The Curious Affair of the Third Dog

by Patricia Moyes

  “Who’s what?” Jane swiveled round on her stool.

  “Those two men who’ve just come in—the thin fair chap and the big red-faced man.”

  “What about them?”

  “They’re the two who gave evidence at Heathfield’s trial. I remember them from the committal proceedings. The red-faced fellow is the London publican whose car was pinched.”

  “What’s that?” Simon Yateley suspended his discussion with Bella and turned to stare at the newcomers, who had emerged from the restaurant and were now installed in ringside seats, studying their racecards.

  “So those are the villains of the piece, are they? According to Jane, anyway. They look pretty harmless to me.”

  “All the same,” Bella remarked, “isn’t it a bit odd that they should turn up here on the very evening that Griselda’s running?”

  Simon shrugged. “Just coincidence, I expect. After all, several thousand other people have also turned up, and if they’re in the habit of making evening excursions to the country…” He looked at his watch. “Come on, drink up, love. And you too, Jane, if you don’t mind. Time we were off to find Griselda.”

  As he spoke, the lights in the gallery dimmed, throwing the illuminated track into even greater prominence, and an amplified voice announced the imminent start of the first race. Within seconds, the bar was deserted as people made their way toward the plate-glass window to watch the race. Struggling against the tide of humanity which was surging toward the best vantage points, Bill and Jane followed the Yateleys with some difficulty, occasionally colliding with another racegoer intent on finding a seat near the front. On one such encounter, Jane found herself entangled with a tall, slim female in corduroy pants and a white silk shirt, who was heading determinedly toward the window.

  “So sorry,” Jane muttered, “we’re just trying—” And then, with a gasp of amazement, “Amanda! What on earth are you doing here?”

  Amanda Bratt-Cunningham looked equally taken aback. “Jane! I didn’t know you were interested in the dogs.”

  “I’m not, really,” Jane admitted. “Simon and Bella brought us. Emmy’s gone off to the hospital to see Henry, and they thought an evening out would cheer us up.”

  “Oh, I see.” Amanda sounded relieved. “Well, you’re going the wrong way. You won’t see anything of the first race unless you get nearer the window. Come with me.”

  Jane could see, glimpsed through the crowd, the bobbing heads of the Yateleys and Bill getting steadily further away, as they made for the stairway. She said, “Terribly sorry, Amanda…for some reason, Simon wants to watch from down below…must go…”

  Amanda seemed about to protest, when a voice from behind her said, “Why, if it isn’t young Amanda! All alone, are you? Come and sit with us—” And Jane recognized the fair man whom Bill had pointed out as a witness at the Heathfield trial.

  Amanda wheeled round. “Oh, hello, Bertie.” She sounded less than enthusiastic. “All right. See you later, Jane.”

  “You’ve met old George Weatherby, haven’t you…” The voices were lost as Albert Pennington steered Amanda toward the front row of seats. In the hush of expectation which preceded the start of the race, Jane slipped quietly through the outer fringes of the crowd to join Bill and the Yateleys, and the four of them started down the concrete stairs at the exact moment when a roar of excitement told them that the greyhounds were off.

  It was quickly obvious that the Yateleys were well accustomed to stadium geography. Even though it was their first visit to Bunstead, they seemed to know by instinct which passage to follow, and which door—inevitably marked “No Admittance”—to go through. Several times they were challenged by white-coated officials. Each time, they identified themselves as trainers, and asked to see the racecourse manager. At last, they found themselves outside a door which, in addition to the usual “No Admittance” sign, bore a neat plaque reading “Racecourse Manager.” Simon knocked briefly on the door and then walked in without waiting for an answer.

  It was a small office, and at the cluttered desk sat a small, balding man, who said, without looking up, “Go away.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Simon. “Pat Murphy, or I’m a Dutchman!”

  At this, the small man looked up, whipped off his reading glasses, and exclaimed, “Simon Yateley! And Bella!”

  In the warm reunion which followed, it emerged that this Pat Murphy had known the Yateleys some years ago, when he had been assistant manager at some other track. He abruptly ceased to be too busy to be interrupted.

