Gerald Durrell - The Donkey Rustlers

“Oh, don’t be so gloomy.” said Amanda, impatiently. “I’m sure they’ll be all right.”

“David is right,” said Yani seriously. “Until the moon comes up, it’s very difficult to see on those hills and there are some places which are quite dangerous.”

“Well, what can we do?” asked Amanda. “We can’t go and look for them.”

“We could suggest to Papa Yorgo that some of the villagers went with lanterns to look for them,” said David.

“That’s an excellent idea,” agreed Yani, “because then they’ll see the lanterns and know which way to go.”

So the children went to Papa Yorgo and suggested to him that a search party be sent out. The villagers immediately acclaimed the children for their astuteness of mind, and presently a crowd of people with lanterns went off up into the hills and an hour or so later, grimy, tattered and torn, the Inspector and his three men were led ignominiously back into the village. The Inspector sank wearily on to a chair in the café, and the villagers tenderly poured him wine and anointed his various cuts and abrasions, but they could do nothing about his wounded soul, for the Inspector realised that his stock in the village had sunk almost as low as that of Mayor Oizus.

“We came,” he announced, clearing his throat, “within an ace of success.”

“Yes, yes, you did,” chorused the villagers, who felt sorry for him.

“Within an ace of success,” he continued, thumping the table with his fist. He gulped angrily.

“If it hadn’t been for those damned sex-mad dogs and that bitch of yours,” he said to Mayor Oizus, “we would probably now have both the donkeys and the Communists.”

“Yes, yes,” chorused the villagers. “It was Mayor Oizus’s bitch that did it.”

They glared at the Mayor as though he personally was responsible for his bitch coming into season.

“I shall not, however, give up,” said the Inspector. “I’ll spend the night here, if you, Mayor Oizus, can spare me a bed, and to-morrow we’ll try again. Rest assured that we’ll meet with success.”

“Yes, yes,” said the villagers soothingly. “Of course you will.”

Leaving the Inspector giving the entranced villagers a brilliant account of one of Sherlock Holmes’s better-known cases (which, for some reason, the villagers thought had been solved by the Inspector) Amanda and David made their way back to the villa for supper.

“Ah, there you are, dears,” said Mrs Finchberry-White. “I was just coming to look for you. Supper’s ready.”

Supper was from many points of view a difficult meal. The children were worried because they felt that if the villagers did go on searching, they must inevitably find the donkeys and that suspicion would fall on them, because they were the only ones who ever used Hesperides. Major-General Finchberry-White had spent the afternoon, in between painting, in perfecting some messages of the Congo talking-drum on his leg, and kept asking for things like salt and pepper and bread by this method. As Mrs Finchberry-White could not translate the Congo talking-drum messages, she became increasingly distraught and the Major-General increasingly irritable. However, at length the children had finished their food and they slipped down through the moonlit olive groves and swam over to Hesperides to feed the donkeys.

Of everyone in the vicinity, it was probably the eighteen donkeys and the Mayor’s little horse who were the most satisfied with life at that moment. They had spent a quiet day dozing and munching, and now here were the same friendly children bringing them still more food. What more could any donkey ask for?

The following morning, to the consternation of Inspector Steropes and the entire village, another notice saying DONKEYS OF THE WORLD UNITE was found pinned to the Mayor’s front door. Amanda and David were no less amazed and alarmed than the villagers.

“It must have been Yani,” said David. “Silly fool.”

“He’s got them all buzzing like a hive of bees, anyway,” said Amanda.

But when they went down to see Yani, he hotly denied all knowledge of the poster.

“Well, who did it?” asked Amanda.

They all looked at Coocos as being the most likely suspect and Coocos nodded his head vigorously and beamed at Amanda. He explained, with great difficulty, because of his stammer, that since they had put a notice like that up on the first night when they took the donkeys, he was under the impression that one had to be put up every night.

“Oh, Coocos,” said David in despair, “you are an idiot.”

“Don’t say things like that to him,” said Amanda indignantly. “The poor boy was only trying to help.”

“I don’t think it’s going to be much help,” said Yani grimly. “It’s got the villagers and the Inspector so angry that I think they’ll redouble their efforts.”

And indeed the villagers were angry.

“To think,” roared Papa Nikos, his face going purple, “that in spite of the Inspector being here, Communists are creeping in and out of our village as if they owned the place. Something must be done.”

“Yes,” growled the villagers, “something must be done.”

“Keep calm, keep calm,” said the Inspector placatingly. “This morning we are going to have another search. Yesterday we almost succeeded. To-day we will succeed.”

But it was obvious from their demeanour that the villagers did not share the Inspector’s high hopes. However, with his two faithful hounds and his band of policemen and volunteers, the Inspector spent a hot and sticky morning scrambling over the hillsides all round Kalanero to return, at midday, defeated and donkeyless.

“I’ll go,” the Inspector said to the Mayor, “to see Major-General Finchberry-White. After all, he’s a man of great bravery and courage and brain, and moreover he’s a compatriot of Sherlock Holmes, I am certain he will be able to give us some helpful advice.”

So Prometheous Steropes made his way up to the villa. “Good lord,” said David as they saw him approach. “You don’t think he’s found out, do you?”

“No,” said Amanda, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sure he can’t have. I think he’s just come up to say hallo to father.”

“Ah, my sweet ones,” said Steropes, beaming fondly at the two children. “Is your father at home? I would very much like to talk to him.”

“Yes, Inspector,” said Amanda meekly. “He’s out on the terrace painting.”

“Is it permitted to interrupt him?” inquired Steropes.

“Oh, yes,” said Amanda. “It doesn’t matter how often you interrupt him, the paintings are still as bad,”

“You shouldn’t say that,” said the Inspector, shocked, “Your father is a very fine artist.”

He made his way out on to the terrace where the General was putting the finishing touches to a sunset that looked like an atomic explosion.

“My dear Inspector,” said the General, putting down his paint brushes and limping forward to shake hands. “How very nice to see you.”

“If you would be so kind as to let me interrupt your work for a few minutes?” asked Steropes.

“Of course, my dear chap,” said the General.

He took his pipe out of his pocket and beat a rapid and complicated rhythm on his leg.

“Congo,” he explained to the Inspector. “What they call talking-drums. They send messages by them. I’ve just been teaching my wife. We’ll see if it works. Sit down, sit down, do.”

At that moment Mrs Finchberry-White appeared on the terrace with a large tray of bottles and glasses.

“By Jove!” said the General in astonished delight, “you’ve got it, Agnes!”