“Look,” said Tama, who was infamous throughout town for his love of amateur magic. “I want to show my friend here a trick. Just push these two water glasses around in a circle — here, like this.”
The inspector groaned as the giggling waitress began to manipulate the glasses — le patron was being particularly tiresome today.
“That’s enough,” said Tama a minute later. “Now, I want you to put a hand on top of each of the glasses so that none of the water can get out. All right, good.” Tama passed his own gigantic hand slowly back and forth over the girl’s hands. “Perfect. Now then, I want you to reach very, very carefully into the apron pocket on your left hip. Careful, not too fast! What’s that you’ve got there?” Slack-jawed, the astonished waitress pulled forth a tumbler half filled with rose wine.
“Misdirection,” said Tama smugly when the bewildered girl had been sent to fetch tarte tatin and coffee. “The principle of all sleight of hand. You’re made to look at — or to expect — one thing, and then something else entirely different happens.”
Inspector Opuu had heard the same dictum many times before, usually accompanied by some childish trick. “What’s this got to do with the dog?” he demanded sourly.
“You suggested that maybe the dog was stolen to prevent him sniffing out a particularly important load of dope being smuggled in. Suppose this was just misdirection, what they wanted us to think. The real reason is that they’re getting ready to smuggle something out of Tahiti. They think we’ll spend all our time and efforts tearing every incoming plane to pieces — and in the meantime whatever it is they’re smuggling out goes through without a glance from us.”
“It’s possible,” agreed Inspector Opuu after a long pause, “but tell me this: Just what is there in Tahiti worth smuggling out? Black pearls? U.S. dollars? Coral-reef jewelry? Girly calendars that would be pornography in Iran? Now that they’ve lifted currency controls, there’s nothing at all it’s illegal to take out of Tahiti — except drugs. And if they’re smuggling out drugs that have already been brought in for transhipment, then the question is the same as you just asked — why not just kill the damned dog in the first place?”
“Hrmph.” Tama’s lips tightened and he ran a hand through his thick mop of jet-black hair.
“Let’s look at this logically,” said Opuu. “A dog that sniffs out coke has been stolen. Isn’t it logical to suppose that it was stolen in order to sniff out coke?”
“Sniff out coke? Nonsense! Coke isn’t produced here in Tahiti. Why would—” Tama’s voice trailed off and his face grew thoughtful. “I see what you mean,” he said at last, poking idly at his tarte tatin. “Someone, let’s say Monsieur X, has brought in some dope for transhipment, or even for distribution here. Someone else, Monsieur Y, let’s say, knows this and roughly where the dope is but not exactly where it is. And Monsieur Y wants it for himself. So Monsieur Y steals the dog to sniff it out. