The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “A little bird has been whispering,” said Mr. Thacker, rather grimly, “that his stay here is not all pleasure. I understand just a little work is also involved?” He ended on a note of interrogation.

  “I’m afraid your little bird is twittering up the wrong tree, Mr. Thacker,” said Jane firmly.

  “People have been saying,” Thacker went on, undeterred, “that the unfortunate fellow Heathfield ran over was a well-known figure in the underworld. A notorious gambler on the dogs. And of course, now that a greyhound is missing—”

  “Mr. Thacker,” said Jane, “I can’t imagine who has been pulling your leg like that.”

  “My leg?” Thacker’s hand tightened its grip on his knee, as if to assure himself that the limb in question was still intact.

  “All this talk about gamblers and greyhound races,” Jane went on, serenely. “You surely must know that Bella Yateley only gave the dog to Harry because it was no good at all for racing—and my brother-in-law is interested simply because he shares my concern for lost animals. He is an official of the RSPCA, you know.”

  Mr. Thacker gasped a little. “I understood he was an officer of the C.I.D.”

  Jane gave him a withering look. “It is possible to be both,” she said. “As to the poor man who was killed, I believe he was a junior clerk in the Inland Revenue service. Who on earth has been fooling you with all these stories, Mr. Thacker?”

  The clergyman had the grace to smile sheepishly and hang his head. “Oh dear, oh dear,” he said. “I suppose I am somewhat gullible and she always had a mischievous sense of humor. I fear I—”

  “Who?” Jane’s question was so brisk and businesslike that Mr. Thacker apparently found nothing strange in it.

  “Why, Amanda, of course. The naughty little miss. I can see now that she was twitting me.”

  “Well, I hope you haven’t been repeating this talk all over the village, Mr. Thacker,” said Jane, “because if you have, I’m afraid you’re going to look very foolish indeed.”

  “Yes, yes, I quite see that…if I have given any misleading impressions…correct any misapprehensions at once…most grateful to you, Mrs. Spence…” The Reverend Mr. Thacker cleared his throat loudly, and emerged from his confusion in good order. “And now, my dear Mrs. Tibbett, may I come to the point of my visit here this evening? A little bird…that is, I feel sure that you would not deprive us of your talents when it comes to a matter of deathwatch beetles.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Emmy, bewildered. “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “The fête,” said Mr. Thacker, snappishly. “Surely your sister must have told you that our object is to raise money to eradicate deathwatch beetles from the chancel beams?”

  “Well, no. Actually, we haven’t discussed—”

  “And so, Mrs. Tibbett, I feel absolutely confident that you will not turn down my heartfelt appeal to you to preside over the Hoop-La stall next Saturday. Every hoop cast will spell destruction for another beetle, and a square inch of our English heritage preserved for future generations. Now, first you should contact Mrs. Claverton at the White Bull…”

  Emmy wriggled feebly in an attempt at escape, but she knew that she was well and truly corralled and might as well submit with a good grace. Anyhow, Hoop-La didn’t sound too bad, and for the moment she was far more concerned with what had happened to Henry.

  ***

  The darkness retreated minimally as Henry’s eyes grew accustomed to the gloom. He could now make out enough of his surroundings to see that he was in some sort of windowless shed. Around the edges of the locked door crept a faint, pinkish glow, as if the lights of a town were being filtered into his prison, and from some way away he could hear the distant rumble of traffic and the occasional car horn. Henry tried to recall the details of his visit to Sandown Avenue, and the interior of the garden shed. He could not be sure that he was in the same place, but the size and general layout seemed to be the same, and after all, it had been used before by Shorty Bates as a temporary dumping point for livestock. Henry hoped that Nanny was alert and awake next door, and wondered how he could best attract her attention.

  Meanwhile, the important thing was to free his hands. After an agonizingly slow wriggle across the hard floor, he reached the far wall of the shed, where a selection of garden implements stood haphazardly in the corner. It was too dark to identify them, and it seemed an age before Henry located a reasonably sharp edge—apparently the tine of a garden fork. It took the best part of another half hour to maneuver the implement to such a position that it was wedged firmly against the wall, and he was able to chafe the cords on his wrists by rubbing them up and down on the metal edge.

