The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  Hawthorn glanced at his watch. “Eleven forty-nine, sir.”

  “So late? Let’s just hope it wasn’t tonight.”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “No—come to think of it, it couldn’t have been. But it’ll have to be tomorrow. Forty-eight hours. All right, Hawthorn, get to that phone. And when you’ve talked to Sergeant Reynolds, ring Gorsemere 387 and speak to my wife. Tell her I’m OK and ask her to get her sister to drive her up here at once. I’ve got to get out of this place.”

  The door had opened, and the colored nurse reappeared, her resemblance to Nanny now very marked. “I heard that,” she said tartly. “Your wife may certainly visit you, but there is no question of your going home. And you—” to P.C. Hawthorn—“your five minutes is up.” She took the constable’s arm and led him firmly toward the door, at the same time saying in a lowered but audible voice, “Have you found out who he is?”

  “Oh, yes, nurse. We know him. He’s—”

  “—known to the police, is he? Well, let me tell you that so long as he’s in here, he’s a patient like any other, and I won’t have him bothered with questions or charges or—”

  Their heads came together as Hawthorn, pink to the ears, evidently disclosed Henry’s true identity in an indignant whisper.

  The door was closing behind them as Henry heard the nurse saying, “Oh, he is, is he? Well, he could be the prime minister for all I care, he’s staying here until the doctor says—” The door clicked shut. Henry lay back and closed his eyes. The interview had exhausted him more than he liked to admit, even to himself.

  ***

  At midnight, Jane said, “Emmy, darling, I do think you ought to go to bed and try to get some sleep. There’s really nothing else we can do. The sergeant at Scotland Yard said he’d let us know if there was any news.”

  Bill Spence, who had fallen asleep in his big armchair, with his spectacles awry and his newspaper on his chest, stirred, grunted, and sat up. “Must have dropped off. What time—goodness me, it’s midnight. No sign of Henry?”

  “No,” said Emmy.

  “Well, I daresay he knows what he’s up to. I’ll be off to bed. Coming, Jane?”

  The sisters exchanged a quick look, and Emmy said, “Yes, I think we should all go to bed. There’s no sense in waiting up.”

  Emmy had just undressed and was sitting on the bed wondering how best to pass the sleepless hours when the telephone rang. Seizing her dressing gown, she hurtled out of her room and down the stairs, dead-heating to the telephone with Jane, who had remained in the kitchen to finish some late-night task. Jane stood back. “It must be,” she said. “You take it.”

  “Hello…yes…speaking…oh, thank heavens…where is he?… In the hospital? Oh, my God, is he?… Oh. Oh, good. Yes, I see… What happened?… No, of course you can’t, I quite understand… Which hospital?… Coombefields? Where’s that?… Oh, yes…yes, I know…he said what?… Now, this minute?… Well, I don’t know if I… I’ll ask her, but…what do the doctors say?… They do, do they? I might have known it… will you be seeing him again?… Oh, I see…well, if you can get a message through, tell him I’ll be there at about…” Emmy glanced at the grandfather clock which ticked ponderously in the hallway…“between a quarter-and half-past one, with any luck…but tell him I don’t promise anything…yes…yes… thank you very much, Mr. Hawthorn…yes, we were rather… good-bye…”

  Emmy put down the receiver and Jane said, “Well?”

  “He’s in Coombefields General Hospital,” said Emmy. “He’s been shot.”

  “Oh, Emmy. How is he? What happened?”

  Emmy gave an exasperated sigh. “He was shot in a fight. That’s all I could get out of the policeman who called. As for how he is—he’s ill enough for the doctors to say he’s got to stay in hospital, and well enough for him to say that I’ve got to go and get him out.”

  “What—now? In the middle of the night?”

  “That was the message. Actually, he asked if you would drive me to the hospital. Will you, Jane?”

  Jane hesitated. “I don’t know what to say,” she said. “It sounds crazy.”

  “Of course it’s crazy,” said Emmy, “but if Henry feels so strongly about it, my guess is that it’s important.”

  At the top of the stairs, Bill Spence appeared, yawning massively and tying the cord of his ancient dressing gown. “Thought I heard the phone…”

  Before Emmy could reply, Jane said decisively, “It was the police, darling. Henry’s had an accident, and is in hospital at Coombefields.”

  “Sorry to hear that. Is he—?”

  “He’s not in any danger,” said Jane, “but the hospital would like Emmy to go there at once. So I’m going to drive her.”

  “But—” Emmy began.

  Jane winked at her sister. “Go and get some clothes on, Emmy, and we’ll be off. You may as well go back to bed, Bill. We’ll be home for breakfast.”

  “Well, for heaven’s sake be careful. Don’t want you ending up in hospital, too.” Bill yawned again, and shambled back to his room.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  THE HOSPITAL LOOKED very large, dark, and forbidding. The bulky Victorian building stood on a tree-lined suburban road, and as Jane slowed the car down, the whole massive building seemed to be asleep. However, as they drew nearer, Emmy saw that some windows were dimly lit from within, and over one door a small electric light illuminated a sign with one word—“Emergencies.”

  “I suppose this must be the entrance we want,” said Jane. “We’re certainly an emergency.” She parked the car by the curb, under a street lamp. “Shall I wait here, or come in with you?”

  “Oh, come in, please. I just hope they’ll let us see him.”

  In the stark, tiled hallway, an elderly porter was dozing behind his desk. He sat up with a jerk at the sound of the door, and glared suspiciously at the two women. Emmy said, “My name is Mrs. Tibbett. My husband was brought in this evening, after an accident. I’d like to see him, please.”

  The porter blinked at her, and then proceeded very slowly and deliberately to sort through some papers on his desk. At last he found what he was looking for. He adjusted his glasses and studied the pink, official-looking form. Then he said, “What was the name again?”

  “Tibbett. Mrs. Henry Tibbett.”

  “Got any means of identification on you, madam?”

  Surprised, Emmy said, “Yes. Here’s my driving license.” The porter studied the document solemnly, then handed it back and said, “Room 319. Third floor, turn right out of the lift and it’s on your left.”

  “Thank you so much,” said Emmy. “Come on, Jane. We’ll—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute.” The porter raised his hand. “Mrs. Tibbett only.”

  “But this is my sister. She drove me up from the country—”

  “Your sister, madam? Well, in that case…she can go up with you, but don’t blame me if she’s not allowed to see Mr. Tibbett.” And, having divested himself of responsibility, the porter returned to his desk.

  Half an hour later, the man who had been watching the hospital entrance ever since Henry’s arrival in the ambulance was in a nearby public telephone box, making his report.

  “Well, they’ve been and gone…yes, two of them…must have been her sister, I reckon…yes, the car number checked with our info from Gorsemere…they got here at twenty past one…parked outside Emergencies, both went in…came out again at ten to two, and by the look of them I’d say things was going our way, all right…well, what I mean, the wife was all upset, weeping and so on…quite chirpy she was going in, too…left it to her sister to do the driving home, such a state she was in… I reckon the busy’s in a bad way…” The man in the telephone booth sniggered unpleasantly. “Cal Smith’s not half going to cop it this time, shooting a copper to death. I can hardly wait…no, of course I didn’t mean…what d’you think I’d do, shoot my bloody mouth off?… I’ll tell you where I’m going, and that’s home for a bit of
a zizz…yeah, I know…I’ll be there…” He hung up, and pushed open the door of the telephone box. A passerby, had there been one, might have heard him mutter to himself the words, “Bloody women…”

  ***

  The porter at the Emergency Door was really quite distressed. Such a nice lady, she’d seemed—couldn’t have had any idea how bad the Tibbett character was. The porter had seen him being brought in on a stretcher, unconscious…but that didn’t always mean it was a serious case. Must be, though, for a sensible lady like that to leave in floods of tears, with her coat just thrown anyhow over her shoulders and leaning on her sister’s arm like she could hardly walk. Staggering, almost, she was. For a moment, the porter harbored an unworthy suspicion—but he put it aside at once. She’d been as right as rain when she arrived, certainly hadn’t been drinking. Maybe the doctor had given her a slug of brandy to help her pull herself together, and being a lady unaccustomed to strong drink… The porter shook his head sadly, and went back into his cubbyhole to await the next emergency.

