The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog (18 page)

We were interrupted by a knock at the door and a burly constable entered
, bearing a tray. My nose twitched as I recognised his scent from the butcher’s shop. Constable Taylor, I presumed.

My deduction was instantly verified when Inspector Moore introduced the newcomer to my master and Sergeant Allen.

‘Inspector Thompson is investigating a nasty little crime that occurred near your beat. It seems to be linked to the assault on the butcher’s lad that you reported this morning. As you know this area and people, I wonder if you can add to our knowledge.’

Inspector Moore ran through the main facts of the case with a succinctness that impressed me. I watched the constable’s face during this retelling and it was obvious that he made one or two connections. This was starting to get very interesting.

‘I must admit that I agree with your informant, sir,’ Constable Taylor said when the inspector had finished. ‘Young Gordon Smith has been boasting about coming into some money. A few nights ago, he was drunkenly complaining about Mrs Baker and the pittance she paid his mother. At the time I thought nothing of it- the lad has always been a nobody made big by ale.’

‘Do you think that he might have the dog at his mother’s house?’

‘If young Smith has taken the dog, it will be at his mother’s house. The lad isn’t bright enough to take it anywhere else. I also think that he would be far too arrogant to believe anyone might suspect him.’

‘If it hadn’t been for the mystery informant I doubt if we would be having this conversation,’ Inspector Moore said rather dryly. ‘Do you have any thoughts about who our mysterious benefactor might have been?’

Constable Taylor was silent for a few moments before replying. ‘No one comes to mind, sir. Perhaps when we question young Mr Smith, he’ll tell us.’

Inspector Moore leaned forward and looked straight at my master.

‘Well, Richard,’ he asked, ‘what are we going to do?’

‘I think we should pay a call on the Smith residence. I would be obliged if you could supply two or three more constables and a few lanterns.’

My master smiled and stood up. The game was, as they say, afoot.

About half an hour later, seven of us were ready to set off for Mrs Smith’s house. As well as Inspector Moore and Constable Taylor, the party had been augmented by a sergeant and another constable.

It was very foggy when we left the station and piled into two growlers. The drive was quite short and we soon stopped in a quiet road in front of a rather dull terrace.

Inspector Moore spoke quietly to his sergeant who nodded and led one of the constables into the mouth of a narrow alley. Obviously, no one was going to be able to bolt out of the back door.

As we waited for the sergeant to get into position, I looked around. It is an inevitable fact that a raid always attracts interested bystanders who watch every move. Already some of the local residents were standing in their doorways and a young man in a raincoat with his hat pulled low was leaning against a wall.

My master knocked loudly on the door and demanded that it be opened. The house was silent. My master knocked again and we all heard a muted bark but there was no other response.

‘Open it!’ your uncle ordered.

Sergeant Allen put his shoulder to the door and in very little time had forced the lock. The door flew open and we were in.  The door opened directly into a small but very neat room. I sniffed and could smell a frightened dog. With a quick bark to attract the men’s attention, I followed my nose.

I ran into a short hallway that obviously led to the kitchen. The smells and a faint whining noise seemed to come from behind a partially closed door in the left hand wall. I nosed the door opened and saw a flight of steps vanishing downwards into the dark.

Without a moment’s hesitation
, I raced down the stairs. Calling for a lantern, my master followed more carefully.

As I reached the bottom of the stairs, something in the farthest corner seemed to cringe. My nose told me that I had found Jamie. It was also apparent that he was very, very frightened.

‘Don’t worry lad,’ I said in my most reassuring tone. ‘We are here to rescue you.’

An inarticulate whimper was my only answer. I was wondering if Jamie was still drugged when the beam from my master’s lantern found the little dog. A growl of outrage forced itself past my lips. Jamie was lying on his side. His legs had been cruelly tied together and a loop of the same cord had been wound round his muzzle in an obvious attempt to gag him. There was nothing in his eyes except fear. I vowed at that moment that someone was going to suffer.

