The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “So the house is empty at the moment, with Marsh in the hospital and Smith in prison?”

  “I imagine so, sir.” Reynolds sounded puzzled.

  Henry said, “It’s a long shot, but it might produce something. I’ll just have a word with the Wimbledon Police.” He reached for the telephone. A few moments later, he was speaking to a polite young duty constable at Wimbledon Police Station.

  “Yes, Chief Superintendent. Certainly, Chief Superintendent. Right away, Chief Superintendent.” The young man, whose name was Hawthorn, was obviously overwhelmed by Henry’s rank. A minute later he was back on the line. “Nothing very interesting, I’m afraid, Chief Superintendent. Parson’s Drive, you said? No, nothing…oh, here’s a…no. That wouldn’t interest you, sir.”

  “That’s for me to say,” said Henry. “I’m interested in anything that happened in Parson’s Drive last Thursday night.”

  “But this is only old mother—I mean, Mrs. Rundle-Webster, sir.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “She’s the old lady who lives in 131. Over the street from 128. She’s always making complaints to us, sir. You know the type. Neighbors’ radios playing too late, parties going on after eleven, dogs barking—”

  “Dogs barking?” Henry asked sharply.

  “Well, sir…” The young constable’s embarrassment came clearly down the line. “I was speaking figuratively, like. She has complained about dogs barking, that’s for sure, but that particular night it was suspicious personages.”

  “Suspicious personages?” Henry echoed.

  “Yes, sir. Seems she woke up in the night and saw a car parked on the opposite side of the street—which is perfectly legal, incidentally. This was pointed out to her by the duty sergeant, whereupon she went on to say that this was a suspicious vehicle. The sarge asked what she meant by that, and she said she had seen a figure lurking in the garden of No. 128. Well, I’m sorry, sir, but we’ve had so much of this sort of thing from her, we really didn’t pay any attention. The news of the shooting hadn’t come in then, of course. However, we obeyed regulations. We sent a car round to investigate. Nothing, of course. Number 128 was quite dark and deserted. No suspicious characters hanging about. No parked van.”

  Henry sat up straight. “I thought you said a car.”

  “Not actually a car, sir, no. It was a van, she said. A small, dark-colored van.”

  ***

  It did not take Henry long to locate No. 14 Tyson Place, Chelsea—the residence, if the court records were to be believed, of Mr. Albert Pennington, Company Director. Of all the characters directly involved in the death of Larry Lawson and the arrest of Henry Heathfield, Pennington was the unknown quantity. Unknown to the police, unknown to the village of Gorsemere. The one fact that was known about him was that he must be an acquaintance of Major George Weatherby; otherwise he would not have accompanied him on that fateful pub crawl. He had almost certainly been taken along to add respectability and credibility to Weatherby’s story, but he had to be checked in any case.

  As a local resident himself—though of a less affluent area—Henry knew that Tyson Place was one of the pretty little tree-lined streets which ran parallel to the bustle of the King’s Road. The small Regency houses, each with its own garden or patio, were currently changing hands at prices out of all proportion to the accommodation they offered. Henry could not imagine what attraction a resident of Tyson Place could possibly find in Major Weatherby and his seedy North London pub. Could this be the small incongruity which would lead to the unraveling of the whole story? Henry doubted it.

  Number 14 was an early Victorian brick townhouse, tall and narrow, which had been painted white and expensively restored. A brass knocker in the shape of a clenched fist gleamed on the sky-blue front door, and a flowering cherry tree in the tiny front garden shaded the muslin-curtained windows from prying eyes. On the surface, at least, Mr. Pennington was rich, respectable, and upper-class—or a combination of at least two of those attributes. Henry pressed the doorbell (the knocker was purely decorative) and waited with interest.

  The door was opened almost immediately. Before Henry could make out the appearance of his host in the dark hallway, a low-pitched but pettish masculine voice said, “At last! Where have you been? I thought—” The voice broke off into a dismayed choke as its owner digested the fact that Henry was not his expected visitor.

