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

William did not hesitate. “Of course.”

They crept forward. When they came to the back wall of the house, Tilly Curtain bent down and invited William to step on her back. “I can take it,” she muttered. “Go ahead.”

He climbed carefully on top of her. It was a long time since I’ve climbed on somebody’s back, he thought. Here I am, very late forties, a MW (failed), and I’m climbing on a woman’s back. But he put such thoughts out of his mind as he clambered up on to the roof. There above him was the window, and there was guttering to give him purchase. He climbed further up, and in less than a minute he was just below the window at which he had seen Freddie de la Hay.

He peered in, and Freddie de la Hay looked back at him. Neither moved for a few moments. Then William called out, “Sit, Freddie! Sit!” He did not want Freddie to be right in front of the glass when he broke it.

Freddie de la Hay sat, and that gave William his chance. Taking from his pocket the stone he had picked up in the garden, he brought it down sharply on the glass pane. From within, Freddie gave a yelp of surprise. William wondered whether he had been hit by shattering glass, but it was too late to stop. He quickly cleared the window frame of the last few vicious shards. Then he called to Freddie. “Come here, Freddie! Quick, Freddie! Good boy, Freddie de la Hay!”

The dog responded immediately. Leaping up, he hurled himself out of the window, straight into the arms of his owner.

“Oh, Freddie,” William shouted with joy. He did not care who heard him. He did not care what happened now. Freddie de la Hay was free. Freddie de la Hay was coming home.

In the taxi, which they hailed at the end of the street, William examined Freddie for injury. The dog seemed in good shape, he thought, apart from a small cut that he had received from a piece of glass still in the window frame. There were a few drops of blood – bright, canine blood – and William thought as he dabbed his handkerchief on the tiny wound, Freddie de la Hay has shed this blood for his country. It is blood no different from that which other animal heroes have shed . He remembered the monument to animals in war, that strange, unexpected monument on the edge of Hyde Park, where people left small, movingly inscribed wreaths; where the words said that they had no choice …

“We’d normally take him to a safe kennel in these circumstances,” said Tilly. “But I think that, given everything that’s happened, he should go right home with you.”

“I think so too,” said William. He looked at her. “And thank you, Tilly. Thank you.”

She seemed embarrassed by his words of appreciation, and glanced away. He wondered for a moment whether he should invite her for dinner that night, but then he decided, No. She came from a different world; she still inhabited a world of deceit and deception. There was no place for him, he thought, in that shadowy landscape.

They would go home together, he and Freddie de la Hay – back to Corduroy Mansions.

In Hatchards on Piccadilly, Rupert Porter stood, Patum Peperium on his shoes, wondering what to do. He had told Roger Katz that he was looking for a tall man, of somewhat hirsute appearance, and Roger had confirmed that such a person had recently gone upstairs. So now, at long last, he was within grasping distance of the yeti, if that was what he was pursuing. In reality, of course, there was no yeti – he was sure of that. What he was therefore pursuing was a person who looked like a yeti, a person of sufficient cunning not only to have given him the slip in Fortnum & Mason but also to have persuaded the time-served travel writer Errol Greatorex that he was a genuine abominable – or perhaps a genuinely abominable – snowman.

For the first time in this pursuit, Rupert Porter felt fear. He had not been frightened in Fortnum & Mason, and he had not been the least bit concerned while tearing down Piccadilly. But now, in the narrower confines of Hatchards, he felt a frisson of anxiety that was not far, he realised, from fear. He wondered why he should be afraid. The yeti was presumably unarmed, and it was highly unlikely that he would set upon anybody in broad daylight, in the middle of London. Yetis had no record of harming anybody; in fact, the yeti was meant to be a shy and elusive character, given to loping off into the snowy wastes should anybody get too close. There was no reason to believe, then, that this yeti – if he was a yeti, which of course he was not – would behave any differently.

And yet Rupert could not get out of his mind that terrifying scene in Daphne du Maurier’s Don’t Look Now where the art historian pursues a tiny red-coated figure through the streets of Venice, and, in a petrifying denouement, is suddenly confronted by a malign knife-bearing dwarf. What a harrowing story that was, and how tragic the outcome. What if he were to confront the yeti and, to the strains of Mahler or whatever it was, have his throat slit from side to side with a sweep of a blade? He would slip to the floor and see the blood ebb out, the flow matching the last beats of the heart, a pumping that would diminish and stop as the last chords of Mahler played out. Or was that Visconti? It was, he remembered, and the outcome there had not been very good either.

Roger Katz was suddenly called away and could no longer attend him. “You should find your friend upstairs,” he said. “I’ll see later on.”

On his own now, Rupert began to make his way up the spiralling staircase that led to the first floor. As he reached the landing, he looked along the gallery ahead of him. There were one or two people browsing – an elderly woman, a young man. There was no sign of the yeti.

Rupert approached the archway that led off to his left. The trouble with Hatchards, he thought, is that it has so many rooms. Unlike many modern bookshops, which could double as aircraft hangars should the need arise, Hatchards was a rabbit-warren of charming rooms. But the very quality that made it such a fine bookshop also made it a difficult place to pursue somebody who was determined to elude you. The yeti might have left the staircase at the first floor, or he might have gone up to the second floor, or beyond. It was impossible to tell.

Rupert had to make a choice, though, and he chose to look on the first floor. Walking very slowly, he made his way into the further reaches of the first floor. He stopped. There were three people in the first gallery – two women standing together, paging through a book they had extracted from a shelf, and one man. He was a tall man, and he was wearing exactly the colour of coat that Rupert had seen in Fortnum & Mason. It was the yeti; he was sure of it.

Rupert advanced very slowly. The yeti was facing away from him, apparently absorbed in a book. Rupert took a deep breath; there was a strong fishy smell rising from his shoes, and he hoped that the two women, whom he was now passing, would not notice it. They did not.

He was now only a couple of yards from the yeti. He noticed odd details: the hem of the green coat had been inexpertly stitched and was hanging down; the yeti’s shoes were brogues, but in need of a clean, and his hair, which was dark in colour, almost pitch black, was neatly combed in what seemed, from the back, to be a centre-parting.

Rupert cleared his throat. “Mr …” he began. “Mr Yeti?”

The effect of his words was electric. Without turning round, the yeti dropped the book he was reading and launched himself towards a door at the back of the gallery.

“Excuse me!” shouted Rupert. “I only want to have a word …”

The yeti did not slow down. Ignoring the shouts of his pursuer, he pushed open the door and slipped through it. Not once did Rupert see his face.