Your uncle put his lantern on the ground and very gently cut the cord. The little dog tried to stand but whimpered and fell back on his side.

‘Take your time,’ my master said soothingly as he started to rub Jamie’s legs. ‘Wait for your circulation to come back.’

‘Who are you?’ Jamie whimpered, a trace of panic in his voice.

‘Police
,’ I answered, bringing my ears up in a friendly way. ‘My master is Inspector Thompson, and your mistress asked him to find you. People call me Snuffles.’

My answer seemed to calm Jamie because he started licking at my master’s hand.

‘Well, Tom, did you catch him?’ your uncle asked Inspector Moore as that worthy came down the cellar stairs.

‘Not a sign of him. I’ve told my sergeant to check the local inns
, but I think young Gordon saw us coming.’

‘Very well,’ my master responded, picking up Jamie. ‘I’ll take this little dog home. Sergeant Allen can drop me at Mrs Baker’s house and then return to the Yard to start a wider search for Gordon Smith. I would appreciate it if you could finish up here. I will come back tomorrow morning to discuss any progress.’

‘Certainly, Richard,’ agreed Inspector Moore. ‘If you don’t mind, I will send Constable Taylor with you to watch the house. Young Smith may feel that he has nothing to lose and could try something else.’

My master nodded thoughtfully at this
, and I could see that he had also had the same concerns.

We left the house and took one of the growlers for the short trip to Mrs Baker’s villa. Jamie had started to relax so I thought I would ask for his account. It is often a good idea to ask victims and witnesses for their statements while the events are fresh in their minds and before their memories have been affected by other people’s views. You may call me cynical
, but memory can play tricks on you. Take yourself for example: you will leave this room convinced that you have had a conversation with a Spaniel, something we both know is a patent absurdity.

‘What
happened to you?’ I asked Jamie in my friendliest voice.

‘The cook’s boy came to see us this morning. He has always been very good to me and normally brings me a small gift.’ I raised my ears questioningly so the little dog elaborated
: ‘A piece of chocolate or a dog cake, some times even a nice bit of meat.

‘I was surprised to see him on a day when his mother wasn’t working, but a friend is always welcome. It had already been a strange day with young Emily shortening my walk just because Gordon was hiding from her in the park.’

‘You saw the cook’s boy in the park this morning?’

‘Yes,’ Jamie said grinning, ‘it was very comical. He kept hiding behind trees whenever Emily moved in his direction. At the time I thought he was playing a trick on her.’

‘What exactly happened when he stole you?’ I thought that I already knew but it is good to have a statement confirmed.

‘I ran up to Gordon wagging my tail and he knelt as he always does. I wasn’t surprised when he gave me a lovely piece of fresh steak. Suddenly he grabbed me and thrust me into a horrible smelly basket. I took a deep breath to bark my displeasure. Everything went black and I remember falling. When I woke up I was in that awful cellar
, trussed up and helpless.’

I could hear the betrayal in the little dog’s voice and a deep hurt.

‘A horrible experience,’ I said in a gruff but reassuring tone. ‘Truly frightening, but you are safe now, and I do think you’ve come through it very well. You didn’t cower once when you were rescued. A very good show indeed.’

I have noticed that if you tell a victim that you think they have been brave during their ordeal, most of them will act courageously while they recover. Little Jamie was no different; he visibly pulled himself together. 

‘Being stolen wasn’t the worst of it,’ he said in a much stronger voice. ‘He stood in the cellar and told me that he would drown me if my mistress didn’t pay. He then said that he would probably kill me anyway because he hated my mistress and loathed me.’

I noticed that the little dog was looking at me with a rather wary expression. I must admit that this puzzled me until I realised that my lips had drawn back from my teeth.  I forced myself to relax and wag my tail. Someone was going to be bitten. Normally I’m an easy
-going dog and I leave justice to the humans, but this was one of those times when canine justice had to be served.

