Let Sleeping Dogs Die (The Simon Bognor Mysteries) Page 18

  At Kennedy it was baking hot and he hired a car, using his American Express Card this time—a manoeuvre which made him feel that he’d spent less money than if he’d used the Diner’s Card a second time. The car—a Chevrolet—seemed monstrously cumbersome by his standards but had automatic gears, a luxury which diminished the horrors of driving on American roads.

  After an uneasy half-hour during which he repeatedly turned the windscreen wipers on when trying to indicate a change of direction, he acclimatized himself to the car, and even settled into a sort of routine. The road was boring as only six-lane highways can be and although he was driving north-east towards Lake Ontario he might as well have been on the M1 south of Birmingham or the Autobahn near Stuttgart. It was just concrete and high speed tin. After an hour and a half he stopped for a hamburger and a strawberry milk shake, then continued. His destination lay, according to Watherspoon, between two small towns called Old Forge and Big Moose in a mountain area named the Adirondacks. Bognor, who had only twice before been to America, both times years earlier, had dimly heard of the Adirondacks. Or thought he had. He might, he conceded, have been muddling them with the Alleghenies or the Appalachians.

  A sign told him that he was not far short of Schenectady. From there he continued until Utica then struck north for the mountains. If he got as far as Rome he’d gone wrong. He smiled to himself. The Americans certainly had curious names. He’d noticed Copenhagen on the map too. The sight stirred unhappy memories of Raffles, the Chewing Gum Dog, and he frowned. He hoped this would be a more successful mission. He rubbed his chin thoughtfully with his left hand and realized with sudden horror that it was prickly with beard. He hadn’t shaved for an age. Nor had he brought any shaving kit with him. Nor any luggage. He frowned. His sleep had been fitful to say the least. A few snatched moments in the Mini near Lulworth. A few more in the plane. He was, to coin a phrase, dog tired, and he’d need to be on his mettle in a few hours’ time.

  The Utica exit was clearly signed and, rather to his surprise, he located the road towards the Adirondacks with no problem. It was evidently a holiday centre for the side of the road was littered with invitations to sample the fishing and swimming, the bed and the board at various places in the Adirondack National Park. The road itself was peopled with holidaymakers heading in the same direction. They seemed brasher and more self-assured than those he’d seen only yesterday near Heathrow airport. They drove more assertively and they managed to keep all their luggage inside the car, instead of on the roof.

  Gradually the scenery assumed an almost Scottish air. He passed a small lake with jagged rocky shores, dotted with rowing boats and fishermen sitting in them, lines floating out behind. Fir trees began to predominate and he was reminded uneasily of a disastrous visit to McCrum Castle, during an earlier and equally ill-starred investigation.

  He was musing inconsequentially and becoming progressively drowsier when, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a sign to Whispering Moose Gorge. This, he recalled, was the postal address of the Dog Centre. He reversed and turned off down the road which now passed through thick conifers and rose steadily. After ten minutes he emerged from the forest and saw that the road continued along the ridge of the hill, while below and to the left a tarmacadam drive wound down hill to another lake. On its shore there was a cluster of ranch style buildings and between him and them there was a fence, surrounded by barbed wire, which from his position some half a mile away, seemed to be about seven feet high. No sign indicated the place’s identity but Bognor caught, on the thin breeze which drifted towards him, the plaintive and distinctive melody of hounds, baying, he decided, with a slight smile, for broken biscuit.

  He drove slowly towards the noise. At the wire barrier there was a gate, also seven feet high, and along the top of it ran more barbed wire as well as another strand which looked to him as if it was electric. The only sign said ‘Keep Out. Strictly Private. Dangerous Dogs’. By the side of the gate there was a speaking grille, and above it a pivoting box with a lens. At first Bognor wondered if it was radar, then realized with a start that it was more likely to be a closed circuit TV camera. Undeterred by the warnings he left the Chevrolet and advanced on the tube. He was still a yard short of it when it spoke.

  ‘Name?’ it said, demanding it in a nasal North American accent.

  ‘Bognor.’

  ‘Rank? Title? Or other distinguishing feature?’ Bognor had the uneasy feeling that he was dealing with a computerized tape. It was a far cry from the Duchess of Dorset’s kennels, or Ailsa Potts’.

  ‘Board of Trade, London, Special Investigator.’

  He said it with a brusque self-confidence he was far from feeling. The dogs sounded alarmingly savage. They were still barking.