  He was still busily engaged in this task, and had had the gratification of feeling two of the three strands of rope parting, when the key turned in the lock and the door of his prison opened. Instantly, Henry resumed his sack-of-coals impersonation—a procedure which involved slumping forward with his head on the floor, so that he was not able to get any idea of who it was who had opened the door. A feeble ray of light from outside penetrated the shed—and was instantly cut off, as the newcomer slammed the door behind him. Henry, lying still and holding his breath, was surprised. Coming in from the relative lightness of the garden outside, the intruder must now be totally blind inside the darkness of the shed. Why had he slammed the door?

  Henry heard somebody moving around the dark shed, stumbling, feeling his way. Then a man’s voice said, “All right. Where are you? Come on, you ugly brute, I know you’re there. Come on out this minute!”

  With infinite caution, Henry moved his head so that he could look in the newcomer’s direction. His eyes were well accustomed to the darkness, and he made out the man’s figure at once—a tall, lanky fellow wearing a light-colored suit. But… there was something strange. Something wrong. The man had no face, no hands…it was just the glimmering, pale suit which Henry could see groping uncertainly in the gloom. Where the man’s face should have been… And then, suddenly, he realized the explanation. The man’s face and hands were invisible because he was a black man. Henry was not in the garden shed at Sandown Avenue. He was at Parson’s Drive, Wimbledon, and his companion was Cal Smith.

  Henry grinned wryly to himself in the darkness. He had to admire the tactics of Shorty Bates, in dumping a kidnapped police officer on his deadliest rival and enemy. If Henry had indeed been unconscious on his arrival at Parson’s Drive, it would never have occurred to him or to anybody else that he had not been abducted by Cal Smith and the Marsh gang. As he strained desperately to break the last strand of rope binding his hands, it also occurred to him to wonder what had made Cal Smith come out to the shed, and how he could know that somebody was in there. All in all, the man’s behavior was very strange. He was moving round the shed now, feeling the walls, bent low with his questing hands not more than a couple of feet from the ground. Soon, he must inevitably come to the corner where Henry lay.

  At last, the final strand of rope gave way with a small, snapping sound, and Henry rolled over, his hands now free although his feet were still pinioned. The noise attracted Smith’s attention at once. He stiffened, straightened up, and turned toward the source of the sound.

  “All right, all right,” he said. “Come here, I won’t hurt you. Come here, you silly bitch.”

  And Henry understood. He had been mistaken for Lady Griselda.

  ***

  Mr. Thacker drained the last drops of coffee from his cup, wiped the cake crumbs from his lips with a white linen handkerchief, and said, “That was really delicious, Mrs. Spence. A most enjoyable way of combining business with pleasure. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to think that the Hoop-La will be in such capable hands.” He beamed at Emmy. “Well, I really must be off now. It will take me at least ten minutes to bicycle back to the vicarage, and I always like to be safely at home before the Bull closes. Even if the drivers are not drunk, they tend to be careless late at night, and the recent sad accident is in all our minds…that p
oor fellow from the Income Tax, I think you said…?”

  “That’s right,” said Jane blandly. Mr. Thacker’s eyes strayed wistfully toward the coffee tray, but Jane did not take the hint. She stood up.

  “I think you’re very wise, Mr. Thacker,” she said. “If you start now, you should be home before half-past ten.”

  The front door had only just closed behind Mr. Thacker when the telephone rang.

  “Thank God!” Emmy exclaimed. “That must be Henry. I’ll take it.” She made a dive for the instrument. “Hello! Yes… Oh…” Her voice fell. “Yes…just a moment, I’ll get her…no, this is her sister…I was expecting a call…hold on a moment…” She put the receiver down and came back into the drawing room. “For you, Jane. Amanda Bratt-Cunningham.”

  “Oh dear,” said Jane. “I’m sorry, love. Don’t worry, though, I’m sure he’s all right.” She went out into the hall.

  “Jane?” Amanda’s clear young voice floated down the wire. “Terribly sorry to disturb you at this hour…oh, has he? You poor things. Daddy says he was after me, too, but luckily I was out…just got back from town this minute… actually, I was ringing to ask if Simon and Bella were with you, by any chance?… Oh, well, never mind. It was just an idea. There’s no reply from their place, and it seems the dogs have been making one hell of a noise. The neighbors have been ringing Daddy and complaining—nothing to do with him, of course, but people will…it’s a bit odd, because the Yateleys don’t usually go out on Tommy’s night off…oh, well, of course, if old Thacker’s been prowling around, rattling the gates, that’s the explanation…no, I wouldn’t worry, I expect they’ve calmed down by now.” Amanda hesitated a moment, and then said, “Daddy was most frightfully interested to hear I’d met your brother-in-law. I’m afraid, when I first met Emmy, the penny didn’t drop—I mean, that her husband was Chief Superintendent Tibbett of Scotland Yard. Of course, Daddy’s terribly keen on police work, being a J.P. and everything, and he’d love to meet the superintendent. He’s still staying with you, isn’t he? Do you think you and Bill could persuade him to come over here for a drink at lunchtime tomorrow? With you and your sister, of course. Around twelve, say?”