  “Mr. Albert Pennington?” Henry asked politely. He could now see that the other was a thin, willowy young man with straight fair hair which—while not exactly short—was neatly barbered and a far cry from the Jesus Christ-Chelsea school of thought, as was his neatly clipped mustache. He wore an impeccably tailored dark gray suit with very narrow trousers, and a spotless white shirt. The epitome of a well-to-do, rapidly rising young executive.

  He did not reply to Henry’s query, but began to close the door. With a skill born of years of experience, Henry inserted a wedging foot. He said again, “Mr. Albert Pennington?”

  “Yes.” The young man sounded defiant, as if proving a point. “What’s more important is—who are you?”

  Henry had his official card in his hand. He displayed it briefly. “Chief Superintendent Tibbett, C.I.D.,” he said.

  Mr. Pennington paled. “But they can’t… I mean, what do you want?”

  “Just a word with you, if you don’t mind.”

  “What about?”

  “If I may come in and sit down,” said Henry, “I’ll explain.”

  Albert Pennington hesitated. Then he said, “Oh, all right. But I warn you, I’m saying nothing without my lawyer present. This way.”

  The drawing room was elegantly furnished with small, breakable-looking antiques and Regency-striped silk brocade. Glazed doors gave onto a sunny little garden. It was all very cosy and very expensive. Albert Pennington motioned Henry to a spindle-legged sofa, sat down himself on one of the solider chairs, and said, “Well? What’s all this about?” His voice was hard and had lost its slight simper.

  Henry said carefully, “I’m making further enquiries into a case in which you were involved a couple of months ago, Mr. Pennington. I’m sure you recall it. The evening when you drove to Gorsemere with Major George Weatherby.”

  Pennington, who had been about to light a cigarette, suddenly sat perfectly still, as if turned to stone. His face showed no expression whatsoever—Henry could not judge whether he was alarmed or relieved to be told the object of the visit. The immobility lasted only a split second. Then Pennington lit his cigarette, offered one to Henry, and said, “I thought I’d heard the last of that. Had to go down to Middingfield only last week to give evidence against the poor fellow. I understand he’s in prison.”

  “That’s right,” said Henry. “Now, Mr. Pennington—how well do you know Major Weatherby?”

  “Old George? Oh, known him on and off for years.” Pennington sounded just a little uneasy. As if to forestall Henry’s next move, he added, “Rough diamond, of course, old George. Splendid fellow when you get to know him, but I must admit that it was only a mutual interest in the turf that first brought us together.”

  Henry smiled. “You’re interested in horse-racing, then?” Pennington gave him a withering look. “My father,” he said, “was Sir Humphrey Pennington.” Henry regarded him with bright incomprehension. Irritated, Pennington said, “I suppose a person like you couldn’t be expected to know it, but my father was a very big racehorse owner in the fifties. Very big indeed. One of the finest strings in the country.”

  “Ah,” said Henry. “That would explain your interest, then.”

  “Naturally.”

  “And your friendship with Major Weatherby.”

  “Of course.”

  “Well now, Mr. Pennington, I wonder if you would just run over the events of that evening for me.”

  Pennington threw up his hands in a despairing gesture. “Great heavens, haven’t we been over all that often enough? I tell you, the case is closed. The man’s in jail.”

 
; “True. But complications have arisen concerning the unfortunate passerby who was killed. I’m afraid I have to make more enquiries.”

  Pennington shrugged. “Oh, very well. Go ahead. I can’t tell you anything that I haven’t already put in my statement. Weatherby and I bought a few drinks for this Heathfield character, because he seemed an amusing sort of local yokel. Then he suddenly got up and said he had to go. And he went. Next thing we knew, the pub closed and the car had gone. What else can I tell you?”

  “Whose idea was the trip to the country? Yours or Weatherby’s?”

  “Oh, Weatherby’s.” Pennington was very definite on the point. “He called me up and suggested it. Said he had the chance of a rare evening off from the Parrot, and that he knew this charming old pub down in Hampshire—”

  “That’s funny,” said Henry. “He told me you stumbled on the White Bull quite by chance, having visited several other inns on the road.”

