As everybody now knows, failure to dream results in a progressive psychosis and eventual mental breakdown. To rectify this, Ralph created dreams during the day, recorded them audiovisually, and fed them into his brain at night. I don’t have space to go into this in detail in this narrative, but a full description will be found in The Case of the Stolen Dreams. (Not yet published.)
When Ralph was still a young pup, an explosion had wrecked the Institute and killed his siblings and the scientists responsible for his sapiency. Ralph was taken over again by the Police Department and sent to school. He attended obedience school and the other courses requisite for a trained Schutzhund canine. But he was the only pup who also attended classes in reading, writing, and arithmetic.
Ralph was now twenty-eight years old but looked five. Some attributed this anomaly to the mutation experiments. Others claimed that the scientists had perfected an age-delaying elixir which had been administered to Ralph and his siblings. If the explosion had not destroyed the records, the world might now have the elixir at its disposal. (More of this in A Short Case of Longevity, n.y.p.)
Ralph’s existence had been hidden for many years from all except a few policemen and officials sworn to silence. It was believed that publicity would reduce his effectiveness in his detective work. But recently the case had come to the attention of the public because of Ralph’s own doing. Fed up with being a mere police dog, proud and ambitious, he had resigned to become a private investigator. His application for a license had, of course, resulted in an uproar. Mass media persons had descended on Hamburg in droves, herds, coveys, and gaggles. There was in fact litigation against him in the courts, but pending the result of this, Ralph von Wau Wau was proceeding as if he were a free agent. (For the conclusion of this famous case, see The Caper of Kupper, the Copper’s Keeper, n.y.p.)
But whether or not he was the property of the Police Department, he was still very dependent upon human beings. Hence, his search for a roommate and a partner. I told him something about myself. He listened quietly and then said, “I like your odor, buddy. It’s an honest one and uncondescending. I’d like you to come in with me.”
“I’d be delighted,” I said. “But there is only one bedroom...”
“All yours,” he said. “My tastes are Spartan. Or perhaps I should say canine. The other bedroom has been converted to a laboratory, as you have observed. But I sleep in it on a pile of blankets under a table. You may have all the privacy you need, bring all the women you want, as long as you’re not noisy about it. I think we should get one thing straight though. I’m the senior partner here. If that offends your human chauvinism, then we’ll call it quits before we start, amigo.”
“I foresee no cause for friction,” I replied, and I stood up to walk over to Ralph to shake hands. Unfortunately, I had forgotten that Stampfert was still on my lap. She thumped into the floor on her buttocks and yelled with pain and indignation. It was, I admit, stupid—well, at least an unwise, action. Stampfert, cursing, headed toward the door. Ralph looked at my outstretched hand and said, “Get this straight, mac. I never shake hands or sit up and beg.”
I dropped my hand and said, “Of course.”
The door opened. I turned to see Stampfert, still rubbing her fanny, going out the door.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” I said.
“Not if I can help it, you jerk,” she said.
“She always did take offense too easily,” I said to Ralph.
I left a few minutes later to pick up my belongings from the hotel. When I re-entered his door with my suitcases in hand, I suddenly stopped. Ralph was sitting on the sofa, his eyes bright, his huge red tongue hanging out, and his breath coming in deep happy pants. Across from him sat one of the loveliest women I have ever seen. Evidently she had done something to change his mood because his manner of address was now quite different.
“Come in, my dear Weisstein,” he said. “Your first case as my colleague is about to begin.”
3
THE STATEMENT OF THE CASE
An optimist is one who ignores, or forgets, experience. I am an optimist. Which is another way of saying that I fell in love with Lisa Scarletin at once. As I stared at this striking yet petite woman with the curly chestnut hair and great lustrous brown eyes, I completely forgot that I was still holding the two heavy suitcases. Not until after we had been introduced, and she looked down amusedly, did I realize what a foolish figure I made. Red-faced, I eased them down and took her dainty hand in mine. As I kissed it, I smelled the subtle fragrance of a particularly delightful—and, I must confess, aphrodisiacal—perfume.