  It occurred to Jane that Amanda was—to her credit—a very bad liar. She was reasonably certain that Sir Arthur Bratt-Cunningham’s interest in Henry Tibbett was minimal, and that he had expressed no desire to make his acquaintance. Either Amanda wanted to see Henry for purposes of her own, or else she was trying to establish his whereabouts—which, in the circumstances, was rather remarkable.

  Jane said, “I think we’d all love to, Amanda, but I’ll have to let you know tomorrow. Henry’s stayed up in town for a reunion dinner, and we’re not expecting him back till later on.”

  “Oh.” Amanda sounded distinctly deflated. “Well…please do ask him and let me know in the morning. Tell him we’ll give him the hair of the dog,” she added, with a nervous little laugh.

  “I expect he’ll need it,” said Jane.

  ***

  Men in Henry Tibbett’s position are supposed to think on their feet. This, Henry decided, was not easy when you were lying on your side in pitch darkness, and it was obvious that a dangerous and probably armed man was going to trip over you before you could free the hobbling cords around your ankles. Nevertheless, his brain was ticking over at full speed, assessing the situation.

  First, did Bates and his accomplice know that Cal Smith had been released on bail? Almost certainly not, for the news had only been telephoned through to Sergeant Reynolds at the Yard a matter of minutes before Henry started his journey to Gorsemere—by which time, the ambush was already being prepared at Gorsemere Halt. Bates must have a key to the Parson’s Drive garden shed—an interesting point—and he had decided to dump Henry into cold storage, because he imagined the property to be deserted. This gave rise to several unpleasant lines of thought.

  Meanwhile, Cal Smith had left a greyhound bitch locked in his shed when he went to Runworth Stadium with his chief, Dicky Marsh, just a week ago. Granted that she had been left a good supply of food and water, Cal might reasonably expect to find her still alive, even if debilitated. That, of course, was why he had slammed the shed door behind him, and then proceeded to grope around near floor level. He wanted to stop her from escaping, but really expected to find her lying weak and exhausted on the floor.

  So far, so good. Now, the crucial question. What would Cal’s reaction be on discovering not a dog but a bound man in his shed? He did not know Henry personally, so it was unlikely that he would identify his unexpected visitor as a member of the C.I.D.; and a man who was trussed and thrown into a locked shed was hardly likely to be on an offensive mission. Fleetingly, Henry regretted having freed his hands. Conversely, on finding a man instead of a dog, Smith’s reaction might well be to shoot first and ask questions afterward.

  In this situation, with less than a couple of seconds to go, Henry made up his mind. He let out a low and—he hoped—painful groan.

  The other man stopped dead and stood, like a statue. Henry moaned again. Smith was now so close that Henry could see the gleam of his eyes in the invisible blackness of his face. In a terrified whisper, and with a marked West Indian accent, Smith said, “Who’s that? Whar are yo’, man? Whad’yo doin’ heah?”

  Henry could have told him the answers to most of these questions, but instead he groaned again, this time making the sound more surely human. Then he muttered, “Where am I? What’s happening?”

  Cal Smith seemed no more inclined to answer questions than Henry was. In reply to these queries, he bolted out of the shed as if an army of demons had been at his heels, slamming and locking the door behind him.

  Henry sat up, and began working on his ankle ropes again. At least Smith had not immediately fired in the direction of the voice—though whether from prudence, humanity, or the mere fact that he had no gun with him, it was impossible to say. His abrupt departure at least gave Henry time to rid himself of his final bonds—but he had to face the fact that he had no weapon handy except a garden fork—whereas Cal Smith would certainly return with a powerful flashlight and a gun.

