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

“Sniff out coke? Nonsense! Coke isn’t produced here in Tahiti. Why would—” Tama’s voice trailed off and his face grew thoughtful. “I see what you mean,” he said at last, poking idly at his tarte tatin. “Someone, let’s say Monsieur X, has brought in some dope for transhipment, or even for distribution here. Someone else, Monsieur Y, let’s say, knows this and roughly where the dope is but not exactly where it is. And Monsieur Y wants it for himself. So Monsieur Y steals the dog to sniff it out. Brilliant, Opuu, that’s really a terrific idea.” He leaned forward. “But now what? We’ve got a whole island, plus an archipelago of another hundred and fourteen islands covering an area as big as Europe from Portugal to Moscow, with two hundred thousand people on them. And half of them seem to own German shepherds. Why couldn’t this damned sniffer be a big white French poodle? Or a three-legged Labrador?”

“Why don’t we offer a reward for the sighting of every German shepherd? It’d take a lot of work to check them all out, but sooner or later—”

“If we did that, whoever stole him would just kill the dog out of hand and bury him. No, Opuu, we’ve got to think our way to this dog.”

“Hrmph,” snorted the inspector, sounding almost like his superior. “So let’s think then. Here’s what I think: No Tahitian would come within a mile of the damned thing. So that eliminates, what? One hundred and eighty out of the two hundred thousand people you mentioned? And most Chinese are just as afraid of dogs as Tahitians are, so that eliminates another—”

“Unless, of course, they’re a member of the Kennel Club,” muttered Tama around a mouthful of pie.

“The Kennel Club?”

“Those characters you see in the newspapers every now and then showing off their dogs and all the tricks they’ve been taught. Most of the dogs seem to be German shepherds, if I remember the pictures right, and there are all sorts of members in the Club — mostly French, but some Chinese and some Tahitians too. None of them would be afraid to steal a great big dog.”

“Hmmm,” murmured Opuu, sipping his coffee. “But where does that get us?”

“Let’s just see,” said Tama, suddenly incisive. “You’ve got your phone with you?”

The inspector rummaged through the attache case he had placed beneath the table and handed over a dark green phone. “I’ve got a cousin, I think, who belongs to this dog club,” rumbled the Commissaire. “I’ll get the switchboard to track her down.”

Three phone calls later, Tama returned the phone to Opuu. “We’re in luck — the secretary of the club is the director of the Territorial Office of Statistics. If there’s anyone on this island who’s organized, it’s him.” The Commissaire pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t dare go back to the office — let’s go see this fellow Beaudenon.”

“The TOS is down in the old Donald Building. Shall I get the car?”

“For half a mile? It’d take us all day to get through the traffic — we’ll walk.”

Monsieur le Directeur de l’Office Territoriale des Statistiques was a roly-poly little Corsican with thick spectacles and a toothy grin who had once been a nationally ranked tennis player in France and was still the island’s best player. He was also, Tama discovered to his dismay, the president of the local Macintosh Club as well as being secretary to the Kennel Club.

“Look,” said Gerard Beaudenon, hunched over a bank of Macintosh computers that took up an entire wall of his corner office. “Here’s a list of all this year’s members. These are the ones who’ve paid their dues. Here’s the kind of dogs they have. Here’s how long they’ve been members. Here’s the prizes they’ve won, listed by—”

“Very impressive,” interrupted Tama. “I told Opuu you were the most organized man on the island.” He rubbed his chin as he scowled at the brightly colored computer screen. “Tell me this: Could you give us a list of everyone who’s ever been a member of the club, even if they’re no longer members?”

“I can tell you what kind of toothpaste they use to clean their dogs’ teeth! All I have to do is merge my annual membership records, sort the new list, and then eliminate the duplications. With a Macintosh you can—”

“Could you also give us their addresses and phone numbers?” asked Tama hastily before the Frenchman could expound further upon the marvels of his machine.

“Of course. The only problem is that I’ve only been secretary for four years now. Before then we don’t have any lists at all. So all I can give you is data I’ve entered myself.” As he talked, his fingers flashed across the keyboard and groups of names scrolled down the screen. “What font do you want it printed up in? What size? How many copies?”

“Three,” said Tama decisively. “If that doesn’t do it, we’ll just have to put our thinking caps back on.”

“Do you really think these Kennel Club nuts brush their dogs’ teeth?” blurted Inspector Opuu, who had maintained a brooding silence ever since leaving the office of the Club’s secretary.

“I wouldn’t put it past them,” muttered Tama, his eyes fixed on the elegantly printed list of names in his hand. “There are hundreds of names here. How are we going to—”

“Look at this,” interrupted Inàs Chin Foo, a birdlike Chinese woman from the records office with a sticklike figure, an ethereally beautiful face the color of burnished gold, and the most prodigious memory short of a mainframe computer. “I’ll have to check it in the records to make certain, of course, but here’s a name we’ve had dealings with, and here’s another, and here’s another.”

The three members of the police judiciaire were gathered around a small table in the commissariat’s shabby conference room, a cup of coffee and a list before each of them.

“Hmmm,” rumbled Alexandre Tama. “Daniel Arapari, commission salesman. Doesn’t ring a bell. Jacqui Tai Chong Woa, dit Jack. Homme de commerce. Isn’t he the one who was running the gambling hall in the back of his curios shop by the marketplace? A suspended sentence and a big fine?”

“That’s the one. He’s running it now in his son-in-law’s shop next-door. There were a couple of old, old Chinese smoking opium when we raided it. And Daniel Arapari was caught with twenty-seven marijuana plants growing behind his house in Titioro: a suspended sentence and a small fine.”

“Hrmph,” growled the Commissaire. “If everyone on this blasted island who’d ever been let off with a suspended sentence was thrown in jail this afternoon, the three of us in this room would be the only ones walking around free.” He eyed the third name Inàs Chin Foo had pointed to. “Didier von Sache de Gaumont. That’s the Yacht Club beefcake who runs that scuba-diving outfit from the houseboat on the waterfront. And—” his voice grew noticeably more enthusiastic “—who was mixed up in that coke bust a couple of years ago.”

The Chinese girl nodded. “We almost got him, but there wasn’t quite enough direct evidence. The Procureur finally gave up and didn’t bring charges.”

“I remember: He simply denied everything and wouldn’t say a word otherwise. Very smart — a good thing for us that most of our other customers just talk and talk and talk.” He turned to Inspector Opuu. “Remember de Gaumont?”

“I remember — and if there’s anyone on this island who has the nerve to steal the sniffer and use it for his own little treasure hunt, it’s de Gaumont. I think he’s half crazy.”

Tama nodded. Didier von Sache de Gaumont was a handsome young Frenchman of supposed aristocratic origin who had appeared in Polynesia four or five years earlier with a somewhat older but still strikingly beautiful German wife of undisputed noble background and apparently limitless funds. Not long after their arrival, the muscular de Gaumont had generated a certain amount of local interest by being the first — and still the only — person to windsurf the entire one hundred and forty miles of open ocean between Tahiti and Bora-Bora. He had been escorted by two ships and a helicopter, but it was still an impressive athletic accomplishment. After another nine months of nonstop partying, the German countess had suddenly stepped on a plane for Sydney and out of de Gaumont’s life forever. Penniless, he opened a modest scuba-diving business with the financial aid of one of the many local girlfriends who had been the cause of his wife’s departure.