  “Well, it certainly is good to see you both again. I was wondering if you’d be along tonight—I see you’ve a bitch running in the 8:30. Plenty of time to have a quick drink and then watch her run.”

  “Maybe later on, Pat,” Simon said, “but for the moment, I’m afraid I’m here on business.”

  “Well, of course you are, but no harm in mixing it with a little pleasure, surely?”

  “You don’t understand, Pat. Our business is to do with that bitch in the 8:30, and I’m afraid it’s all rather unpleasant.”

  After a split second of silence, Murphy’s Irish temper flared like a petroleum flame. “Now, I’ll have none of that, from you or anyone else, Simon Yateley! If you think this place isn’t properly and honestly run, you’ve another think coming, and I’m the one to give it to you. We may be technically a flapping track, but by God this place is run right, and run straight, and it’s going to be registered very soon—”

  “Keep your hair on, Pat,” said Simon—not, perhaps, very tactfully. “I’m not accusing you personally of anything.”

  “You’re making insinuations—” shouted Murphy, and was off again.

  It took some time to calm him down, but in the end Bella and Simon between them managed to convince Mr. Murphy that there was a strong suspicion that the said bitch had been stolen from her rightful owner, and that they, the Yateleys, having bred and trained her, would be able to identify her positively. Jane, they explained, was a witness to the fact that the greyhound had been reported missing.

  Resignedly, Murphy agreed that they had all better go and take a look at Lady Griselda, to identify her positively. Then, after the race, the villains who had entered her would come to collect her, and could be apprehended.

  “There are always plenty of bobbies about, as you know,” Murphy added. “On the lookout for pickpockets and so on. I don’t mind telling you, I’m unhappy about the whole thing. An affair like this could get the stadium a bad name, even though it’s not our fault. Still, there’s nothing I can do but cooperate.”

  He sorted out Lady Griselda’s identity card from the pile on his desk, and led the way to the locked door which separated the kennels from the rest of the building. Here it was obvious that security was extremely strict, and the Yateleys and Spences got a number of suspicious looks from track officials, even though they were now escorted not only by Mr. Murphy, but also by the paddock steward—the man whose responsibility it was to see that each greyhound was housed in its correct kennel while waiting to race, and in its correct trap for the actual start. The paddock steward consulted a typed list, and directed the party toward a kennel on the far side of the big enclosure.

  Suddenly, Bella grasped Simon’s arm. “Look! There she is! I can see her!”

  She broke into a run, and by the time the others arrived she was on her knees beside the kennel, calling, “Griselda! Griselda, girl!”

  The greyhound bitch, who seemed extremely placid and unexcited by the whole procedure, was taking her ease, stretched out with her back to the bars. At the sound of Bella’s voice, she reacted by no more than a faint twitch of the ears, indicating mild annoyance at having her nap disturbed. Then, reluctantly, she heaved herself into a sitting position and turned to locate the source of the nuisance. For a long moment, Bella and the greyhound stared at each other through the bars.

  Murphy said, “Well?”

  Slowly, Bella sat back on her heels, and shook her head. “I
just don’t understand,” she said.

  “What do you mean, Bella?” Simon’s voice was sharp.

  “She’s the same color and size…identical markings…but that’s not Griselda.”

  ***

  It was shortly before the start of the second race at eight o’clock that an announcement came over the loudspeakers, reaching every part of the great building.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention please? Will the owner of the bitch Lady Griselda, or his representative, come to the Racecourse Manager’s office at once? I’ll repeat that. Will the owner of Lady Griselda, entered for the 8:30 race, kindly come to the Racecourse Manager’s office?”

  Mrs. Bertini and Marlene Lawson were in the snack bar eating hot dogs when the announcement was made. Mrs. Bertini dropped her sausage as if it had bitten her, and jumped up.

  “Oh, my Gawd! I knew there’d be trouble—”

  In a furious whisper, Marlene hissed, “Don’t be silly, Mum. Sit down and pull yourself together.”

  “But Marlene—”

  “It was always on the cards there might be trouble. She warned us, didn’t she? Now you know what you have to do. Just go quietly and slowly to the ladies’ room and stay there. Say you’ve got a headache or something. Then when the next race is on and nobody will notice, come down to the car park. You remember where the car is?”