  ***

  Bill Spence had slept only fitfully since the departure of his wife and sister-in-law. He was fond of Emmy, always had been, and he got on well with Henry. He was sorry the poor chap had had an accident. All the same, Bill’s conservative soul resented the fact that Jane should be involved in these goings-on. He remembered only too vividly the night, some years ago, when he and Jane had sat up, gray with anxiety, in the Tibbetts’ London apartment, waiting for news of their daughter. Oh, he knew it had been Veronica’s own fault—she had insisted on indulging in some amateur sleuthing, against her Uncle Henry’s express instructions, and had nearly got herself murdered as a consequence. He could not blame Henry. Nevertheless, lying there in the empty house, Bill remembered, and resented, and worried.

  Twice during his sleepless hours, cars passed up Cherry Tree Drive—the sound of their engines raising his hopes, only to dampen them again as they roared past the house and faded into the distance. The third car, however, stopped. The engine was switched off, and Bill heard the sound of doors opening. He was out of bed in a flash, and pulling back the curtains to look down from his bedroom window onto the path which led to the front gate; and what he saw made his heart turn over.

  Emmy was walking slowly up the path, supporting Jane. The latter was leaning heavily on her sister, and walking uncertainly and with difficulty, as if in pain. Her head was bowed and covered by a scarf, but Bill could see the glint of her golden hair drawn into its usual chignon; he could also see that she was holding a handkerchief to her eyes.

  Bill took the stairs in a couple of flying leaps, and had the front door open before the two women reached it.

  “Jane…!” he shouted, and then stopped dead. There was something extraordinary about Jane. Something altogether strange and wrong and…and then the two of them were inside the lighted hallway, the handkerchief was removed and the door slammed shut, and Bill found himself confronted by a transvestite brother-in-law.

  “Henry! In the name of all that’s holy, what on earth—?” In his surprise, Bill stepped backward, tripped, and found himself unexpectedly sitting on the bottom step of the stairs, gaping.

  “It’s quite all right, Bill,” said Emmy. “Henry just borrowed Jane’s clothes, you see—”

  “And where’s Jane, if I may ask?”

  “Jane’s in the hospital—”

  Bill let out a bellow of fury and despair. “I knew it! I knew there’d be an accident! I told you to be careful—”

  “There’s nothing the matter with Jane,” Emmy reassured him.

  “Then what in heaven’s name is she doing in the hospital? Have you all taken leave of your senses?”

  “If nobody minds,” said Henry, “I’m going to take off these hell-inspired shoes. I don’t know how I made it up the path.”

  “Poor Henry,” said Emmy sympathetically. “Lucky Jane’s got largish feet, but they were a tight squeeze.”

  “Even if they’d fitted, how you women contrive to walk on these goddamned stilts—” Henry kicked off the offending shoes with a force which sent them flying across the hall. “And if you’d take this coat off me, darling—”

  As Emmy slipped Jane’s coat from Henry’s shoulders, Bill said, almost accusingly, “You’re hurt. Your arm. It’s you should be in the hospital.”

  “That’s right,” Henry agreed cheerfully. “And so, to all intents and purposes, I am. You will read in your newspaper tomorrow that I have been seriously injured in a gunfight with a criminal, who is now in custody; that I am still unconscious, in critical condition, and that it is unlikely I shall recover. The hospital will issue more bulletins, each more gloomy than the last. Meanwhile, Jane has very kindly lent me her clothes—it’s lucky she’s tall, and was wearing a blouse and skirt. I don’t think I’d ever have fitted into a dress. And by great good luck, my nurse remembered that one of the staff sisters had a false blonde chignon, which she borrowed for me. It looked quite convincing under the head scarf, didn’t it? Jane’s staying at the hospital tonight, and tomorrow she’ll borrow some clothes from one of the nurses and come home by train. I’m sorry, Bill, but there was no other way of getting out of that hospital without being spotted. The place was certainly being watched, and there may well be somebody keeping an eye on this house. That’s why I had to keep up the charade, right to the front door.”

  Bill shook his head in resignation. “Mad,” he said. “Stark, raving mad, the lot of you.” He looked at Henry and winced. “I wish you’d change out of those clothes. You give me the creeps. For heaven’s sake, go to bed.”

  “Sorry,” said Henry. “I can’t just yet. There’s work to be done.”

  “Work? Do you realize it’s nearly three in the morning?”

  “I do indeed. That’s why the sooner I get on to Sergeant Reynolds at the Yard, the sooner we can all get some sleep. Mind if I use the phone?”

  “I’m past caring what you do,” said Bill. “Speaking for myself, I’m going to have a stiff drink. I’ve had a considerable shock.” And he made his way to the drinks cupboard, averting his eyes as he went from the sight of his brother-in-law. Henry, his blonde chignon slightly awry, his floral silk skirt hitched up comfortably and his nylon-clad legs planted firmly apart, was sitting by the telephone and dialing.

  As Bill poured himself an ample measure of Scotch, it occurred to him that he should perhaps be thankful that it was three o’clock in the morning. At least the Reverend Mr. Thacker was not likely to drop in at this hour for one of his impromptu visits. And yet…if he should do so…picturing the clergyman’s face if confronted by Henry in drag, Bill Spence began to laugh, his good humor quite restored.

  Emmy flopped into an armchair beside him, and Bill hastened to propose that she, too, should take a nightcap.

  “No, bless you. I’m so tired, I just want to sleep, and it might keep me awake.” Then she, too, started to laugh. “It really was awfully funny, Bill. The doctor was marvelous—entered into the spirit of the thing like mad, as soon as he was satisfied that Henry could leave the hospital without risking serious medical complications. We left him gleefully composing a bulletin to issue to the press tomorrow. The Sister was a bit more difficult—have you noticed how junior executive people hate breaking rules? People at the top and the bottom are much less law-abiding. Anyhow, we convinced her in the end. She’s going to spend her time going in and out of the room with intravenous bottles and things, and the domestic staff have been told that Henry is too ill to be disturbed. So with any luck, there’s absolutely nobody except the doctor and the nurse who know that Henry isn’t still in there, very ill and unconscious. Except you and me and Jane, of course.”

  “All very ingenious, I’m sure,” said Bill, dryly. “Worthy of the Boys’ Own Paper. What I don’t understand is—why? Henry’s not some sort of free-lance private detective—he’s a senior officer of the C.I.D. If he gets himself wounded in the course of an investigation, surely all he has to do is pass the facts along
to some other officer, who will take up the case. All this fantastic play-acting—”

  “I know,” said Emmy sympathetically. “And I can’t tell you very much, except that Henry’s main idea is that the criminals should think he’s not only seriously ill but also unconscious, and therefore hasn’t been able to communicate with anybody. He says he knows too much—don’t ask me what—and that if certain people knew he was very much alive and out of the hospital, there’d probably be another murder.”

  “Another? I didn’t know there’d been one yet.”

  “Well, that’s what Henry said in the car. Another murder and the victim would be somebody here in Gorsemere. A friend of yours.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” Bill said flatly. “Who on earth would want to murder somebody here? We’re just a quiet little country village.”

  Emmy shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m only telling you what Henry said. He also said it was tremendously important for all of us to keep up the deception for a day or so.”

  “What deception?”

  “That Henry’s at death’s door and hasn’t recovered consciousness. I’m to creep around looking like death—in fact, I’m to stay indoors most of the time, and you and Jane are to talk in hushed whispers about the family tragedy.” Emmy grinned. “At least,” she’ added, “it’ll probably get us all out of Mr. Thacker’s fearful fête. He can hardly ask a prospective widow to run the Hoop-La.”

  From the hall outside, they could hear Henry talking on the telephone—talking and listening. Phrases and snatches of conversation drifted through the doorway. “Yes, it’s bound to be tomorrow…hard to say, but I’d guess somewhere in the south…that’s right, what they call a flapping track… I suggest you get hold of one of the sporting papers, to begin with—find out where races are being held tomorrow, then get hold of lists of runners, but be absolutely certain nobody knows which dog you’re interested in—no, that’s right, you don’t, do you? All the better, I shan’t tell you—just a complete list of all runners—yes, probably I could, but it’s too risky…call me here tomorrow, and for heaven’s sake remember to go round with a long face, because I’m supposed to be on the danger list… I don’t think that remark was in the best of taste, Sergeant Reynolds—above all, let it be known that I’m still unconscious and you haven’t been allowed to see me…and, by the way, don’t let any fool of a magistrate let Cal Smith out on bail this time—now, I want you to listen very carefully—just a moment…”