“For you, or the dog?” muttered Tama as they followed Blanchard along the porch and around the side of the house. Here a large kennel had been carefully constructed against the cement wall of the house using three-inch galvanized pipes and heavy cyclone fencing. The fencing was set into concrete footings; it extended as well across the top of the enclosure, just beneath a sloping wooden roof. The sole door into the kennel was made of the same sturdy pipe and fencing and was secured with a massive brass padlock.
Tama and Opuu stepped closer to peer into the shady kennel. A large wooden doghouse stood in one corner, with a water dish and a food dish just before it. The floor of the yard was of poured concrete sloping towards a drain in the center; a coiled hose was attached to a faucet against the house. Two well-gnawed leg-of-lamb bones and half a loaf of crusty French bread lay nearby.
“All the comforts of home,” observed Tama. “How many people know the combination of the padlock?”
“That’s what I thought when I first saw he was gone,” said Blanchard, “but look over here.” They moved around to the far side of the kennel, but even then, standing in the deep shade, it took Tama a moment to spot where the fencing had been neatly snipped open in two directions to form a large flap.
“And they’ve wired it together again with baling wire,” said Inspector Opuu.
“So it wouldn’t be so noticeable,” agreed Tama. “I can’t believe that many Tahitians would bother to do that. If they wanted the dog they’d just come in and get him.”
Inspector Opuu snorted sceptically. “Every Tahitian I know is like me — scared to death of dogs, especially big ones. The dogs smell the fear and bark like crazy. I don’t think any Tahitians could get near this cage without the dog going crazy.”
But as Tama discovered by walking slowly around Blanchard’s property, the house was almost totally isolated by its position against the hillside. The slope fell away so sharply that it was nearly impossible to build here; the closest neighbor was more than a hundred yards away and totally cut off from sight by the curve of the hill and a dense cluster of bourau trees.
Normally, Blanchard said, he worked Saturdays and Sundays, which were the days of heaviest traffic at the airport. This last weekend, however, his wife’s sister had gotten married at the far end of the island. Early Saturday morning he and his wife and two children had driven off for the wedding and subsequent feast. Afterwards they had spent the night at yet another sister’s home in the districts. The dog had been well supplied with food and water; when Blanchard had returned home late Sunday evening he had done nothing more than check that the door to the kennel was properly locked.
“You didn’t think it was strange not to see the dog?”
Blanchard shrugged miserably. “Bismarck’s a very quiet, very, very well-trained dog. He never barked unless a stranger came to see him. So I thought he was asleep in his house. Maybe I should have called... It was only when I came to feed him early this morning that I saw he was gone.”
They walked back to the porch, where the customs officer served icy soda pop, and they went over Blanchard’s association with the dog. He had gone to New Zealand five months before and spent three months being trained along with Bismarck in the techniques of searching for hidden contraband. “Every dog has his own particular handler,” he said. “That’s why the dog lives with me instead of out at the airport. And the kennel here is exactly the same design as the one they used in New Zealand.”
“And all this is what they showed on television the other day?” asked Tama.
“Yes. It was a twenty-minute show. There was some footage taken in New Zealand during training, with dogs actually finding heroin and cocaine. Then it showed the two of us working together at the airport, and here at home.” He grimaced unhappily. “It showed the kennel, where I lived, how isolated the house is, everything.”
“How many people knew you’d all be going to the wedding?”
“It could be anyone on the island. There were fourteen hundred of us at the dinner afterwards, most of them relatives or fetii. It was a real old-fashioned tamaraa — lots of food and wine and music. Anyone there could have known we’d be staying with my sister-in-law until Sunday night.” Blanchard sighed morosely. “This was my first weekend off in two months, you know. I guess it’ll be my last — if I’m not fired.”
Tama pursed his lips. “Aren’t there three or four flights coming in from Los Angeles practically on top of each other early Sunday morning? I’d have thought—”
“Yes, but we actually pay a lot more attention to the weekday flights coming in from Chile via Easter Island. South America is where the real dope is — no one’s bringing it in from LAX except for personal use.”
“Hrmph.” Tama finished his second bottle of orange soda. “What about identifying this dog of yours? Could you distinguish him from any other German shepherd? There seem to be a million of the damned things on the island — everyone I know has one.” Blanchard smiled wanly. “Identification’s no problem. The people in New Zealand have already thought of that — this is a very valuable dog. What they did was...”
“What I don’t understand,” said Inspector Opuu plaintively as he watched the Commissaire take a bite from the first of the two large pizzas Tama had ordered for himself, “is why you’re wasting all this time on a miserable dog.”
“That assistant minister of social affairs is in town from Paris, remember? They wanted me to bodyguard her around for the next three days. This way I’m too busy — I’m working on a case.”
“Ah.” The wiry Tuamotu islander took a careful bite of his own small pizza. La Toscana, Commissaire Tama’s favorite luncheon spot, was closed on Mondays; today they had strolled a block or so farther down to the waterfront and the shady outdoor setting of L’Api’Zzeria. “So we’re actually going to try to find this dog?”
“Yes — at least until Madame la Ministre leaves town.” Tama leaned forward, his black eyes fixed on the inspector. “I asked you before, Opuu: Why would anyone steal a dog?”
By the time they had finished their pizzas they had considered and discarded a number of possibilities:
That it was just to gain possession of a dog, albeit by sheer coincidence a very valuable one.
That it was to take revenge on either Blanchard or his wife, probably by a jealous girlfriend or boyfriend.
That it was simple mischief — or pure malicious spite.
That Bismarck had been taken in order to search for the numerous plantations of marijuana that grew throughout Tahiti’s mountainous and mostly inaccessible interior.
That he had been stolen to sniff out truffles — which in any case didn’t grow in Tahiti.
And that he really had been stolen in order to provide the main course at a Tuamotuan barbecue.
“How about this?” suggested Inspector Opuu. “There’s a particularly big shipment of dope coming through and this is just a safety precaution. One less thing for the smugglers to worry about by getting the dog out of the way.”
Tama pushed a piece of charred pizza crust about his plate with an enormous brown finger. “Yes, that’s a good enough reason, all right. But if that’s the case, why bother to steal him? Why not just kill him outright? Shoot him right there in the kennel? Or poison him? Tahitians are always poisoning their neighbors’ dogs with weed killer.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” admitted Opuu.
“It’s not a bad idea, though — we’ll keep it under consideration.” Tama scowled into the earthenware pitcher that earlier had contained half a liter of rose wine. “But it suggests another idea.” He held up a hand to summon the Tahitian waitress, a round little girl in a blue print dress and a billowing white apron. Frizzy black hair fell almost to her plump derrière.