The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “I hope,” said Henry with some severity, “that you’re not getting too attached to that dog.”

  “Who? Me?” Emmy’s voice was too innocent to be true. “Of course not. He just came along for the ride.”

  “We can’t possibly keep a dog in London. You must see that.”

  “Of course I see it,” said Emmy lightly. “Now, get into the car and tell me what this is all about. Not that we’re not pleased to see you, but…”

  Henry looked at her, sighed, and then grinned. “There’s probably nothing in it,” he said.

  “But—” Emmy prompted.

  “But it’s just possible that a case I’m working on in London may have ramifications in this part of the world. In any case, I want to find out more about greyhound racing.”

  At three o’clock promptly, Henry was ringing the bell on the fortified iron gate which led to Hilltop Kennels. As on the previous occasion, this move was greeted by an excited outburst of barking and yapping from the row of whitewashed pens, and soon Simon Yateley appeared, smiling and tousle-headed in mud-stained brown corduroys and gumboots. He unlocked the gate and held it open, saying, “Come in, my dear fellow. Jane said you wanted to see me.”

  “That’s right,” said Henry. “Sorry to take up your valuable time, but I’d like to ask a few questions.”

  “That sounds very alarming, old man,” said Simon, but he did not seem to be alarmed. “What’s it all about, then? A crime wave in Gorsemere?”

  Henry’s heart sank. “I gather from that remark,” he said, “that you know who I am?”

  Yateley laughed. “You didn’t think you could keep it secret in a village like this, did you? Chief Superintendent of the C.I.D.—the saloon bar of the Bull has talked of nothing else since your visit. Nor, I suspect, has the Women’s Institute. You’re quite a celebrity, you know.” He looked sharply at Henry. “There’s no secret about your profession, anyhow, is there? I mean, I’ve seen your picture in the papers. No good trying to hide your light under a bushel.” He laughed with the satisfaction of one who has just composed an epigram.

  “No,” Henry agreed gloomily. “No secret at all.”

  “Well now,” Yateley went on briskly, “what are these mysterious questions?”

  “I’m trying to find out all I can about breeding, training, and racing greyhounds,” said Henry.

  Yateley brightened. “Thinking of buying, are you? I’ve a couple of good litters that might interest you—”

  “No, no. I don’t want to buy one.”

  “So Jane said. Pity. It’s a fascinating hobby, y’know, and can be very lucrative—if you pick the right dog.”

  “But my dear man,” Henry protested, “I live in the middle of London in a small flat, and I know absolutely nothing about—”

  Yateley looked at him pityingly, unable to credit such ignorance. “You wouldn’t keep the pup yourself,” he explained, as if to a child. “Oh, no. You choose it, pay for it, and leave it here with me. Visit it whenever you like, of course. Get to know your own animal. I rear it, register it, train it—all the donkey work. As owner, all you have to do is swan around the stadium watching your entry run—and you don’t even have to do that if you don’t want to—and pick up the kudos and prize money afterwards. Money for jam.”

  “If my dog wins,” said Henry.

  “Ah, well, there’s an element of risk in everything, isn’t there?”

  “In any case,” said Henry firmly, “I’m not interested in buying a greyhound. I just want to learn about the technicalities of training and racing.”

  “In that case,” said Yateley, “I suggest we go indoors where we can talk in comfort. Later on, I’ll show you round.”

  Soon they were installed in deep armchairs in the untidy, comfortable drawing room of the red brick house. Simon Yateley accepted a pipeful of tobacco from Henry, leaned back in his chair, and said, “Right. Fire away, sir.”

  “I hardly know where to start,” Henry admitted. “I’m afraid I’m abysmally ignorant. All I’ve gathered so far is that you both breed and race your own dogs, and also train other people’s.”

  “That’s right.”

  “How many dogs do you keep here at any one time?”

  Simon Yateley considered. “Counting puppies, about fifty. Roughly half our own, and half boarders. We’ve room for more but I don’t use the old kennels any more. They were getting leaky and drafty, and greyhounds need good dry, warm quarters.”

  “And how old are the puppies before you begin their training?”