  Pennington hesitated. Then he said, “That’s right. Now I come to think of it, it was only when we were driving through Gorsemere that George remembered somebody had told him…” Under the steady scrutiny of Henry’s blue eyes, Pennington faltered and then stopped. Then he giggled and said, “Oh, all right. I admit it. I’ve completely forgotten what he did say.” Then, more aggressively, “Is there any reason why I should remember, after all this time?” And finally, passing to the attack, “What do all these questions mean, anyhow? Just because a drunkard stole George’s car, it doesn’t mean we had anything to do with the poor wretch he killed.”

  “No,” said Henry. “No, Mr. Pennington, I hope it doesn’t. I’m sorry I had to bother you with questions—but there’s an element of mystery about the whole affair, and I’m trying to clear it up.”

  “Mystery?” Pennington repeated, offhandedly. “What sort of mystery, for heaven’s sake? It all seemed straightforward enough to me.”

  Henry had no intention of discussing with Albert Pennington the disappearance of Lady Griselda, or any other related problem. In fact, he did not consider it politic to mention dogs at all. So he simply said, as he stood up to leave, “Oh—just something that seems to be missing.”

  “Missing?”

  “Let’s say—out of a set of three, only two are accounted for. You remember ‘The Third Man’?”

  The effect of this remark on Albert Pennington was quite sensational. He, too, had risen to his feet, and he now turned a delicate shade of green and clutched at a fragile chairback for support. In a strangled, high-pitched voice, he said, “I’m saying no more without my solicitor present. Not another word. D’you hear me?”

  Somewhat surprised, Henry said, “I heard you the first time, Mr. Pennington. But really, there’s no need to call your solicitor. Nobody is accusing you of anything.”

  Pennington pulled himself together. “I’m sorry, Superintendent. I’m afraid I’m a little upset today—about something quite different. Something entirely private. Of course—nobody is accusing me of anything.” He repeated Henry’s words as if they had been some sort of talisman.

  “Well, it was kind of you to see me,” said Henry cheerfully. “Please don’t bother—I’ll let myself out.”

  He left Pennington standing in the improbably elegant little drawing room, and walked out under the cherry tree toward his car. And as he went, Henry was mentally kicking himself for his slowness. “You see?” remarked the voice in his head which he called his “nose.” “I’ve been trying to tell you, but you wouldn’t listen. Now do you believe me? There was a third man.”

  ***

  Henry arrived at Nelson’s Buildings soon after four in the afternoon, having driven over the river from Chelsea after his talk with Albert Pennington. It was a warm day, and the insistent rhythms of pop music floated through open apartment windows onto the still air. It seemed a stiffer climb than last time to reach the second floor.

  For some seconds, Henry’s pressure on the bell-push went unanswered; at last, the door opened a crack to reveal Mrs. Bertini, very cross and bleary-eyed, wearing a flowered housecoat and with her brass-blonde hair screwed up in rollers.

  “What is it now?” she demanded petulantly. “I was trying to get a bit of a zizz—” She broke off as she recognized Henry. “My God. You again. I thought you were going to leave us alone.”

  “I’m afraid not, Mrs. Bertini,” said Henry pleasantly. “Just a few questions—”

  “Marlene isn’t home. You’d best come back later.”

  “It’s not your daughter I want to see, Mrs. Bertini. It’s you.”

  “Me? Whatever about?”

  “About your greyhound.”

  For a moment, Henry thought that Mrs. Bertini was going to faint. Her face, which already looked sallow and unhealthy without its thick makeup, turned to whitish-green, and she put out a hand to steady herself against the door jamb. Then, recovering, she said in a whisper, “I don’t know what you mean. I’ve got no greyhound.”

  “I think you know perfectly well what I mean, Mrs. Bertini. May I come in?”

  Behind Henry, a door opened slightly. He needed no eyes in the back of his head to sense an inquisitive neighbor.

  “Come on in then, if you must,” said Mrs. Bertini. She almost dragged him into the apartment, and slammed the door behind him. In the narrow hallway, she confronted him. “I’ve never had a greyhound. You must be off your rocker.”

  “You’re too modest, Mrs. Bertini,” said Henry. “Marlene’s Fancy is becoming quite a well-known racer. Since that first win of hers at Doblington last June, she’s gone from strength to strength. A champion in the making, I’d say. You must be very proud of her.”