  ‘Purpose of visit?’

  He looked down at his suedes. It was a good question. He suddenly felt very vulnerable and slightly absurd. It was a long way to have come on what was, if he was honest, no more than an off-chance.

  ‘To see Mr Eagerly.’

  ‘Identification.’

  He produced his card and held it up to what he assumed was the camera. There was a whirring noise. ‘Please wait,’ said the machine, and he felt as he always did after feeding his banker’s card into the machine which dispensed banknotes. Guilty anticipation. The fear that the machine would recognize him for the bankrupt he really was. He stood, waiting. Even the vast, chrome-covered Chevrolet was alien and there was nothing in the stark highland scenery, let alone the security fencing, to make him feel at home. Only the clothes he stood in were comfortably and unmistakably British and his own.

  ‘Please enter.’ The machine jolted him out of his reverie with another metallic command, and as it spoke the heavy gates creaked back along ill-greased runners. He swallowed hard. This was his last chance to turn tail and run. The dogs sang greedily and the gates crunched to a halt. For a moment he hesitated, then got back in the car and drove slowly forward towards the residence of Edgar J. Eagerly. As he did he saw in the driving mirror that the great gates had shut behind him.

  The buildings were another half-mile further on across the Adirondack equivalent of parkland—a field of tough, tufted grass dotted with rabbit warrens. Then he came to a group of low timbered sheds with runs outside some of them. He knew enough now to realize that these were kennels. Past them on the very side of the lake was the house. It too was timber and constructed in a style which Bognor mentally categorized as ‘millionaire frontiersman’. At first glance it could have been a log cabin. On second it was unmistakably Beverly Hills.

  As he approached it, the front door opened. But no one emerged. Instead another disembodied, metallic voice bade him enter. Still more gingerly he did and was further disconcerted when that door, too, shut softly behind him.

  The hall, in which he now stood, was heavily carpeted, walled in thick chocolate velvet and dominated by an enormous, garish portrait of a man with three ferocious looking dogs of a breed Bognor could not recognize. The style in which the picture was painted was, however, quite unmistakable, and he had no need to glance at the initials ‘C.C.’ in the bottom right-hand corner to confirm his impression. He lit a cheroot and was just exhaling cigar smoke in the direction of the picture when he was greeted from behind.

  ‘Mr Bognor.’ The word was pronounced ‘Bahgnur’ with practically all the emphasis on the first syllable. He spun as speedily as the thick pile of the carpet would allow and came face to face with the subject of Miss Cordingley’s portrait. His complexion was not so high nor his features so well proportioned as in the lurid painting, but otherwise the one was a passable likeness of the other. Edgar J. Eagerly had iron grey hair and tinted glasses, a lumberjack’s checked shirt, jodhpurs, riding boots, and a ridiculous tuft of goatee at the end of his chin.

  ‘Mr Eagerly,’ said Simon.

  ‘Bourbon, Mr Bahgnur?’ said Mr Eagerly. ‘I hope you like my portrait. One of Coriander’s finest works.’ He came and stood alongside Bognor and stared briefly at the p
icture through the glasses, which were a pale burgundy, like Swiss wine.

  ‘Bourbon, Mr Bognor,’ he repeated, this time as a statement instead of an invitation. As he walked towards the double doors, they parted before him admitting both men to a gallery-like room overlooking the lake. Like the hall it was opulent and heavily ornamented, this time with canine pictures by rather better known artists. Gainsborough’s White Dogs hung above the mantelpiece and along the wall by the bronze of a St Bernard there were papillons by Rubens, Watteau, Fragonard and Boucher. Opposite were Constable’s The Haywain and The Cornfield, one including a collie and the other a farm dog. Bognor studied them while Eagerly poured a generous slug of bourbon from a decanter shaped like a dachshund. The glass in which it was served had a poodle on its side. Bognor held it up to the light, then sipped. It was very warming, and he realized, unexpectedly, much needed.

  ‘These reproductions,’ he said, waving his arm about the room in the direction of the pictures, ‘they’re very good.’

  ‘Reproductions?’ asked Mr Eagerly. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bognor, what reproductions? We have no reproductions here.’

  ‘The Haywain,’ said Bognor, ‘is in the National Gallery in London.’ He didn’t know much about art, but that much he did know.