  Yateley shrugged. “Around twelve months, as a general rule,” he said. “No sense in starting too young. Under NGRC rules, a dog can’t be entered for a race under fifteen months.”

  “NGRC?”

  “National Greyhound Racing Club. All our dogs are registered with them—so are we, come to that. Otherwise we wouldn’t be allowed to race our dogs on NGRC tracks—which means all the finest stadiums in the country.”

  “Presumably,” Henry said, “not all your puppies will turn out to be champion racers.”

  Yateley laughed. “You can say that again,” he remarked. “If they did, I’d be a rich man. No—I count myself lucky to get a couple of promising runners out of a litter of five or six.”

  “How soon can you tell which dogs are going to be good?” Henry asked.

  “Quite early on, as a rule. Apart from pups which aren’t up to standard physically, it’s a question of temperament more than anything. Some of them shape well on their own, but can’t get used to racing with other dogs—start fighting on the track. That can sometimes be trained out of them, sometimes not. What’s more serious, and less easy to cure, is sheer lack of enthusiasm. Like that bitch Bella was talking about—Lady Griselda. A case in point. Just wouldn’t put her heart into the job.”

  “I was going to ask you,” Henry said. “What happens to the dogs who don’t make the grade?”

  “The youngsters are sold cheap or given away as pets,” said Simon. “As for the old dogs—the best are kept for breeding. The others—well, I know some trainers who have them put to sleep. But Bella and I are sentimental, I suppose. We keep them until they die of old age, if we can’t find good homes for them. I’ve got half a dozen pensioners on my books at the moment.” He grinned. “You’re not in the market for a pet, I suppose? Wonderfully intelligent and affectionate, they are.”

  “I most certainly am not,” said Henry, with undue vehemence.

  “Ah, well…no harm in trying. Any more you want to know before we start the conducted tour?”

  “Quite a lot, I’m afraid,” said Henry. “There’s a lot of money in greyhound racing, isn’t there?”

  “Well, that depends. Prize money is pretty good at big meetings, not so interesting at the smaller tracks, inevitably. A champion can win thousands of pounds during his racing career.”

  “I was thinking more,” said Henry, “of the betting side of it.”

  “Oh, that.” Yateley did not sound interested. “Yes, of course—enormous sums are wagered. I don’t go in for it myself—not a gambling man. I haven’t got a crusade on about it, like Sir Arthur Bratt-Cunningham—if I think one of my dogs has a real chance, I’ll put a bit on him. But you’ll find the hard betting done by characters who wouldn’t know a hare from a harrier.”

  “I’m only too well aware of that,” said Henry feelingly. “I come across a lot of them in my job, I’m afraid. And it’s not just gambling, either. I imagine there’s a fair amount of underhand business—doping, substitution, and so on.”

  Yateley said, “No, I wouldn’t say that. The rules are too strict—the NGRC sees to that.”

  “I’m not very well up on the greyhound scene,” Henry admitted, “but there have been several bad scandals recently over racehorses—”

  “Ah, yes. That’s a bit different.” Yateley puffed at his pipe. “Think of it this way. In horse racing, you’ve got more of the human element.”

  “The human element?”

>   “The jockey. He’s in control of the horse actually during the race. He can throw the race, if he’s paid enough and is so inclined anyhow. Not that I’m saying many of them are, but the possibility’s there. Now, with your greyhound, he’s on his own. Once that trap is open, unless he’s been doped, nothing and nobody can influence his performance. See what I mean?”

  “Yes,” said Henry. “But—”

  “And under NGRC rules, it’s virtually impossible for anybody to interfere with the dog once he’s been delivered to the stadium for a race.”

  “Tell me about it,” Henry said.

  “Well, for a start, the dog must be delivered by a registered trainer, even if the owner has done most of the training himself. That’s a guarantee, because none of us wants to be struck off by the club. Then, the track has its own vets, who examine the dogs and test them for dope. After that, until the actual race, the dogs are kept in the stadium’s own kennels—and if you can break in there, you can steal the Crown Jewels.”

  “Supposing,” said Henry slowly, “that the wrong dog is delivered? I mean, a substitute runner, of approximately the same size and coloring?”

