Alexander McCall Smith - The Dog Who Came In From The Cold

“Mr Podgornin,” said Tilly. “What a fine day, isn’t it? I love being out here on a day like this.”

Podgornin looked at the young woman standing before him; his neighbour, of course, the one who lived in the flat across the landing. And that dog of hers. It was a Pimlico Terrier, she had said something about that. What good dogs those were. I’m almost tempted to steal him! he thought. But no, she’s a pleasant woman and one doesn’t want to do anything to attract undue attention. The British are odd about that sort of thing. They become very excited if anybody does anything to a dog. Stupid people! Sentimentalists! No wonder they’re finished, he said to himself.

“Good day, Miss … Miss …” What was she called? They had such ridiculous names, it was terribly hard to remember them. This young woman, for example, had a name that had something to do with furniture or construction or something like that.

“Tilly. Tilly Curtain.”

“Of course!” He took his cigarette out of his mouth with his left hand as he extended his right hand in greeting. Crude though he was, Podgornin knew how to behave gallantly to women. And they were always – always – impressed! They really were most predictable, he thought; like the whole country – utterly predictable.

“I think I may have mentioned to you that I was getting a dog,” said Tilly. “A Pimlico Terrier.” She pointed to Freddie de la Hay, who looked up at Podgornin with mild interest, wagging his tail politely.

“Of course, you did,” said Podgornin, drawing again on his cigarette. “It’s a breed I am particularly fond of. I had one myself a few years ago, when I first came to London. It was a very fine dog.” He paused, and bent down to pat Freddie on the head. Freddie smelled the tobacco tars on the approaching hand and struggled with the urge to turn his head away. He knew that this was not what was expected of him, and so he closed his eyes and let Podgornin’s hand ruffle the fur around his collar. Now he had the smell of tobacco on his coat, an acrid, cloying smell that would make it difficult to distinguish the fascinating smells that he had been so happily investigating before this unwanted encounter. Who was this man? Was he a member of William’s pack? Was he expected to accept him?

“I’m very pleased with him,” Tilly said. “But …” She hesitated, and Podgornin, who had been staring at Freddie, looked at her quizzically. “But, well, you may remember that I was concerned about what I would do if I had to go away and couldn’t take him with me.”

Podgornin thought for a moment. “Oh, yes, I remember. I said that I’d be very happy to look after him for you. Very happy. We Russians are very fond of dogs, you know. Woof, woof!”

Tilly looked relieved. “Oh, thank you, Mr Podgornin. In fact, I’m facing a bit of a crisis right now.”

Podgornin frowned. He drew on his cigarette. “Crisis?”

“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary really. It’s just that I have this rather infirm relative – I think I spoke to you about her. She has a carer, but the carer needs respite from time to time. I have to go off tomorrow, actually, and look after things for a week or two.”

Podgornin smiled. “I said I’d help you out, and of course I will. I’ll be very happy to take this fine dog. You mustn’t worry.”

“I’ll get all his things together, his bowl, his food and so on. Would ten o’clock suit you?”

Podgornin nodded. He looked at his watch and then threw his cigarette butt on the ground. Freddie de la Hay looked with distaste at the small, smouldering object. He did not like Mr Podgornin. He did not like his smell. He did not like the way he looked at him. He was not dog-friendly in the way that this woman, or that other man in the park, or those people downstairs at Corduroy Mansions were. Corduroy Mansions … Where was it? Where was Pimlico? Where was William?

On the morning after their impromptu inspection of Barbara Ragg’s flat, Rupert Porter and his wife, Gloria, sat at their breakfast table, exchanging recriminatory glances. It was all Rupert’s fault, thought Gloria, it had been his idea to go to the flat after dinner; it was true that she had agreed, but she would never have initiated such a visit herself. That was Rupert’s trouble: he was so persuasive. And her trouble was that she allowed herself to be persuaded by him, often against her better judgement.

“You shouldn’t have—” she began, breaking the increasingly frosty silence.

“Don’t start!” he interrupted.

“I’m not starting anything, I’m simply observing that had you not come up with the idea of going to Barbara’s flat then we wouldn’t have landed in that extremely – and I mean extremely – awkward situation. That’s all I’m saying.”

Rupert pursed his lips. He would never – never – refer to that flat as Barbara’s, just as no Argentinian – not even the most enthusiastic, polo-playing Anglophile – would refer to the Falkland Islands as the Falkland Islands. No, it was “my father’s flat” or “Pa’s flat”. But now was not the time to go into all of that.

“Well, we got out of it, didn’t we?” he protested.

“Yes, but it could so easily have gone the other way. And it nearly did, Rupert – you can’t deny that. What if the yeti had woken up?”

Rupert sighed. “Don’t be absurd, Gloria. There’s no such thing as the yeti. It’s all complete nonsense, encouraged, I might say, by la Ragg, who should know better but clearly doesn’t. She’s swallowed the whole story cooked up by that crackpot Greatorex. If ever there was a questionable piece of work, it’s him.”

Gloria agreed with this assessment of Errol Greatorex, the yeti’s biographer, but she was not yet quite prepared to let Rupert get away with last night’s debacle. “Do you really think he believed you?” she asked.

“Who?”

“Greatorex. When you came up with that perfectly farcical story about having forgotten that we were meant to stay with your mother rather than with Barbara. What a ridiculous excuse. Does anybody go to stay with somebody and suddenly remember they’re in the wrong place?”

Rupert shrugged. “I considered it was rather quick thinking on my part,” he said. “And a fat lot of good you were. I had to do all the talking.”

“Well, I don’t think he believed you. I saw his eyebrows go up. When a person’s eyebrows go up, it’s a sure sign that he’s smelled a rat. And what’s he going to say to Barbara when she comes back? What if the real Teddy, or whatever his name was, turns up at the flat? What then?” She paused. The mention of rats raised another issue that she needed to discuss with Rupert: Ratty Mason. Last night, just before the disastrous visit to Barbara’s flat, Gloria had finally caught sight of Ratty Mason, dining alone in the restaurant in which they had eaten a rather unsatisfactory meal to celebrate her birthday. Ratty Mason had stared at them and when she had asked Rupert who the strange man was, he had revealed the name. But he had refused to tell her anything more.

“Well, let’s forget all about Errol Greatorex,” she said. “And his yeti. What I want to know is this: who exactly is Ratty Mason? At least I’ve seen him now, but what else do I know about him? Virtually nothing. That he was at Uppingham with you, and that’s it.” She fixed Rupert with a steely gaze. “Rupert, what’s all this with Ratty Mason? Why the secrecy?”

Rupert looked uncomfortable. He flushed. “I’ve told you. I’ve told you more than once. Ratty Mason was a chap at school. I didn’t know him all that well. In fact, hardly anybody knew him all that well, as it turned out …”