,” Bernie said, “this is Chet.”

  My tail started up.

  “So?” said Darren.

  And went still, just like that.

  “Chet’s a great tracker,” Bernie said.

  “The best,” said Rick.

  That Rick! What a guy! My tail started right back up again, wagging hard.

  “And,” Bernie went on, “he’s tracked the elephant from its cage over to here. The likely scenario is that the elephant was in some kind of trailer. Less likely would be the elephant being led on foot. Either way, a hard-to-miss sight for anyone who happened to be in the gatehouse.”

  “Unless that someone was asleep,” Rick added.

  “Or blind drunk,” Bernie said.

  Darren gave Bernie a hard stare. “Tole you what I tole you.”

  “But it doesn’t add up,” Bernie said.

  “You believe a fuckin’ dog over me?”

  “Language,” said Bernie.

  “Huh?”

  “His name’s Chet.”

  “So?”

  Now Bernie was giving Darren a hard stare back. Darren looked away, spat out his toothpick. We stood there, me, Bernie, and Rick, our eyes on Darren. No one spoke. Finally, Rick handed back the ID. “And here’s my card,” he said, his voice not friendly, “in case your story changes.”

  “Nothin’s gonna change,” Darren said and headed toward the gatehouse.

  I wandered over to that toothpick, lying in the dirt, and gave it a sniff. Hey! Darren had done some puking, and pretty recently. Impossible to miss: I’ve smelled lots of puke in my time—alleys behind bars are prime spots, and so are the parking lots out front, and even right inside the bars, fancy ones, too. I barked a bit and pawed at the toothpick, b
ut no one was paying attention. They were watching a long, white convertible approaching the gate on the road outside.

  FIVE

  The long, white car stopped outside the gate. The driver, a big-headed dude with a dark tan and a cigar sticking straight out of his mouth, leaned on the horn, even though Darren P. Quigley, the gatekeeper, was already on his way. The sound of a car horn honking really hurts my ears. I gave my head a good shake and felt better. By that time, Darren had the gate open.

  “Morning, colonel,” he said.

  Rick stepped up to the car. “Colonel Drummond?” he said.

  The colonel took the cigar from his mouth. “Yes, sir.”

  “Owner of the Drummond Family Traveling Circus?”

  “In conjunction with a bank or three,” said the colonel. “What can I do you for?”

  “Rick Torres, Missing Persons,” Rick said. “I’m in charge of the investigation.”

  Colonel Drummond switched off the engine, stuck the cigar in his mouth, and talked around it. “Put me in the picture,” he said. Or something like that: humans can be hard to understand even without cigars in the way.

  “Mostly a mystery at this point,” Rick said. “Your trainer, Uri DeLeath, and the elephant are missing. This gentleman here is Bernie Little, private investigator.”

  The colonel’s eyes shifted to Bernie. “Howdy,” he said. “Don’t recall hiring you.”

  Bernie smiled; maybe he was liking the colonel. “You didn’t,” he said. “I had tickets for today’s show.”

  “They’ll be good tomorrow,” said the colonel. “Come on back. And here’s a coupon, good for twenty dollars at any of our food concessions. I highly recommend the devil dogs, prizewinners in six states.”

  Devil dogs. Whoa. That was new.

  “The point is,” Rick was saying, maybe a little while later, what with my mind having a hard time letting go of the devil dogs, “Bernie works with Chet. Chet’s probably the best tracker in the Valley, and he’s followed the elephant’s scent from the cage to right here, leading us to suspect they left through this gate, most likely by trailer.”

  The colonel glanced at me. “What a fine-looking pooch,” he said. Hey! A horn honker maybe, but Colonel Drummond was fine by me; plus he wore one of those string ties, which were fun to chew on, although I’m sure that thought didn’t even occur to me at the moment.

  “The problem,” said Rick, turning to Darren, “is that the guard can’t corroborate the theory.”

  Colonel Drummond eyed Darren. “Meaning?”

  “Didn’t see nothin’, colonel. Didn’t hear nothin’, neither.”

  “You’re Quigley, right?”

  Darren nodded.

  “Official word is this big fella Chet’s one fine tracker, and I got no reason to doubt it,” the colonel said. The end of the cigar glowed hot. “Anything more to say, Quigley?”

  Darren shook his head.

  “That leaves one of two situations,” said the colonel. “Either you fell asleep or you deserted your post.”

  Darren shook his head harder.

  “Any situations I missed?” the colonel said.

  Darren stopped shaking his head, let it hang down. We have the same thing in our world: it means you’re beat.

  Colonel Drummond took the cigar from his mouth, tapped a big chunk of ash over the edge of the door. It held its shape but quickly lost the glow. I went over and sniffed at the smoke curling up. Love cigar smoke!

  “Take it on up to the office, Quigley,” the colonel said. “Tell ’em to print out your last check, plus one week severance.”

  “You’re firing me?” Darren said.

  “Matter of principle,” the colonel said. “Drummond Family Traveling Circus has a long tradition of full cooperation with law enforcement.”

  Darren backed away, got his lunch box from the gatehouse—he had a peanut butter sandwich in there, the scent unmistakable—and slumped off toward the big top.

  “Hate like hell doing that in this economy,” the colonel said, “but there are lines you can’t cross.”

  Rick nodded. “Any idea what’s going on here, colonel?” he said. “Anything like this ever happen before?”