You must understand that as a police dog I should really abide by the letter of the law. Unfortunately, human law doesn’t always consider the canine view. This sometimes leaves me with a problem if I am going to see justice served. To bite or not to bite, that is the question.

I was still pondering this dilemma when we arrived back at Mrs Baker’s villa and alighted from the growler. I heard a loud gasp on the other side of the road and turned to see an indistinct figure in the fog.

‘It’s him,’ Jamie whimpered and jumping from Sergeant Allen’s arms raced for the safety of his home.

Suddenly, I caught the scent. It was indeed the cook’s lad. Enough thought: it was time for action. I quickly barked a view-hallo and took off after the figure. Naturally, he saw me coming and turned to run.

In my opinion, a fleeing villain just makes a chase both safer and more fun. For a start, you know that they won’t attack you and you can decide how you are going to tackle them. It was therefore in a happily confident mood that I took off after the fugitive. A Springer is not the world’s fastest dog but over a hundred yards we can outrun a man, every time.

Unfortunately, young Gordon showed a total lack of sportsmanship. The blighter had a bicycle resting against a nearby gas lamp. He grabbed it and tried to mount it on the run. Twice he hopped up and failed to mount.  I had closed the gap to three yards by the time his third attempt left him mounted and peddling. Over the next fifty yards, he was widening the gap and I knew that he could escape me. It was time to call for assistance.

Quickly I barked an explanation of Gordon’s crime and my need for help. I must admit I was relieved when I heard first one, then several other dogs take up the call. With the hue
-and-cry successfully raised, I put my head down and concentrated on running with only the occasional bark to keep everyone informed of my progress.

I was barely holding my own at this point. The harder I ran the quicker the cook’s boy peddled. It was a matter of stamina, dog against man. I was starting to despair of ever running Gordon down when I heard the sound of hooves and wheels behind me, and faintly the sound of my master’s voice telling the driver to follow the barking. The knowledge that help was at hand gave me a reserve of strength and my running became easier.

We kept our relative position for about a mile or so with Gordon turning, seemingly at random, down side streets in a desperate attempt to throw me off his trail.  It didn’t matter where he turned, as even when I had lost sight of him some helpful animal- cats as well as dogs, I was gratified to note- put me back on his trail.

I was starting to tire and watched despairingly as the cook’s lad, slowly and inexorably, opened his lead. I had lost and the fugitive was going to escape. I was desperately trying to find another reserve of stamina when I became aware of someone running by my side. I stole a quick glance and saw a greyhound loping easily by my shoulder.

‘Heard you needed a paw, guv. Wouldn’t normally help a peeler but some amateurs give all us crooks a bad name.’ He looked at me. ‘I’ll get ‘im orf the bike. After that, it’s up to you.’

The greyhound accelerated from his easy lope to full speed in a couple of strides. Swiftly he closed the gap and, with a sudden bound, leapt and hit the fugitive in the thigh before springing away.

The bicycle swerved, wobbled and then toppled, spilling the cook’s boy into the gutter where I think he belonged. He had managed to pull himself to his feet and pick up his machine before I arrived. The front wheel had buckled in the crash and I could see that it was no use to him.

‘Damn you!’ he screamed and hurled the wreckage into my path. I checked, took a shorter pace, gathered myself and sprang, teeth bared, at my quarry. I barrelled into him and he staggered back
, ending up against a wall.

With a deep growl, I moved slowly towards him, hoping that he would turn to run and thus give me an easy target. It rapidly became apparent th
at he was just not going to co-operate with me. Rather than fleeing, the ill-bred pup reached into his coat and produced a knife. I got the feeling that it just wasn’t my day.

He lunged at me, slashing with his knife and I found myself backing away. It occurred to me that if I could keep him interested for long enough
, my master would come to my aid. In retrospect, I realised that human justice had much to commend it.