  On the other hand, the West Indian would have to unlock and open the door, thus presenting himself as a good target. Henry was reminded of the contest between the gladiator and the retiarius. Who had the greater advantage—the man with the conventional weapon, or the man with the net and trident? For his trident, Henry had the garden fork, which he held hidden behind his back, grasped firmly in his right hand; for his net—nothing but an insubstantial mesh of honeyed words, which he might never even get the chance to throw out. In the silence of the dark shed, Henry waited.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IT MUST HAVE been about five minutes later that Henry saw, through the cracks around the shed door, the beam of the powerful torch approaching from the direction of the house. Then he caught the sound of footsteps on a graveled path. He braced himself, waiting for the next expected sound—the turning of the key in the lock. This did not come. Instead, there was a moment of absolute silence, and then a shocking, deafening report as a gun went off. The door flew open, and Henry found himself facing a dazzling spotlight, whose brilliance quite obliterated the figure behind it. Then another shot tore up the packed earth floor in front of Henry’s feet, and the bullet ricocheted off to rip a hole in the wooden sidewall of the shed.

  From behind the light, a soft voice said, “That was jus’ to show yo’ I’m serious. Whar’s the dawg?”

  In as light a tone as he could manage, Henry said, “Mr. Smith, I presume?”

  “I don’t want none of yo’ talkin’. Whar’s the dawg?”

  “I imagine,” said Henry, “that Mr. Bates has her.”

  “What you imagines or don’t imagine don’t rate. I want facts. Whar is she?”

  Henry said, “Aren’t you interested to know who I am?”

  “Who yo’ are don’t rate neither. Yo’ll tell me whar the hound is, and then—yo’ won’t be worryin’ who yo’
are, brother.” Smith chuckled. “All I care is, yo’se a Lawson man. And there’s only one good place fo’ a Lawson man, and that’s whar Lawson is.”

  “And Marsh,” Henry said.

  “What’s that? What yo’ said?”

  “Marsh died in hospital this afternoon.”

  “Yo’ liar!”

  “It’s perfectly true, I assure you. You’re on your own now, Smith.”

  There was a tiny pause, and then Smith said contemptuously, “An’ how come yo’ know so much? If Red Dicky done died, the fuzz wouldn’t go publicizing the fact to a small-time no-account dawg stealer.”

  “I’m glad that point occurred to you,” Henry said, as cheerfully as he could, “because it so happens I’m not a dog stealer. I’m an officer of the C.I.D., and I’m conducting an investigation.”

  Smith laughed, without amusement. “And I’m the Queen of England. Yo’ needn’t think to save yo’ dirty skin with that sort of story. Yo’se no busy.”

  “I can’t stop you shooting me now,” Henry agreed, “but I can assure you you’ll regret it. My men know where I am, and they’ll be arriving at any moment.” If only that were true, he thought. In fact, only two people knew where he was—Shorty Bates and his small, lightweight companion—and they were certainly not going to come back and rescue him.

  Smith stretched out a lanky leg behind him, and pulled the shed door shut. Both torch beam and gun remained trained on Henry. Smith leaned back against the door, apparently relaxed and yet as tense as a spring.

  “OK,” he said. “Let’s have it. Whar’s the hound? I’ll count to ten, and then I shoot.”

  ***

  The duty sergeant at Wimbledon Police Station picked up the ringing telephone. “Police here…yes, madam, this is the duty officer…oh…” He looked at the young constable who sat at the other desk, winked, and gave a huge and fortunately inaudible shrug and sigh. Then he picked up a pencil and pulled a memo pad toward him. “Yes, Mrs. Rundle-Webster…no, Mrs. Rundle-Webster…how long ago, Mrs. Rundle-Webster?… Just a few moments…I see…you don’t think it could have been a car backfiring?… Well, cars do sometimes backfire twice, you know, madam… No, Mrs. Rundle-Webster, I didn’t mean to imply…I’m sure you know the difference, but all the same…well, Parson’s Drive is not exactly the sort of place…you’ve heard nothing since? No shouts or footsteps or…yes, yes, I’m sure you would, Mrs. Rundle-Webster…oh, really? How long ago was that?… About half an hour… You’re sure it was the same one?… No, no, madam, I simply meant that there are a lot of small vans about…you didn’t notice the registration number?…I see… A taxi? Just a few minutes ago?…well, that would probably be the owner returning…ah, you recognized him?…yes, I quite understand you are worried…naturally we’ll make enquiries, madam…of course we take you seriously…” A long pause, during which the duty sergeant indulged in much eye rolling and sign talk with his companion. At length, seizing the opportunity of breaking the flow, he said, “Now, madam, please don’t misunderstand…duty of every citizen, I quite agree…no, please don’t hesitate…yes, we’ll investigate right away…yes, I should do that, madam…yes, a hot water bottle is a great comfort…good night, Mrs. Rundle-Webster…”