  Mr Eagerly pushed his spectacles to the end of his nose and stared over the top of them appraisingly. ‘No reproductions here, Mr Bognor, authenticity and absolute originality are the passport to perfection. My father taught me so. Coriander, incidentally, apologizes for keeping you waiting. We hadn’t expected you so soon.’ Bognor flinched. ‘But perhaps you’d like to see the poodle,’ continued his host. ‘No doubt you’ll be happy to see that Perfect Prettyboy is in perfect health, though I’m bound to admit that a lady’s satchel is not the ideal contrivance for transatlantic transportation.’

  Bognor took a deep draught of bourbon.

  ‘Am I to understand,’ he began, in the Board of Trade style which he kept for special occasions like this, ‘that you admit to having the poodle Perfect Prettyboy on your premises unlawfully and that you admit to being party to its illegal smuggling from Great Britain by Miss Cordingley?’

  ‘Of course, Simon dear.’ Once more he spun half successfully on his heel, this time to see Coriander Cordingley, hair piled in a golden beehive on her head, crimson lips parted in an expression of happy triumph, her entire body visible under the lightly transparent white robe which was all she wore.

  ‘Hello,’ he said fatuously. ‘What is all this?’

  She laughed musically, though to Bognor the music had a threateningly discordant sound, like the Dead March played on a penny whistle.

  ‘All this,’ she said, ‘means that the game is up, doesn’t it?’ She lisped, ‘Or “don’t it?” as Cecil would say. You’ve tracked me down. Caught us poodle-handed. I’m not going to bother with fetching poor little Prettyboy because he’s had a dreadfully tiring day, but his tattoo’s still there all right, so he won’t come to any harm.’

  ‘Good,’ said Bognor, at sea and wondering if the glimmer of hope he could faintly distinguish was a lighthouse or wreckers on the rocks. ‘In that case I’d better use your telephone.’

  He turned to Eagerly dredging as much menace as he could muster from the dregs of his fatigue.

  ‘Your friend is certainly a trier,’ said Eagerly talking over his head to Coriander, ‘real bulldog spirit. I think he deserves another bourbon.’ He took Bognor’s drink and poured more whisky into it.

  ‘Let’s go outside,’ said Coriander, ‘and explain. It’s a beautiful evening.’ They walked out through more electric doors and sat on a verandah on cane furniture. The sun was setting over the lake, just fading behind a mountain top on the far bank. ‘Spruce Lake Mountain,’ said Eagerly. ‘Fine sight.’

  ‘Now,’ said Coriander kicking off her shoes and putting her naked painted feet on the table. ‘You, Simon dear, are here because we want you to be here. We decided a long time ago that your attentions were becoming tedious. We didn’t think, frankly, that you’d be bright enough to follow Raffles to Denmark—particularly in view of my immaculate artwork—and after that we decided you’d have to be removed. So we arranged with Albert Ramble …’

  ‘With Albert Ramble?’

  She laughed at him. ‘Everyone has his price,’ she said, ‘though I expect poor Albert is under the illusion that he’s playing a double game. We arranged for his little poodle to be smuggled out, and we made as sure as we could that you would make a complete fool of yourself, as publicly as possible. Which I hear from Cecil Handyside you did quite beautifully.’ She tittered and crossed her legs. Despite the unpleasantness of his situation Bognor felt himself aroused as he had before. ‘Once that had happened, we argued that you would be quite unable to face your superiors and would have to resort to what for want of a better word we’ll call your initiative. We gave you enough clues. I even reminded you about darling old Edgar J. the other evening at the Savoy. Remember?’

  Bognor remembered all too well.

  ‘You see,’ she stretched lazily, ‘you see we decided that this was much the easiest place to stage an unfortunate accident. Besides it ties in with Edgar’s guard dog research. We’ll just say that you must have managed to get through the barrier and that naturally the dogs then … er, disposed of you.’

  ‘What about the car?’

  ‘That’s no problem. It’s quite easy to put it back outside the gate. Alternatively we could say that you were received and entertained and then, contrary to all warnings, went snooping about in the dead of night, only to be attacked by the animals … after all, you are known to make a habit of nocturnal prowling, aren’t you?’

  She sucked her teeth and made little tutting noises.

  Eagerly spoke for the first time for ages. ‘The dogs are remarkable, Mr Bognor. You’ll be making a unique contribution to canine genetic development and the study of aggression in the canine when deprived of normal food. The dog requires forty-three different nutrients, Mr Bognor, but for the past few days prior to your arrival I have to say that the two animals we have in mind for this experiment have been deprived of any nutrient whatever. Water is all they have had.’ He chuckled softly.