  “Anything like my trainer making off with the star of the show?” the colonel said. “Of course not—DeLeath would have been out on his ass.”

  Bernie’s eyebrows rose. Have I mentioned how expressive they are, kind of with a language of their own? “That’s what you think happened?” he said. “He stole Peanut?”

  “What other possibility is there?” said the colonel.

  Bernie and Rick exchanged a look. “Kidnapping, for one,” Rick said.

  The colonel laughed. He had fat cheeks and they shook. I always like that in a human. “Kidnap an elephant? You guys are too much.”

  “Why is it out of the question?” Bernie asked.

  “What would be the point?” said the colonel.

  “Ransom,” said Bernie.

  “How much do you think an elephant costs?” said the colonel.

  “No idea,” Bernie said.

  “As low as ten grand,” the colonel said. “That’s for an Asian—Africans are more, of course, just the females, I’m talking about. African males are too dangerous to work with. But the kicker is the cost of care and feeding: try three grand a month, minimum. So even if the ransom gets paid, this kidnapper of yours could easily wind up losing money on the deal. Nope, gentlemen—DeLeath stole Peanut, end of story.”

  “Why would he do that?” Rick said.

  “Have to ask him,” said the colonel. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a business to take care of, plus all the folks who work in it.” He reached for the ignition. Bernie put both hands on the top of the door. A big car, but it sagged a bit; Bernie’s strong, don’t forget that.

  “Two lives may be at risk, colonel,” he said. “We need to know why you’re so sure.”

  The colonel gazed down at Bernie’s hands. Bernie has beautiful hands, but the colonel didn’t seem to be appreciating them.

  “Bernie’s right,” Rick said. “How come you’re so sure?”

  The colonel took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Don’t know what that’s all about, but I always watch for it. “No one, man or beast, is at risk, I assure you,” he said. “Uri DeLeath has simply gone over to the other side.”

  “Other side?” Rick said.

  “The animal rights fanatics,” Colonel Drummond said. “What other side is there? All we want to do is entertain kids and their parents in an age-old way, but they won’t rest until they drive us out of business.”

  “I thought DeLeath was known to be a humane trainer,” Bernie said, stepping back a little from the car.

  “The exact reason the fanatics have been trying to get their hooks into him,” the colonel said. “The way cults go after the softheaded types. They’re very clever. Trust me—we’ll never see Peanut again.”

  Bernie looked like he was about to say something else, but before that happened Corporal Valdez drove up in her cruiser, Charlie beside her, lights flashing. Charlie’s voice came over the PA: “Message for Dad—ready to go home.”

  Not long after, we were on our way out of the fairgrounds, Charlie riding shotgun, me on the shelf but handling it well.

  “Me and Mindy were looking at mug shots,” Charlie said.

  “See anyone you know?”

  Charlie laughed. Laughter: that’s the best human sound, and kid laughter is the best of the best. Then Charlie stopped laughing and his face got serious. The serious look on a kid’s face is always interesting.

  “There sure are lots of bad guys, Dad,” he said. “How come?”

  Bernie glanced over at Charlie. “No one really knows,” he said, “but I can tell you what I think.”

  “Okay.”

  “It’s about conscience.” Oops. I was lost already. “You know—a sense of right and wrong.” Oh, that. “Everyone starts out with one, but the more you override it, the weaker it gets
. Remember when the threads got stripped on the thing that attaches the propane tank to the barbecue?”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m hungry.”

  So was I, had felt a hunger pang the moment Bernie mentioned the barbecue.

  “We’ll pick up something on the way home.”

  Like what? I waited to hear, but Bernie didn’t say. And were we even going home? We didn’t take the freeway ramp, instead stayed on the road that ran around the fairgrounds fence. Soon we were on the back side, coming up to the gatehouse.

  No sign of Colonel Drummond or his long, white car. The gate was closed, the gatehouse empty. Bernie stopped the car.

  “What are we doing, Dad?”

  “Just, ah, checking on something,” Bernie said. “You can stay in the car.”

  “What kind of something?”

  “Hard to say,” Bernie said, opening the door. “Vague feelings.”

  I was already out and sniffing around. I picked up Peanut’s scent, getting a little weaker now—time was passing—and followed it down the road in the direction we’d just come.

  “Hey, slow down, big guy.”

  I tried to slow down, maybe did a bit. Soon we were at a stop sign. I lost the scent for a moment, sniffed in a little circle, and picked it up, no longer present on the road around the fairgrounds but headed toward a freeway ramp on the other side. I could hear freeway noise close by, kind of like a howling storm.

  “Southbound ramp,” Bernie said. “Good enough, Chet. C’mon back.”

  I turned and trotted over to Bernie. He gave me a nice long pat. Ah. I could tell from the feel of his hand that he loved me. We’re a good team, me and Bernie.

  We walked back to the car, side by side. Charlie was standing on the driver’s seat, turning the wheel and going, “Vroom vroom.” That was so much fun to watch that I almost missed a strange sticklike thing lying in the ditch by the side of the road. I darted over and picked it up, a heavy wooden stick with a sharp metal point at one end, and not only a sharp metal point but also a sharp metal hook, ending up with two sharp things to watch out for.

  “What you got there?” Bernie said.

  I went up to Bernie and dropped the stick thing at his feet. He reached down, then paused and went back to the Porsche. He put on surgical gloves, returned, and picked up the stick thing.