Doug Allyn - v108 n03-04_1996-09-10

“You didn’t think it was strange not to see the dog?”

Blanchard shrugged miserably. “Bismarck’s a very quiet, very, very well-trained dog. He never barked unless a stranger came to see him. So I thought he was asleep in his house. Maybe I should have called... It was only when I came to feed him early this morning that I saw he was gone.”

They walked back to the porch, where the customs officer served icy soda pop, and they went over Blanchard’s association with the dog. He had gone to New Zealand five months before and spent three months being trained along with Bismarck in the techniques of searching for hidden contraband. “Every dog has his own particular handler,” he said. “That’s why the dog lives with me instead of out at the airport. And the kennel here is exactly the same design as the one they used in New Zealand.”

“And all this is what they showed on television the other day?” asked Tama.

“Yes. It was a twenty-minute show. There was some footage taken in New Zealand during training, with dogs actually finding heroin and cocaine. Then it showed the two of us working together at the airport, and here at home.” He grimaced unhappily. “It showed the kennel, where I lived, how isolated the house is, everything.”

“How many people knew you’d all be going to the wedding?”

“It could be anyone on the island. There were fourteen hundred of us at the dinner afterwards, most of them relatives or fetii. It was a real old-fashioned tamaraa — lots of food and wine and music. Anyone there could have known we’d be staying with my sister-in-law until Sunday night.” Blanchard sighed morosely. “This was my first weekend off in two months, you know. I guess it’ll be my last — if I’m not fired.”

Tama pursed his lips. “Aren’t there three or four flights coming in from Los Angeles practically on top of each other early Sunday morning? I’d have thought—”

“Yes, but we actually pay a lot more attention to the weekday flights coming in from Chile via Easter Island. South America is where the real dope is — no one’s bringing it in from LAX except for personal use.”

“Hrmph.” Tama finished his second bottle of orange soda. “What about identifying this dog of yours? Could you distinguish him from any other German shepherd? There seem to be a million of the damned things on the island — everyone I know has one.” Blanchard smiled wanly. “Identification’s no problem. The people in New Zealand have already thought of that — this is a very valuable dog. What they did was...”

“What I don’t understand,” said Inspector Opuu plaintively as he watched the Commissaire take a bite from the first of the two large pizzas Tama had ordered for himself, “is why you’re wasting all this time on a miserable dog.”

“That assistant minister of social affairs is in town from Paris, remember? They wanted me to bodyguard her around for the next three days. This way I’m too busy — I’m working on a case.”

“Ah.” The wiry Tuamotu islander took a careful bite of his own small pizza. La Toscana, Commissaire Tama’s favorite luncheon spot, was closed on Mondays; today they had strolled a block or so farther down to the waterfront and the shady outdoor setting of L’Api’Zzeria. “So we’re actually going to try to find this dog?”

“Yes — at least until Madame la Ministre leaves town.” Tama leaned forward, his black eyes fixed on the inspector. “I asked you before, Opuu: Why would anyone steal a dog?”

By the time they had finished their pizzas they had considered and discarded a number of possibilities:

That it was just to gain possession of a dog, albeit by sheer coincidence a very valuable one.

That it was to take revenge on either Blanchard or his wife, probably by a jealous girlfriend or boyfriend.

That it was simple mischief — or pure malicious spite.

That Bismarck had been taken in order to search for the numerous plantations of marijuana that grew throughout Tahiti’s mountainous and mostly inaccessible interior.

That he had been stolen to sniff out truffles — which in any case didn’t grow in Tahiti.

And that he really had been stolen in order to provide the main course at a Tuamotuan barbecue.

“How about this?” suggested Inspector Opuu. “There’s a particularly big shipment of dope coming through and this is just a safety precaution. One less thing for the smugglers to worry about by getting the dog out of the way.”

Tama pushed a piece of charred pizza crust about his plate with an enormous brown finger. “Yes, that’s a good enough reason, all right. But if that’s the case, why bother to steal him? Why not just kill him outright? Shoot him right there in the kennel? Or poison him? Tahitians are always poisoning their neighbors’ dogs with weed killer.”

“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Opuu.

“It’s not a bad idea, though — we’ll keep it under consideration.” Tama scowled into the earthenware pitcher that earlier had contained half a liter of rose wine. “But it suggests another idea.” He held up a hand to summon the Tahitian waitress, a round little girl in a blue print dress and a billowing white apron. Frizzy black hair fell almost to her plump derrière.

“Look,” said Tama, who was infamous throughout town for his love of amateur magic. “I want to show my friend here a trick. Just push these two water glasses around in a circle — here, like this.”

The inspector groaned as the giggling waitress began to manipulate the glasses — le patron was being particularly tiresome today.

“That’s enough,” said Tama a minute later. “Now, I want you to put a hand on top of each of the glasses so that none of the water can get out. All right, good.” Tama passed his own gigantic hand slowly back and forth over the girl’s hands. “Perfect. Now then, I want you to reach very, very carefully into the apron pocket on your left hip. Careful, not too fast! What’s that you’ve got there?” Slack-jawed, the astonished waitress pulled forth a tumbler half filled with rose wine.

“Misdirection,” said Tama smugly when the bewildered girl had been sent to fetch tarte tatin and coffee. “The principle of all sleight of hand. You’re made to look at — or to expect — one thing, and then something else entirely different happens.”

Inspector Opuu had heard the same dictum many times before, usually accompanied by some childish trick. “What’s this got to do with the dog?” he demanded sourly.

“You suggested that maybe the dog was stolen to prevent him sniffing out a particularly important load of dope being smuggled in. Suppose this was just misdirection, what they wanted us to think. The real reason is that they’re getting ready to smuggle something out of Tahiti. They think we’ll spend all our time and efforts tearing every incoming plane to pieces — and in the meantime whatever it is they’re smuggling out goes through without a glance from us.”

“It’s possible,” agreed Inspector Opuu after a long pause, “but tell me this: Just what is there in Tahiti worth smuggling out? Black pearls? U.S. dollars? Coral-reef jewelry? Girly calendars that would be pornography in Iran? Now that they’ve lifted currency controls, there’s nothing at all it’s illegal to take out of Tahiti — except drugs. And if they’re smuggling out drugs that have already been brought in for transhipment, then the question is the same as you just asked — why not just kill the damned dog in the first place?”

“Hrmph.” Tama’s lips tightened and he ran a hand through his thick mop of jet-black hair.

“Let’s look at this logically,” said Opuu. “A dog that sniffs out coke has been stolen. Isn’t it logical to suppose that it was stolen in order to sniff out coke?”