  “I don’t remember nothing, I’m that upset,” said Mrs. Bertini, with a sniff. “I think I ought to go and—”

  “You’ll do as you’re told. The car’s in number 2 Park, Row G. Got that?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Tell me, then. Where’s the car?”

  “Number 2 Park, Row G—if you say so.”

  “Right. Now, off you go to the ladies’, and when you hear the start announced over the speakers, you come to the car. I’ll be waiting. OK?”

  With a bad grace, Mrs. Bertini got up from the table and headed for the door marked “Ladies.” Marlene watched her go impatiently, then got up herself and made her way unconcernedly down to the 10p enclosure. Since she had not habitually shared in her husband’s criminal activities, she was not even aware of the fact that she was being followed; and had she been, she would not have been able to identify her shadow as Sergeant Reynolds, for she had never met him. Nevertheless, Reynolds took more than usually careful precautions not to be spotted, for he had a shrewd idea of whom Marlene was going to meet, and Shorty Bates was an old acquaintance of his.

  Amanda Bratt-Cunningham heard the announcement as she sat in the front row of seats upstairs, chatting to Albert Pennington and George Weatherby, who were seated on either side of her. The conversation came to an abrupt halt as all three listened to the message. When it ended, Albert Pennington stood up, without haste, and said, “Excuse me, my dear. I think there may have been some stupid sort of confusion that I can help to sort out.” He and Major Weatherby exchanged the briefest of understanding glances. Then Pennington, too, made his way to the stairs.

  Amanda turned to Weatherby. “What’s all this about?” she demanded. She sounded nervous.

  Weatherby grinned in what he imagined to be a reassuring manner. “About? My dear young lady, what should it be about? Just some incompetent official getting things muddled up, I suppose, as Albert said. No concern of yours or mine, I’m sure.”

  “But Lady Griselda…” Amanda began, and then stopped. She bit her lip. “I wonder where Simon and Bella are?” she added.

  “Simon and Bella?”

  “Friends of mine. I’m told they’re here tonight. I think I’ll go and—”

  “Now, now, now, no need to panic.” Weatherby’s voice was smooth, but the hand which he laid on Amanda’s arm was very firm. “Albert will be back in a moment. Now, what d’you fancy for the eight o’clock, eh?”

  “I…I really don’t know. I haven’t looked at the card. Major Weatherby, I really think I’ll go and look for…”

  Amanda, appearing definitely nervous now, began to rise from her seat, but Weatherby was between her and the aisle, and he showed no signs of budging. In fact, he was leaning forward to study his racecard, and short of climbing over him—or over the back of the seat—there was no way out.

  He said, “Merry Mick is supposed to be a good runner. But I see Albert’s marked Storm Signal. Better take his advice, I reckon—that boy knows a thing or two.”

  “Major Weatherby…if you don’t mind…”

  “Or there’s Miss Mischief. I rather fancy her, myself.” George Weatherby settled his considerable bulk even more firmly in his seat, barring her way out.

  “Please…I’m sorry to disturb you…if you don’t mind…”

  It was at that moment that a voice behind Amanda said, “Excuse me, miss…sir…would you be Miss Amanda Bratt-Cunningham?”

  “That’s right.” Amanda turned to see a small man standing in the empty row of seats behind her. Pinned to the lapel of his suit was a badge with the word “Steward” printed on it.

  “Sorry to bother you, miss,” he went on, “but Mrs. Bella Yateley asked me if I’d come and fetch you.”

  “Fetch me?”

  “That’s right. She and Mr. Yateley are in the Racecourse Manager’s office—something about the bitch called Lady Griselda. Mrs. Yateley thinks you can help, and wonders if you’d be kind enough—”

  “Of course. I’ll be delighted. I was going to look for her anyhow.” Amanda beamed at the steward, and then said, with an air of triumph, “So, Major Weatherby, if you don’t mind—”

  “Not at all, not at all. Going to place my bets anyway—have to get them on pretty damn quick, they’ll be off in a minute.” Weatherby heaved himself to his feet and preceded Amanda down the aisle. “Shall I put a bit on for you, my dear?”