  ‘Edgar,’ said Coriander, changing the subject, ‘be a pet and fetch me a Tom Collins.’ He rose obediently and went inside. It was getting dark now and mosquitoes from the lake were rising towards them.

  ‘Do you swim?’ asked Coriander.

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Oh goody,’ she said, ‘in that case we’ll start you off from the island. Much more fun. Now what do you want to know before we begin? Since you’re not going to be able to pass anything on I’ll tell you absolutely everything you want to know.’

  Bognor winced. ‘Don’t be so sure,’ he said, ‘I’ve got out of some pretty difficult situations in the past.’ He thought of the Marquess of Lydeard’s bison, Viscount Wimbledon’s savage attack near Sloane Square, the similar assault at Beaubridge Friary. None, he conceded, had been quite as impossible seeming as this.

  ‘So sweet and optimistic,’ said Coriander.

  Eagerly came back with the Tom Collins and she told him the whole story which, maddeningly, was almost precisely as he had already conjectured. The prize movers in the scheme were herself and Handyside. She made the contacts and provided most of the brains. Handyside the mechanical know-how. Eagerly was their American executive. Dora Dorset supplied some animals. So had many others. They had tried to co-opt Ailsa Potts but she had been obstinate. Hence the demise of Whately Wonderful, poisoned with strychnine by Handyside.

  ‘And poor Rose?’ asked Bognor, aghast.

  ‘Cecil’s work,’ she said, sipping decorously at her long drink. ‘The murder didn’t upset him, though I’m afraid the sexual aspect of it was rather a trial. I persuaded him that it was essential.’

  ‘Pocklington?’

  ‘Percy,’ said Coriander, ‘can be tiresome, but clients have to be guaranteed some success in the shows t
hey enter. Percy is a useful insurance policy.’

  ‘And the dogs are smuggled in now?’

  ‘Only very tiny dogs go in handbags after a dose of knockout drops. Bigger dogs are more complicated. We do sometimes use boats. Lulworth, too, so you weren’t far wrong. Anything else?’

  ‘Yes. In Copenhagen. There was a message. Something about wafers and honey.’

  ‘A gentle tease. A play on my name. It’s Exodus 16.31. Manna from heaven is like coriander which is in turn like wafers made with honey. Remember?’

  Bognor didn’t remember. The sun had gone now and he could hardly see the other two. ‘Is there much money in it? Is it worth the risk?’

  ‘There’s enough. Partly I do it for fun, but I’ve always said I aim to make a lot of money so Edgar and I have a lucrative additional game. Drugs. You make the animals swallow encapsulated narcotics, then when we get in here we wait till it produces its stools as the dog world so elegantly describes dog crap. Edgar has a special machine for analysing it and we eliminate the drugs and pass on. Quite neat.’

  Bognor was silent. Eventually he said, ‘That just about wraps it up. No more questions.’

  ‘But surely, Mr Bognor,’ said Eagerly’s voice out of the darkness, ‘you want to know what we have in store for you?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s unpleasant,’ he said, ‘and horribly effective from what you’ve suggested so far.’

  ‘I won’t bore you with the details,’ said Eagerly, ‘unless you’d care to dine first. I had intended to set you off before dinner but it could wait until afterwards. We have some very delicious trout from the lake here.’

  ‘Thank you, no.’ Bognor would normally have enjoyed trout, but he had always found the idea of the condemned man’s breakfast peculiarly repulsive.

  ‘It’s simple then,’ said Eagerly. ‘For years now I have been attempting to breed the perfect guard dog. A touch of Dobermann here, a pinch of Alsatian, a dash of Rottweiler—a more than generous helping of Tibetan mastiff, so fierce a dog that Aristotle thought it half tiger—and a suspicion of our own Chesapeake Bay. They have webbed feet, as you may know, and our security companies are increasingly interested in a dog that can perform usefully in water. I think I now have a prototype which is ready for revealing to the world, but I have yet to conduct as telling an experiment as this. I propose to give them a portion of your clothing to familiarize them with your scent. Then you may have a ten-minute start to swim across the lake from the island. Normally this exercise would destroy your trail, but I think my breeding has given these animals a highly enough developed nose to get over that. In any case they have all the time in the world to find you, though the sooner they do the happier we shall all be.’ Bognor sensed the malevolent smile though he could not see it. He shivered. The man was worse than Handyside.