  Mrs. Bertini looked at him for a long moment, her face betraying a mixture of fear and hatred. Then she said, “Marlene’s Fancy isn’t mine. Never has been.”

  “How very strange,” Henry said. “She’s entered in the NGRC registration book as belonging to you.”

  “I don’t know nothing about it. Larry brought some papers and said I should sign them. I’ve never even seen the wretched dog. You can’t call that owning it.”

  “What you are saying, then, is that your late son-in-law, Larry Lawson, was the substantive owner of the bitch; and that he registered her in your name for some reason of his own. Is that right?”

  “Cross my heart, I never set eyes on—”

  “All right, Mrs. Bertini. I can well believe that. Could we perhaps go into the sitting room and talk about this?”

  “I suppose so.” Grudgingly, Mrs. Bertini led the way. From among the Chianti bottles and raffia fruit, her late husband surveyed the scene with Latin disdain, staring arrogantly from his silver photograph frame. The whole apartment was permeated by the delicious aroma of tomato, olive oil, and garlic that Henry remembered from his previous visit. He sat down on the sofa, and said, “And where is Marlene’s Fancy now, Mrs. Bertini?”

  “How should I know?”

  “What happened to the greyhound after your son-in-law’s death?”

  Mrs. Bertini glanced nervously toward the door. “I don’t know. Marlene’s due home soon. Better ask her.”

  “Are you still the registered owner, Mrs. Bertini?”

  “I tell you, I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Marlene.”

  “Has anybody brought you any forms or letters to sign—to do with the greyhound, that is—since Larry Lawson’s death?” Henry persisted.

  “No. That I do know.” Mrs. Bertini seemed relieved to be able to answer at least one question positively. “I’ve signed nothing. You can’t say I have.”

  “I’m not trying to, Mrs. Bertini.” From the hall outside, Henry heard a door open and close softly. He went on, “I’m simply trying to find out what happened to Marlene’s Fancy—where she is and who owns her now.”

  Before Mrs. Bertini could answer—and indeed, she showed no signs of wanting to—the door of the sitting room was thrown open and Marlene Lawson walked in. “We sold her,” she said, loudly.

  Henry looked u
p, slowly. Marlene’s handsome, tanned face was flushed, and her eyes sparkled—but whether from anger or excitement, Henry could not be sure. He said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lawson. I think you must have overheard my question to your mother.”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “By ‘we,’ ” Henry went on, “you mean—?”

  “Mum and me. We sold her. We didn’t want nothing more to do with her.”

  “To whom did you sell her, Mrs. Lawson?”

  Marlene hesitated. Then she said, “I don’t know. I gave her to a friend to sell for me.”

  “For Mrs. Bertini, you mean.”

  “Comes to the same thing.”

  “Who was this friend?”

  “None of your bloody business,” Marlene snapped.

  “Now, Marlene—” Mrs. Bertini, deeply distressed, tried to intervene, but Marlene cut her short.

  “Leave this to me, Mum.” She wheeled back to face Henry. “Now get this. I gave the bitch to a friend to sell, and I know he sold her, because he gave me the money.”

  “How much?”

  “None of your business. That’s all I’m telling you, because it’s all I know.”

  “Has the change of ownership been registered with the NGRC?”

  “You’d better ask them, hadn’t you?”

  “As a matter of fact, I have,” said Henry.

  “Then why ask me?”

  “And when did this sale take place?”

  “Weeks ago. Right after Larry was killed. What would Mum and me want with a greyhound? We’d never even seen it, had we, Mum?”

  “No, we hadn’t. I told the superintendent. It was nothing to do with us.” Mrs. Bertini was vehement and near tears.

  “Who trained Marlene’s Fancy?”

  “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “And where was the greyhound normally kept?”

  A tiny hesitation. Then Marlene said, “Some friends of Larry’s had a kennels. Up north. Don’t even know their name.”

  “In that case,” said Henry, “how did you manage to give the dog to this friend of yours, if you didn’t even know where to find her?”

  For a moment, Marlene seemed stumped for an answer. Then she said, “I simply gave him a letter saying he was authorized to take the dog and sell her. He knew where she was kept.”