  Yateley laughed. “I may say, sir,” he said, “that you’re not the first person to have thought of that little dodge. That’s why one of the first things the NGRC did was to institute identity cards for all registered dogs.”

  “With their signatures, I suppose?”

  “As good as.” Yateley got up and walked over to a big, old-fashioned desk. He opened a drawer, rummaged about for a moment, and pulled out a slim white booklet. “Take a look at this. It’s a specimen identity card. You’ll see what I mean.”

  He handed Henry the folder. The words “Greyhound Identity and Race Record Book” were printed on the front cover, with a space for the name of the dog to be entered. It was heavily overprinted with the word “Specimen” on each page. Inside were four outline drawings of a greyhound—back, front, and two side views—and on these were indicated coloring and exact markings; alongside was a column for recording sex, eye color, length of tail, ear mark, and other details. On the facing page were no less than five outline drawings of a greyhound’s paw, which again were meticulously marked to identify the toes and nails.

  “As good as fingerprints,” Yateley remarked, as Henry turned the page. “The rest of the book is a record of all the races the dog runs, with full details of weight, distance, trap number, and result. The lot.”

  “The trainer keeps one of these for each dog, does he?” Henry asked.

  “Not likely, old man. The NGRC itself keeps the cards under lock and key. When a dog is entered for a race, the NGRC sends the card to the racetrack manager so that he can check the creature’s identity. Afterwards, the card must be returned to the NGRC, unless the dog is due to race again within forty-eight hours. Then it can be sent direct to the manager of the next racetrack. It’s foolproof, old man.”

  Henry sighed. “A pity,” he said. “I’ll have to abandon my theory.”

  “What theory would that be?”

  “Oh…just an idea. About the possibility of substituting an inferior runner for a champion.”

  Simon Yateley smiled. “I know of quite a few characters,” he said, “who’d give a small fortune if you could show them how it could be done. One of the oldest tricks, before things tightened up.” He stood up. “Well, come and have a look around.”

  Henry followed Simon out of the house to the long row of brick-built kennels. Wherever they went, they were followed by affectionate yapping—and Henry was introduced to the inmates of Hilltop. Two kennelsful of leaping puppies, nuzzling at the wire to lick Simon’s hand; a sleek, beautiful bitch suckling her young family; several comfortable residences each occupied by two “old-age pensioners”—“They like to have company,” Yateley explained; and finally the enclosures housing the current racers, the white hopes of the kennels. Several of these were empty, and Yateley explained that their occupants were still out, being schooled.

  “I don’t believe in very intensive training,” he said. “It’s mostly walking, with a few sprints. And then, of course, they have to get used to the track.”

  “The track?” Henry was surprised “You mean, you have a track here?”

  “Indeed we do. Oh, don’t expect the White City. Ours is just an open-air practice track—but it’s the same shape and size as a regular stadium course, and the dogs get used to it. This way.”

  Yateley led the way to a stretch of open moorland. As they approached it, Henry could see the oval racecourse, bordered by white fencing, its grassy surface worn by the procession of pounding feet, both canine and human. As Henry and Simon walked up to the fence, there was a call from somewhere out of sight, and the next moment a black form flashed like greased lightning down the track past them. Yateley laughed.

  “You can have a demonstration,” he said. “Bella and Tom are putting Black Prince through his paces. He’s running at Wembley on Saturday. Got a good chance, too.”

  A moment later, Henry saw Bella Yateley. She made an attractive sight, in her beige breeches and Wellington boots, her face sunburned and her brown hair tousled in the fresh wind. She was leading the beautiful black dog—now panting in happy exhaustion—and she held a stopwatch in her hand. She greeted Henry and her husband with a wide smile.

  “Thirty-two twenty, Simon,” she said cryptically. She patted the dog’s sleek head. “You’re a clever boy. We’ll show them on Saturday.” She turned to a diminutive youngster in gumboots and a cloth cap several sizes too large for him. “Take Prince back to his kennels, will you, Tommy? And give him a good meal—he’s earned it.” She bent to pat the dog again, and he licked her hand affectionately before the kennel lad led him off toward the row of whitewashed huts.

