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

“Nice and early this morning, Rupert.”

“Raring to go, Andrea. Unlike some.” It was a vague, slightly snide reference to Barbara, who was still away on her romantic trip to the Highlands. Andrea understood, but said nothing. She nodded her head in the direction of the small waiting room behind her. “You have somebody waiting to see you,” she said.

Rupert frowned. He had been under the impression that his morning was free until at least eleven o’clock, when he was due to meet a publisher to discuss a manuscript that was four years late. He had already marshalled his arguments: the author had been busy; the topic was more complicated than he had at first assumed; he was a perfectionist, indeed he was a manuscript-retentive. There were so many reasons.

“An appointment?”

Andrea shook her head. “No. Actually it’s one of Barbara’s authors. The American—”

She did not finish. The door of the waiting room swung open and Errol Greatorex appeared in the doorway.

Rupert did not move. He had been bending forward slightly to hear what Andrea had to say, and he stayed as he was, as if caught by a sudden attack of back pain. For his part, Errol Greatorex also froze, arrested by surprise rather than, as in Rupert’s case, by mortifying embarrassment.

Errol Greatorex glanced briefly at Andrea. Then he looked at Rupert and frowned. “Teddy?”

Rupert closed his eyes briefly. He drew himself up. “What?”

It bought him time, but not much.

“Teddy? Last night.”

Rupert shook his head. Andrea watched. How could she make any sense of this? Teddy. Last night. How could one possibly interpret a situation where a man who is not called Teddy is recognised as Teddy by another person who then says, “last night”? To say “last night” is potentially explosive, as it implies that last night … And to say it to somebody who must have been using a false name … And Teddy is so patently false. Well, what on earth was one to think?

“I beg your pardon?” said Rupert.

Americans do not mince their words – it is one of their great qualities, and indeed one of the great causes of misunderstanding between the United States and the United Kingdom, where words are regularly minced so finely as to be virtually unintelligible. So Errol Greatorex went straight to the point. “But we met last night in Barbara’s flat. Remember?”

Andrea looked at Rupert with interest. She knew that Barbara was in Scotland with her fiancé. What was Rupert doing in Barbara’s flat with Errol Greatorex?

“I’m sorry,” said Rupert. “I think you’re mixing me up with somebody else.”

It sounded lame. He could hear it himself. But what else could he say?

“I don’t think so,” said Errol. “You were wearing the same tie, anyway. That stripy thing.”

Rupert looked down at his tie, as if seeing it for the first time. “Oh, that! It’s a very common tie, you know. Half the men in London wear this tie.”

Errol Greatorex looked confused. “Strange,” he said. “Very strange.”

“London is a large city,” said Rupert airily. “One’s bound to have a double. Several doubles, in fact. We are not unique – much as we might like to be.”

Errol was still staring at him.

“You wanted to see me?” said Rupert. “I’m Rupert Porter, by the way. Barbara’s co-director.” He reached out to Errol Greatorex, who took his hand and gave it a perfunctory shake. His stare was still fixed on Rupert, and his tie.

“Strange,” he muttered again.

“Well, be that as it may,” said Rupert, now adopting a businesslike manner, “if you’d care to come with me, we can have a chat over a cup of coffee. Andrea, would you be a real darling and make Mr Greatorex a cup of coffee? If he wants one, that is. We don’t like to force our authors to do anything.” He gave a nervous laugh.

Errol Greatorex nodded to Andrea. “No milk,” he said. “But have you got any ghee? That’s what the yeti drinks. Tea or coffee with ghee in it. Melted butter.”

“Well, Mr Greatorex,” said Rupert, as they sat down in his office. “This is an unexpected pleasure, I must say. Barbara has spoken to me many times about your manuscript. I find it most intriguing.”

Errol Greatorex fixed Rupert with an intense stare. “Oh really? I was under the impression that her partners – and I assume she meant you – were sceptical.” He paused. “To say the least.”

Rupert shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Oh, I should have thought that’s a bit – how shall we put it? – extreme. There’s all the difference in the world between a healthy degree of caution and undue scepticism. No, I have a completely open mind. Show me a yeti and I’ll believe in him.”

He was rather pleased with this last statement. Show me a yeti and I’ll believe in him. It had a resounding ring to it, and one might say it about so many things that were dubious or frankly non-existent. Show me a UFO and I’ll believe in them. Exactly. Belief required proof, and what better proof than that provided by one’s own eyes?

“I shall,” said Errol Greatorex.

Rupert was brought back from his contemplation of proof. “Shall what?” he asked.

“I shall show you a yeti,” said Errol Greatorex. “You asked me to show you a yeti. I said that I shall.”

Rupert smiled. “Of course.” All this talk of the yeti was utterly ridiculous, and that was all it was – talk. The yeti was said to be in London – very well, let him be produced. There were plenty of radio shows for him to go on.

“Last night …” Rupert began, and then stopped himself just in time. He had been about to say “Last night you said the yeti was sleeping in Barbara’s flat.” But of course he – Rupert – supposedly had not been there and could not possibly have known about this.

Errol Greatorex pounced on his words. “Last night what?”

“Last night I was thinking about these issues,” said Rupert quickly. “Knowledge. Proof. That sort of thing.”

Errol Greatorex clearly did not believe him. “The person who called at Barbara’s flat last night could have seen the yeti,” he said. “Had he stayed, of course, instead of rushing off.”

Rupert looked out of the window. He found the other man’s stare singularly disconcerting. “Oh yes?” He paused. “I’m not sure where all this is leading, Mr Greatorex. Is there anything I can do for you while Barbara is away? I take it that work is proceeding on the manuscript. You said that the yeti was dictating the final chapters.”

Errol Greatorex’s eyes narrowed. “I said that, did I? When?” He had said it last night, in Barbara’s flat, but of course Rupert had not been there.

Rupert saw that he had fallen into a trap – a trap entirely of his own creation. He squirmed. “Barbara told me,” he said.

Errol Greatorex shrugged. “OK. Yes, he’s got to the part where his parents are killed in an avalanche. It’s painful stuff.”

“I suppose that’s a risk for abominable snowmen,” mused Rupert. “Avalanches and so on. And global warming, too. I expect they’re concerned when they read about it in the papers.” He paused. “I assume yetis read the papers. Perhaps they don’t.”

Errol Greatorex pursed his lips. “You are very sceptical, Mr Porter. You clearly don’t believe me, do you?”

“Please, Mr Greatorex – I’ve never said that. All I’m saying is that yetis are somewhat … somewhat unproved . And you can hardly blame me for thinking it, can you? Has anybody actually ever seen one, I ask myself?”

“I have.”

“Yes, but anybody else?”

Errol Greatorex still stared. “You mean anybody reliable? Is that what you mean?”