Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 10

  Bognor shrugged. ‘No idea,’ he said.

  Mr Handyside smiled at him, with an expression he would probably have described as sardonic and which, Bognor reckoned, had been practised at length before a looking glass.

  ‘It’s the same with people,’ he said. ‘I remember in the Borneo campaign, when I was with the Marines, they’d become quite excited at the thought of blood. Gurkhas are the same, really rather mild-mannered little men until they unsheathe their kukris. Did you do National Service, Mr Bognor?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I thought not. Appearances aren’t always deceptive.’

  ‘You were with the Marines?’

  ‘Commandos, yes. Some people seem surprised but I’m sure you’re far too intelligent a judge of character to be surprised.’

  Bognor appreciated the menace in the man but found him too disagreeable to be really alarming.

  ‘Are you warning me off?’ he asked.

  Handyside lit another Sobranie and sprawled deeper into his chair.

  ‘That’s a sadly crude way of putting it, Mr Bognor,’ he said. ‘And I wouldn’t dream of warning off a servant of Her Gracious Majesty when he’s on official business. All I’m saying to you is that dogdom is a private world where we all get along perfectly nicely by minding our own business. We don’t awfully like nosey parkers and trespassers.’ He blew smoke in Bognor’s direction. ‘Legitimate curiosity is quite gratifying, but snooping is something else altogether. Ain’t it?’ He lapsed back into the affectation which his threatening tones had partially obscured.

  Bognor grinned back, irritated. ‘I’ll be careful,’ he said, ‘but I suggest you exercise a little more discretion yourself. For example, you weren’t exactly exuding sweetness and light when you called on Ailsa Potts the other day. Strangely over-excited by all accounts.’

  The revelation went home. For a second Mr Handyside looked dangerously rattled, then he relaxed again. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘some of my friends in the dog world have already opined that you’re not half so harmless as you look. I’ve been giving you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps I was wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  The conversation was too artificial for someone of Bognor’s temperament. He disliked the self-consciously cool, with their nuances and that maddening habit of leaving the most important part of every sentence unexpressed. Now he found himself being manoeuvred into the same laconic style and it upset him.

  He was about to leave Mr Handyside to his mannerisms when there was a crackling of static electricity and an announcement came over the public address system.

  ‘We very much regret,’ said a voice, which through the dehumanizing of the loudspeakers still sounded very much like Percy Pocklington, ‘that owing to unforeseen circumstances, the appearance of Raffles, the Excelsior Chewing Gum Dog, has had to be cancelled. Instead, at very short notice, Mrs Gertrude Patty of the Parisien Poodle Parlour in Peckham will give a display of clipping and coiffeur. Thank you. I am also instructed to say that entry number thirty-three has withdrawn from the terrier judging. No substitutions allowed. Thank you.’

  The news meant less than nothing to Bognor but was evidently important to Mr Handyside, who immediately stood up, flung down his cigarette in a peremptory fashion, paused to grind the stub under his heel and said, ‘Have to be off. I do hope we’ll have no more tiresome to-do’s, Mr Bognor. A bientôt.’

  Bognor watched the departing dog transporter with relief. He disliked him, and he was afraid that, deep down, he was scared of him too. He was certain now that it had been his pampered hand which had rendered him unconscious, and the knowledge chilled him. Unfortunately he was no nearer proof of any kind. Also, Monica was missing. He had better go in search.

  They almost collided five minutes later, saved only by the intervening presence of a Pyrenean mountain dog which interposed its considerable bulk between them.

  ‘People!’ said its owner, in accents of infinite contempt, as the dog gave an angry growl at being thus sandwiched.

  They apologized, and the woman marched away, grumbling about the superiority of dogs over humans.

  ‘I’ve been peeling my eyes,’ said Monica, kissing him on a cheek. ‘There are some funny goings-on going on. Let’s find a quiet corner and I’ll tell you quickly.’

  It was easier said than done, but eventually after pushing and shoving through the increasingly sweaty throng, they found a deserted bench by the borzois.