  Bella smiled at Henry. “Simon told me you were coming,” she said. “Why the sudden interest in greyhounds?”

  “Nothing, really. Just curiosity. I wanted a good look round.”

  ‘Well,” said Bella, “I hope you’re admiring our pride and joy.”

  “Black Prince, you mean?”

  “No, the practice track. There aren’t many trainers that have one, though I say it myself. It may not be very grand, but it’s as good as some of the flapping tracks.”

  “Flapping tracks?” Henry repeated.

  “Oh, come on back to the house, Bella,” said Yateley. “Henry’s had enough of tracks and dogs for one afternoon.”

  “I’ve certainly learnt a lot,” said Henry. The three of them began to walk back toward the house. “Tell me more about flapping tracks.”

  “That’s what we call them,” Bella said. “They’re small tracks, not under NGRC management. Oh, some of them are quite grand—proper enclosed stadiums and everything—but others are just open tracks like ours. Anybody can enter his own dog—it’s all much less formal than the NGRC races.”

  “So all this identity card business you were telling me about wouldn’t apply to a flapping track?” Henry asked, turning to Yateley.

  “Well…I wouldn’t say it doesn’t apply…certainly the rules are less rigid…”

  “Much less,” Bella put in. “Of course, you don’t get really top quality dogs entering.”

  “But you still get betting, I suppose,” Henry said.

  “My dear Henry,” said Simon, “wherever you get two gamblers together, you’ll get betting. I’ve known men bet on how many minutes late a train will be, or the color of the hair of the next man to walk into a bar. It’s human nature, that’s all.”

  Henry said good-bye to the Yateleys at the door of their house. They did not invite him in, and he saw no reason why they should. He thanked them for their help, and was turning to go, when Bella said, “But of course, you can’t get out. The gate’s locked. No, don’t bother, Simon. I’ll walk down with Henry.”

  As they walked, Bella suddenly said, “Oh, I meant to ask you. There’s no news of Griselda, I suppose? The bitch I gave to Harry Heathfield. The police ought to h
ave found her by now if she’s running loose in the district.”

  “I’ll ask Jane when I get back,” Henry promised. “She didn’t say anything.”

  Bella’s eyes clouded. “I expect she’s been picked up and is being cared for by somebody,” she said, “but one always thinks of those ghouls who go round pinching stray dogs and selling them for vivisection.” She paused, and then said, “Griselda’s such a friendly, trusting creature. She’d go to anybody. You’re a high-powered policeman, Henry. Can’t you help? Poor little P.C. Denning does his best—but you could do much more, I’m sure.”

  Henry smiled. “It’s hardly up my street, looking for stray dogs,” he said, “but—well, yes, of course I’ll help if I can. By the way, does your Lady Griselda have one of those identity cards that Simon was showing me?”

  “Oh, yes. We registered her before we realized we’d never make a runner of her. And then Harry was so thrilled to think he owned a real racing greyhound that we went through all the correct procedure—had the change of ownership notified to the club and entered on the card and everything. In theory, he could enter her for a race anytime. Of course, that’s only a pipe dream, but it made him so happy. Poor Harry.”

  “If I could get hold of that card,” said Henry, “it would make it easier to identify her.”

  Bella laughed. “That’s impossible, I’m afraid. The club will only part with the card to send it to the racetrack manager if a dog is entered in a race. The only other way to get hold of it would be for Harry himself to request to have it canceled and returned—and in that case, the pipe dream would be gone. She’d never be able to race again, even in theory.”

  “Oh, well,” said Henry. “It was just an idea. Anyhow, I’ll see what I can do.”

  They had reached the gate. Bella unlocked it, and smiled at Henry.

  “I’d be so very grateful,” she said.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  NOBODY WOULD EXPECT a prison to be a particularly cheerful place, but Middingfield Jail, Henry reflected, was even grimmer and more dismal than most. A gaunt, smoke-blackened Victorian building, it reared its grim façade among the mean, dark streets surrounding Middingfield’s railway junction, and its small, barred windows scowled at the world like hostile, myopic eyes.