“No doubt you have read, or seen on TV, reports of Mrs. Scarletin’s missing husband?” my partner said. “Even if you do not know of his disappearance, you surely have heard of such a famous artist?”
“My knowledge of art is not nil,” I said coldly. The tone of my voice reflected my inward coldness, the dying glow of delight on first seeing her. So, she was married! I should have known on seeing her ring. But I had been too overcome for it to make an immediate impression.
Alfred Scarletin, as my reader must surely know, was a wealthy painter who had become very famous in the past decade. Personally, I consider the works of the so-called Fauve Mauve school to be outrageous nonsense, a thumbing of the nose at commonsense. I would sooner have the originals of the Katzenjammer Kids comic strip hung up in the museum than any of the maniac creations of Scarletin and his kind. But, whatever his failure of artistic taste, he certainly possessed a true eye for women. He had married the beautiful Lisa Maria Mohrstein only three years ago. And now there was speculation that she might be a widow.
At which thought, the warm glow returned.
A. Scarletin, as I remembered, had gone for a walk on a May evening two months ago and had failed to return home. At first, it was feared that he had been kidnapped. But, when no ransom was demanded, that theory was discarded.
When I had told Ralph what I knew of the case, he nodded.
“As of last night there has been a new development in the case,” he said. “And Mrs. Scarletin has come to me because she is extremely dissatisfied with the progress—lack of it, rather—that the police have made. Mrs. Scarletin, please tell Doctor Weisstein what you have told me.”
She fixed her bright but deep brown eyes upon me and in a voice as lovely as her eyes—not to mention her figure—sketched in the events of yesterday. Ralph, I noticed, sat with his head cocked and his ears pricked up. I did not know it then, but he had asked her to repeat the story because he wanted to listen to her inflections again. He could detect subtle tones that would escape the less sensitive ears of humans. As he was often to say, “I cannot only smell hidden emotions, my dear Weisstein, I can also hear them.”
“At about seven last evening, as I was getting ready to go out...” she said.
With whom? I thought, feeling jealousy burn through my chest but knowing that I had no right to feel such.
“...Lieutenant Strasse of the Hamburg Metropolitan Police phoned me. He said that he had something important to show me and asked if I would come down to headquarters. I agreed, of course, and took a taxi down. There the sergeant took me into a room and showed me a painting. I was astounded. I had never seen it before, but I knew at once that it was my husband’s work. I did not need his signature—in its usual place in the upper right-hand corner—to know that. I told the sergeant that and then I said, ‘This must mean that Alfred is still alive! But where in the world did you get it?’
“He replied that it had come to the attention of the police only that morning. A wealthy merchant, Herr Lausitz, had died a week before. The lawyer supervising the inventory of his estate found this painting in a locked room in Lausitz’s mansion. It was only one of many valuable objects d’art which had been stolen. Lausitz was not suspected of being a thief except in the sense that he had undoubtedly purchased stolen goods or commissioned the thefts. The collection was valued at many millions of marks. The lawyer had notified the police
, who identified the painting as my husband’s because of the signature.”
“You may be sure that Strasse would never have been able to identify a Scarletin by its style alone,” Ralph said sarcastically.
Her delicate eyebrows arched.
“Ach! So that’s the way it is! The lieutenant did not take it kindly when I told him that I was thinking of consulting you. But that was later.
“Anyway, I told Strasse that this was evidence that Alfred was still alive. Or at least had been until very recently. I know that it would take my husband at least a month and a half to have painted it—if he were under pressure. Strasse said that it could be: one, a forgery; or, two, Alfred might have painted it before he disappeared. I told him that it was no forgery; I could tell at a glance. And what did he mean, it was painted some time ago? I knew exactly—from day to day—what my husband worked on.”
She stopped, looked at me, and reddened slightly.
“That isn’t true. My husband visited his mistress at least three times a week. I did not know about her until after he disappeared, when the police reported to me that he had been seeing her... Hilda Speck... for about two years. However, according to the police, Alfred had not been doing any painting in her apartment. Of course, she could have removed all evidence, though Strasse tells me that she would have been unable to get rid of all traces of pigments and hairs from brushes.”