  ‘I got bored of waiting,’ she said, ‘so I wandered off to see the Rentadog Stuntsters. Rather disgusting, actually, dogs walking tightropes and jumping through flaming hoops. Anyway, I was watching the display when I saw the Duchess talking to your girl friend, Coriander. It seemed to me that the girl was ticking the Duchess off in no uncertain manner. Then Percy Pocklington came up and all three of them had a terrific discussion. There was another peculiar looking woman with a green felt hat as well and she seemed to be backing up the Duchess but in the end I think they must have lost because she looked frightfully cross. They all split up and the Duchess left.’

  ‘What? Left altogether?’

  ‘Yes. She left the hall. She’s gone home in a sulk, I should say. And then there was the announcement, which must give the reason.’

  ‘What announcement? What reason?’ Bognor was confused. Everything was moving too fast.

  ‘About the Dandie Dinmont being withdrawn. Tiresome Terrapin, the dog that won the class. You know you went off to talk about it.’

  ‘Yes. I just didn’t connect,’ he said. ‘They didn’t say anything on the loudspeaker about it being the Dinmont. It just said number thirty-three. How do you know it was the Dinmont?’

  ‘I asked some doggy type. Everyone’s heard about it. Apparently it’s the talk of the show. The official reason is that the silly animal’s got some eye infection which has suddenly flared up, but as my doggy type said, it would hardly have won its class if it had been oozing pus out of one eye.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So informed gossip is that the Duchess and Millicent Trench were working out some sort of fiddle and got cold feet when someone called Mrs Protheroe lodged an official protest. Is that your weeping lady?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Bognor, ‘only the real force there is Albert Ramble. Did your man say anything else?’

  ‘He’d heard about you. Apparently you’re the source of some gossip as well. The dog people are on the alert. He said he’d heard that there was a full scale government enquiry going on into what he called “irregularities” in the dog game. According to him the Special Branch had been called in. I suppose that means you.’ She giggled.

  ‘It’s not funny,’ he said. ‘I suppose it must.’

  Once more the loudspeaker system cut across their conversation.

  ‘Judging of the Dog-lovers’ League Dog of the Year will commence in five minutes in the main ring. The finalists are the Siberian eelhound, the pointer, the Sealyham, the Dalmatian, the St Bernard and the Yorkshire terrier. Judging will be by Percy Pocklington, Esquire, and the prizes will be presented by Miss Northern Hemisphere. Please remember that all proceeds from this show go to the Dog-lovers’ League, the world’s premier organization for man’s best friend. Please give generously. Thank you.’

  ‘Let’s go and watch,’ said Bognor. ‘I’d like another look at Percy Pocklington. As far as I can gather most of the proceeds from the show go to him and the League is the world’s premier organization in aid of Percy Pocklington. However, we shall see.’

  The crowds were already gathered round the main show-ring in anticipation of the day’s highlight, and their journey there was therefore easier than expected. When they arrived they had difficulty in seeing anything at all, but by standing on a bench, and then on tiptoe, they could just make out one corner of the arena where the six dogs were already formed up with their handlers.

  ‘I don’t like the look of your Mr Handyside,’ said Monica, peering over the pork pie hat of the short Eton cropped lady in
front of her. ‘Who’s that elephantine woman he’s talking to now?’

  ‘Where?’ asked Bognor. His view was not as clear owing to the great height of the Eton cropped lady’s friend who was immediately in front of him.

  ‘There.’ Monica pointed to the ringside seats immediately beyond the Siberian eelhound. Bognor did a little jump to see better and almost upset the bench. The two lady friends turned round and clicked their tongues in exasperation. ‘Sorry,’ said Bognor, blushing. He and Monica changed places briefly and he saw that Handyside was gesticulating almost frenziedly to no less a person than Mrs Ailsa Potts of Three Corners, Surblington. Handyside looked agitated and Mrs Potts was purple and beetle browed. As he watched he saw that she was talking in single words and he guessed from her expression and the pained faces of her neighbours that she was blaspheming. She was clearly enraged but the object of her fury was not Mr Handyside. She was not swearing at Mr Handyside, but with him. He was nodding agreement, and the up and down motion of his head reminded Bognor irresistibly of a snake about to strike.

  ‘Nasty,’ he said to Monica, changing back to her place. ‘That’s Mrs Potts, whose poodle started me off on this shaggy dog story. The last time they met they were having a monumental row. Now they’re agreeing about something. And very heatedly. If my theory is right they should be having blows.’

