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

“Our friend Bismarck here?”

“Absolutely. They got in his car and drove out to Papara.”

“Papara?” muttered Tama. “Let me guess. The Surf Club? They have a whole bunch of great big surfboards locked up on their beach in some sort of burglar-proof contraption, as I recall.”

“Right again. We had a terrible time following him through the rush-hour traffic but we managed. When we finally got to the Surf Club, de Gaumont got out of the car with the dog and, bold as you please, walked the dog three or four times back and forth past all the surfboards that had been locked up for the night. These are all the professional models, three or four yards long, nothing at all like the little Styrofoam ones you see kids on the road carrying under their arms.”

Squinting quizzically at the inspector, Tama pursed his lips. “Tell me this, Opuu: Why the devil didn’t you just arrest him the moment he appeared with the dog — as you were supposed to do?”

“So he could get a one-month suspended sentence for stealing a dog?” retorted the inspector hotly. “If it even turned out to be the right dog? With a couple of kilos of coke in his hands, though, it’d be a different story — four or five years of real prison time. And anyway, where could he go with the dog on an island as small as this? We could always step in and arrest him any time we wanted to.”

“I see. So what happened at the Surf Club?”

“Nothing at all. The dog completely ignored every surfboard in sight. So they got back in the car and drove back to town — and right on through to the other side.”

“Hmmm. To the Yacht Club in Arue, perhaps?”

“Yes indeed. They have the same sort of heavy-duty cage with all sorts of boards locked up in it as the Surf Club. It was dark by the time we got there. De Gaumont got out of his car with the dog, nodded to a couple of people who were having drinks on the terrace, then walked right over to that spot by the boat slips where all the members’ boards are chained together for the night.”

“Yes. And then?”

“And then he and Bismarck just walked up and down past the surfboards two or three times until the dog started getting excited and began pawing and rubbing his nose against one of the boards. A bright red one at least four yards long with a blue and yellow tiki painted on it — not very well. Obviously an amateur job.”

“So then de Gaumont got out his chain cutters and pipe cutters and—”

“At the Yacht Club? Even de Gaumont isn’t that crazy — he’d have been mobbed. He put the dog back in the car, went to the bar, and made a few phone calls, then ordered dinner and sat back to wait. He really is a cool customer.”

“And eventually the present-day owner of the surfboard showed up?”

“Exactly. A Frenchwoman I’ve never seen before. She says, incidentally, that she bought it from a Tahitian, who bought it from a Chinese, who bought it from a—” Opuu waved his hand dismissively. “Anyway, de Gaumont bought her a beer, haggled with her for a little while, then wrote out a check — and drove off with her surfboard attached to the top of his car.”

“And with you in hot pursuit. Excellent, Opuu, really excellent. Then what?”

“Then it was back to the girlfriend’s who’d been keeping the dog for him. A little while later we heard hammering and power-saw sounds coming from the backyard. So we walked around the house and arrested them just as they were pulling the bag of coke from inside the board.”

Alexandre Tama stared at Opuu in frank admiration. “Wonderful, Opuu. You should be sitting here instead of me. And it really was coke?”

“Oh yes, the Brigade des Stupes is analyzing it right now. A little less than two kilograms.”

Tama rose to his feet and moved around the desk. He patted the top of Bismarck’s head with a massive hand. “And Bismarck here — did our friend de Gaumont admit stealing him?”

“Of course not. Said it was his girlfriend’s dog, and then completely clammed up. Hasn’t said another word since.”

“Hrmph! We’ll see how far that gets him this time.” The Commissaire turned to Blanchard. “This is your dog? You’ll swear to that in court?”

The handler grinned. “Of course. Look, just where I told you it was.” He murmured softly to the dog, then pulled away the lower lip from Bismarck’s shiny white teeth. There on the moist red and black flesh of the inner lip Tama could clearly read the tattooed letters: BISMARCK.

“That ought to do it,” agreed the Commissaire. “And this girlfriend of de Gaumont’s — who’s she?”

Blanchard grimaced unhappily. “A cousin of my wife’s brother’s girlfriend. She was at the wedding — and knew a week or so in advance that we were going to be spending the night in the districts.”

Tama ran his fingers back and forth in the short fur around Bismarck’s ears. “Who would have thought that dogs could be so intelligent? That shepherd the Kennel Club people found us for the TV show absolutely didn’t move a muscle while they were making him up to look like he had a knife sticking out of his ribs or while they were shooting their pictures with him lying there in all that trash.”

Inspector Opuu grunted dourly — he still didn’t like German shepherds.

A smile tugged at the corners of the Commissaire’s broad mouth. “I think this calls for a celebration, messieurs . Let’s walk down to La Toscana for an early lunch — and I’ll buy our friend Bismarck here the biggest steak in the house.”

© 1996 by S. K. Hodson

Shelagh K. Hodson’s debut piece is the third EQMM first story to have its origin in a single writers group in Rochester, New York. This would be a remarkable coincidence were it not that all three shared a superb writing teacher, EQMM author Miriam Grace Monfredo. Congratulations to both students and teacher!

I first spot him in that gay bar, and no, I’m not. I just work there, not as an employee but scamming the crowd for small change and something to do while I look for my next mark.

See, the pretty boys haven’t put in the hetero-bar time their straight brothers have. My guess is they stayed in until they came out. Anyway, the stalest cons are new here. I clear maybe twenty, thirty dollars a night on bar bets, making change in my favor, and the other tired grifts, all for the cost of a pitcher of sangria for my new buddies.

Pocket money. I’m looking for someone who fits a size 12-D con job. Something about this guy draws my attention, for no real reason. I trust my gut, as usual. You gotta have a feel for these things.

It’s a two-way street; he’s checking me out, smiling. I nod, pretending I’m shy, and turn my attention back to my glass.

You wouldn’t know he was Mr. Right to look at him. He’s plain, maybe thirty, with sandy hair receding a little, soft and stocky but not fat, dressed out of Sears. He looks like a poor Republican from a smallish town, nervous about being here. The regulars eye him and turn away. He’s not special. Not even trying to be.

What do they know? He’s special because he’s here, as out of place as a coyote in a salt-water aquarium. Since he’s not dressed to attract, I know he wants somebody who is. Which means he has what it takes. What I want.

Money.

We don’t speak, although our eyes meet again later that night. He lifts his drink, something with a cherry, in an across-the-room toast. A manhattan, in Milwaukee? At least it’s not beer. I raise mine back, acknowledging.