What a beast that Scarletin was! I thought, how could anybody married to this glorious woman pay any attention to another woman?
“I have made some inquiries about Hilda Speck,” Ralph said. “First, she has an excellent alibi, what the English call ironclad. She was visiting friends in Bremen two days before Scarletin disappeared. She did not return to Hamburg until two days afterward. As for her background, she worked as a typist-clerk for an export firm until two years ago when Scarletin began supporting her. She has no criminal record, but her brother has been arrested several times for extortion and assault. He escaped conviction each time. He is a huge obese man, as ugly as his sister is beautiful. He is nicknamed, appropriately enough, Flusspferd. (Hippopotamus. Literally, riverhorse.) His whereabouts have been unknown for about four months.”
He sat silent for a moment, then he went to the telephone. This lay on the floor; beside it was a curious instrument. I saw its function the moment Ralph put one paw on its long, thin but blunt end and slipped the other paw snugly into a funnelshaped cup at the opposite end. With the thin end he punched the buttons on the telephone.
A police officer answered over the loudspeaker. Ralph asked for Lt. Strasse. The officer said that he was not in the station. Ralph left a message, but when he turned off the phone, he said, “Strasse won’t answer for a while, but eventually his curiosity will get the better of him.”
It is difficult to tell when a dog is smiling, but I will swear that Ralph was doing more than just exposing his teeth. And his eyes seemed to twinkle.
Suddenly, he raised a paw and said, quietly, “No sound, please.”
We stared at him. None of us heard anything, but it was evident he did. He jumped to the control panel on the floor and pushed the on button. Then he dashed toward the door, which swung inward. A man wearing a stethoscope stood looking stupidly at us. Seeing Ralph bounding at him, he yelled and turned to run. Ralph struck him on the back and sent him crashing against the opposite wall of the hallway. I ran to aid him, but to my surprise Ralph trotted back into the room. It was then that I saw the little device attached to the door. The man rose unsteadily to his feet, glaring. He was just above minimum height for a policeman and looked as if he were thirty-five years old. He had a narrow face with a long nose and small close-set black eyes.
“Doctor Weisstein,” Ralph said. “Lieutenant Strasse.”
Strasse did not acknowledge me. Instead, he tore off the device and put it with the stethoscope in his jacket pocket. Some of his paleness disappeared.
“That eavesdropper device is illegal in America and should be here,” Ralph said.
“So should talking dogs,” Strasse said. He bowed to Mrs. Scarletin and clicked his heels.
Ralph gave several short barks, which I found out later was his equivalent of laughter. He said, “No need to ask you why you were spying on us. You’re stuck in this case, and you hoped to overhear me say something that would give you a clue. Really, my dear Lieutenant!”
Strasse turned red, but he spoke up bravely enough.
“Mrs. Scarletin, you can hire this... this... hairy fourfooted Holmes...”
“I take that as a compliment,” Ralph murmured.
“...if you wish, but you cannot discharge the police. Moreover, there is grave doubt about the legality of his private investigator’s license, and you might get into trouble if you persist in hiring him.”
“Mrs. Scarletin is well aware of the legal ramifications, my dear Strasse,” Ralph said coolly. “She is also confident that I will win my case. Meantime, the authorities have permitted me to practice. If you dispute this, you may phone the mayor himself.”
“You... you!” Strasse sputtered. “Just because you once saved His Honor’s child!”
“Let’s drop all this time-wasting nonsense,” Ralph said. “I would like to examine the painting myself. I believe that it may contain the key to Scarletin’s whereabouts.”
“That is police property,” Strasse said. “As long as I have anything to say about it, you won’t put your long nose into a police building. Not unless you do so as a prisoner.”