  He was prevented from further conjecture by an outburst of clapping. From their position it was impossible to tell what had provoked it, but a few seconds later the competitors set off in Indian file and disappeared from their limited field of vision.

  ‘That must have been for Pocklington,’ said Bognor. ‘Do you imagine he’s still wearing his spats?’

  ‘He looks the sort of man who’d wear spats in bed,’ said Monica. She peered in the direction of the ring. ‘I can’t see anything,’ she said.

  ‘Even if you could you wouldn’t understand it.’

  ‘True.’

  ‘Shhh,’ said the lady with the Eton crop.

  They took to silence. After a while Monica whispered to Bognor, ‘They’re back.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The dogs.’

  Now the loudspeakers resumed. ‘Our six Dog-lovers’ League finalists will now parade individually,’ said the speaker. ‘First the eelhound.’

  There was a further outbreak of clapping interspersed with cheers and the odd boo.

  ‘I’d no idea everyone took it so seriously,’ said Bognor. ‘I’ve never heard of an eelhound. What is it?’

  ‘It looks rather like an anteater from here,’ said Monica. ‘Very long nose, I suppose for catching eels with. It’s rather fun.’

  There was a pause while, presumably, Pocklington did his examinations, peered at the animal’s bone structure and assessed its personality. Then the loudspeaker announced the pointer and the applause was repeated. So the ritual continued, with each dog being introduced in turn. Then they ran about a little more, before the loudspeaker announced, ‘The judging is now completed. Here to present the prizes and to award the Dog-lovers’ League Challenge Trophy for this year’s championship is Miss Northern Hemisphere. A big hand, please.’

  More dutiful clapping and several whistles.

  ‘She’s vast,’ said Monica. ‘Her bust’s as big as your Mrs Potts’.’

  ‘Not so droopy, I hope,’ said Bognor.

  ‘Very bouncy,’ said Monica. ‘I wonder how she does it? Quite a feat of engineering.’

  Eton crop turned round and put her finger to her lips. The loudspeaker began again. ‘I shall announce the first three dogs in reverse order. Third …’ pause for effect ‘… the Sealyham.’ Applause and quiet while, presumably, the beauty queen appended a rosette.

  ‘Second, the Dalmatian.’ The same noise and silence followed, but whatever was happening was still out of their sight. ‘First … the Siberian eelhound.’ After this the applause was thunderous, the silence more prolonged. Finally there was further cheering as the winner did a lap of honour, part of which they could see.

  ‘Well,’ said Bognor, ‘I suppose that’ll increase popular demand for eelhounds. I want to see if I can have a quick word with Pocklington. If he’s involved in this he’ll be warned about me by now. If not he may be able to shed a little light. I want to see what his account of Bogota and Cairo is.’

  Monica agreed and they set off in the direction of the arena. Before they got there, however, they met Mrs Protheroe and Albert Ramble. They still seemed disconsolate.

  ‘At least you had the dog thrown out,’ said Bognor.

  ‘It retired,’ said Ramble. ‘It should have been disqualified, then Sylvia could have been declared winner and gone into the terrier judging.’

  ‘But we agreed you couldn’t prove anything.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said Ramble. ‘Anyway it didn’t make much odds. He got his own protégé the cup.’

  ‘How do you mean? He doesn’t breed eelhounds.’

  ‘As near as dammit. It’s an open secret. He more or less imported the breed himself after the Moscow dog show a few years ago, and the principal breeder is Doris Pink. She used to be the assistant secretary of the Dog-lovers’ and he set her up. I think she was his mistress though it’s hard to imagine now. Paying for her kennels was his way of getting rid of her. Mind you, I can’t prove that either.’

  He smiled, and for the second time they said goodbye with renewed promises to get in touch should anything turn up.

  They found Percy Pocklington in the enclosure behind the Dog-lovers’ League stand, where he, the triumphant eelhound, its owner, and sundry other dog-lovers were drinking non-vintage Mumm champagne. From time to time he and the dog and Miss Pink would pose for the photographers clustered just outside the enclosure. He looked like a man who had cast off the worries of the day and was now basking in the achievement of a job well done.