  “Oh…no…no, thank you very much…”

  “As you wish. I expect you’re right. If you don’t know a really good thing, hang on to your money.” With which words of wisdom, Major George Weatherby lumbered off toward the bookmakers’ windows.

  “This way, miss.” The steward led Amanda downstairs. “I’ll go first, shall I? It’s a bit tricky to find the way—”

  Amanda and her escort had just reached the lowest level of the stadium when the lights were dimmed and the start of the race announced. A surge of humanity, larger, tougher, and less mannerly than the patrons of the 50p lounge, swirled toward the track. In a momentary panic, Amanda lost sight of her guide in the darkness of the milling crowd. For a moment, she caught a reassuring glimpse of a blue-helmeted policeman—one of the anti-pickpocket patrol. She had begun to fight her way toward him when she felt a hand tugging her arm. She gave a little cry of alarm and clutched her handbag more closely.

  “It’s only me, miss.” With relief, she saw the steward beside her. “Sorry if I scared you, but we don’t want to lose each other, do we? Not in a crowd like this. Come along then, this way…it’s a bit dark, but…”

  He propelled her through a swing door, and as Amanda passed through it, she heard the crowd’s excited roar celebrating the “Off.” The corridor beyond the door was a dimly lit concrete tunnel which led to yet another door. Following her escort through this second door, Amanda was surprised to find herself in the open air. The surge and bustle of the stadium came faintly to her ears, like the rumble of traffic through double-glazed windows. Here, outside, it was very dark—but she could make out the hunched shapes of parked cars standing in patient rows. She remembered that the area in which she had left her own car had been brightly lit by overhead arc lamps. She stopped for a moment, and then realized that the steward was vanishing between two parked cars ahead of her.

  She called out, “Hey! Just a moment!”

  The figure ahead stopped and turned. “What is it?” he asked.

  “Well—are you sure we’re going the right way? I thought you said the Racecourse Manager’s office—”

  “That’s right. This is the staff car park, and the office is over on the other side.”


  “Oh. I see.”

  The small, dark figure was off again before Amanda spoke. He seemed to her to be moving faster, dodging between the cars, and suddenly he was nowhere to be seen, and Amanda realized with a stab of mingled annoyance and alarm that she had lost him. Oh, well, she thought. He said the other side of the car park. If I keep going this way…

  The faint sound of a stealthy step behind her stopped her in her tracks. She peered into the gloom. Nothing. Must have been imagination. Wish I had Wotan with me, Amanda thought—and then laughed at her own timidity. What on earth was there to be frightened of? All the same…

  And then, suddenly, she saw the steward again. He had not gone straight across the car park, but was standing outside a door leading back into the building on the right-hand side of the parking lot. He waved, and called out, “This way, Miss!”

  “Oh…so sorry…I lost you…coming…” And Amanda half-ran out across the open yard between two rows of parked cars.

  The shot split the air with shocking impact, deafeningly loud in the deserted courtyard. Instinctively, Amanda jerked back and dodged down behind a parked car, just as the second shot thudded into its bodywork. Both shots had been aimed at her, no doubt about it. The steward had disappeared. Somewhere in the darkness, somebody with a gun was stalking her, hunting her down. With difficulty, Amanda suppressed a scream of panic. Quiet. Must be quiet at all costs. Must get away from here…move…but in which direction? The shots had come from ahead of her, to the left—but the gunman was capable of moving, too. In this maze of darkness and obstacles, she was as likely to run full-tilt into her attacker as to escape. Her legs felt as heavy as lead, but she knew that the one thing she must not do was to stay still.

  Amanda sidled around the car, keeping her head low. The car to her right afforded the nearest shelter, and she allowed that fact to determine the direction of her move. A quick dart across the shadowy space between the cars, and she was protected by the mass of a great Bentley. From here, she could see the door which led back into the stadium. If she could get there alive… She made another dash, and a third shot came simultaneously with a sharp, shattering pain in her right leg. Amanda fell and lay like a wounded bird, her white shirt glimmering in the gloom, an easy mark for the final close-in, the coup de grace.