I was astonished at the hatred that leaped and crackled between these two like discharges in a Van de Graaff generator. I did not learn until later that Strasse was the man to whom Ralph had been assigned when he started police work. At first they got along well, but as it became evident that Ralph was much the more intelligent, Strasse became jealous. He did not, however, ask for another dog. He was taking most of the credit for the cases cracked by Ralph, and he was rising rapidly in rank because of Ralph. By the time the dog resigned from the force, Strasse had become a lieutenant. Since then he had bungled two cases, and the person responsible for Strasse’s rapid rise was now obvious to all.
“Pardon me,” Ralph said. “The police may be holding the painting as evidence, but it is clearly Mrs. Scarletin’s property. However, I think I’ll cut through the red tape. I’ll just make a complaint to His Honor.”
“Very well,” Strasse said, turning pale again. “But I’ll go with you to make sure that you don’t tamper with the evidence.”
“And to learn all you can,” Ralph said, barking laughter. “Weisstein, would you bring along that little kit there? It contains the tools of my trade.”
4
LIGHT IN THE DARKNESS, COURTESY OF VON WAU WAU
On the way to the station in the taxi (Strasse having refused us use of a police vehicle), Ralph told me a little more of Alfred Scarletin.
“He is the son of an American teacher who became a German citizen and of a Hamburg woman. Naturally, he speaks English like a native of California. He became interested in painting at a very early age and since his early adolescence has tramped through Germany painting both urban and rural scenes. He is extremely handsome, hence, attracts women, has a photographic memory, and is an excellent draftsman. His paintings were quite conventional until the past ten years when he founded the Fauve Mauve school. He is learned in both German and English literature and has a fondness for the works of Frank Baum and Lewis Carroll. He often uses characters from them in his paintings. Both writers, by the way, were fond of puns.”
“I am well aware of that,” I said stiffly. After all, one does not like to be considered ignorant by a dog. “And all this means?”
“It may mean all or nothing.”
About ten minutes later, we were in a large room in which many articles, the jetsam and flotsam of crime, were displayed. Mrs. Scarletin led us to the painting (though we needed no leading), and we stood before it. Strasse, off to one side, regarded us suspiciously. I could make
no sense out of the painting and said so even though I did not want to offend Mrs. Scarletin. She, however, laughed and said my reaction was that of many people.
Ralph studied it for a long time and then said, “It may be that my suspicions are correct. We shall see.”
“About what?” Strasse said, coming closer and leaning forward to peer at the many figures on the canvas.
“We can presume that Mrs. Scarletin knows all her husband’s works—until the time he disappeared. This appeared afterward and so we can presume that he painted it within the last two months. It’s evident that he was kidnaped not for ransom but for the money to be made from the sale of new paintings by Scarletin. They must have threatened him with death if he did not paint new works for them. He has done at least one for them and probably has done, or is doing, more for them.
“They can’t sell Scarletins on the open market. But there are enough fanatical and unscrupulous collectors to pay very large sums for their private collections. Lausitz was one such. Scarletin is held prisoner and, we suppose, would like to escape. He can’t do so, but he is an intelligent man, and he thinks of a way to get a message out. He knows his paintings are being sold, even if he isn’t told so. Ergo, why not put a message in his painting?”
“How wonderful!” Mrs. Scarletin said and she patted Ralph’s head. Ralph wagged his tail, and I felt a thrust of jealousy.
“Nonsense!” Strasse growled. “He must have known that the painting would go to a private collector who could not reveal that Scarletin was a prisoner. One, he’d be put in jail himself for having taken part in an illegal transaction. Two, why would he suspect that the painting contained a message? Three, I don’t believe there is any message there!”
“Scarletin would be desperate and so willing to take a long chance,” Ralph said. “At least, it’d be better than doing nothing. He could hope that the collector might get an attack of conscience and tell the police. This is not very likely, I’ll admit. He could hope that the collector would be unable to keep from showing the work off to a few close friends. Perhaps one of these might tell the police, and so the painting would come into the hands of the police. Among them might be an intelligent and well-educated person who would perceive the meaning of the painting. I’ll admit, however, that neither of these theories is likely.”
Tales of the Wold Newton Universe Page 7