  At the gate of the enclosure a bullnecked steward, wearing a Dog-lovers’ League lapel badge, barred their entrance. Bognor remonstrated and produced his card. The man went away to consult his chairman and came back shortly with an invitation to both of them to take champagne with Mr Pocklington. Both of them disliked Mumm—it was too sweet and reminded Bognor of his late great-aunt’s marrow wine—but they accepted.

  ‘At last, Mr Bognor,’ said Pocklington, greeting them with a jarring demonstration of false bonhomie. ‘I’ve heard so much about you from my friends.’

  ‘Favourable, I hope?’ said Bognor, accepting a glass of wine.

  ‘Cheers,’ said Mr Pocklington. He ignored the question. ‘Always a relief to get to this stage,’ he said, ‘without any serious mishap. The only setback this year has been Raffles, the Excelsior Chewing Gum Dog. Still, I gather he’s insured for several thousand. Besides, security’s not our problem. That’s admin.’ He sniffed complacently.

  ‘What happened to Raffles?’ asked Monica.

  ‘Disappeared. Owner left him for five minutes while he went to have a pee. Next moment he’d gone. We’ve got plenty of witnesses. Couple of chaps turned up, bold as brass, wearing white overalls, and just carted him off. Everyone thought they were officials.’

  ‘That sounds cool,’ said Bognor. ‘Why should anyone want to kidnap Raffles, though?’

  ‘Ransom, I’d imagine. He’s too well known to be any other use. Even a layman would recognize him.’

  ‘I wouldn’t. I don’t even know what sort of dog he is.’

  Mr Pocklington clearly didn’t believe him, though Bognor was quite serious.

  ‘He’s a bulldog,’ he said. ‘White with black markings. Very distinctive.’

  ‘Who owns him?’

  ‘A syndicate control the agency. One of them’s my friend, Cecil Handyside, whom I gather you know. There are five of them altogether. Anyway,’ Mr Pocklington was suddenly in a hurry to leave, ‘what can I do to help?’

  ‘A couple of questions, that’s all,’ said Bognor. ‘I can see you’re busy. First I wanted your views on the shows in Bogota and Cairo, Illinois. It’s been s
uggested that the Dandie Dinmont which won those two prizes might have been one of the Duchess of Dorset’s dogs and not what it claimed. What do you think?’

  Pocklington rubbed his spivvy little moustache with the index finger of his right hand. The movement was intended to suggest thoughtfulness, but Bognor was certain the judge wasn’t thinking. He’d had his reply ready for days.

  ‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he said, eventually, ‘I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, but I understand you got your information from Mervyn Sparks. Perfectly sound judge, Mervyn—at least of our four-footed friends. But when it came to bipeds he let his prejudices run away with him. He never liked me. Jealousy mostly. He used to get plenty of assignments but usually because I couldn’t accept them. Now I’ll wager all Lombard Street to a china orange that he tried to implicate me in this affair. Am I right?’

  ‘Up to a point.’

  ‘Thought as much.’ He scratched his chin in the same phoney way that he’d dealt with his moustache. ‘I know my dogs, Mr Bognor, and I can tell you I was surprised to find a Dinmont so far south as Bogota, but if anyone can afford that sort of money it’s Edgar Eagerly. More important, though, I know my people, and Edgar Eagerly wouldn’t stoop to malpractice. He doesn’t have to. He’s worth a fortune. No, no, you’re barking up the wrong tree, if you’ll excuse the metaphor.’ He laughed immoderately, spilling champagne from the flat, saucer-shaped glass.

  ‘But I’ve heard it suggested that the dog—to a connoisseur—was obviously one of the Duchess’s. Carriage, character, er …’ Bognor trailed away into silence, unable to think of the appropriate terms.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Pocklington, ‘that Dora Dorset’s dogs are usually easy to recognize, but that’s because they’re better than anybody else’s. They conform to the breed standard with an exactitude which others find impossible to match. And Edgar’s dog was as good as some of the Duchess’s. But then Edgar is one of the world’s leading experts in genetic engineering, and when I taxed him with Dora Dorset he admitted that his dog’s grandfather had been one of Dora’s. The mother had been from Canada and I gather she’d got some Piddlehampton blood in her too. So up to a point it’s true. Anything else?’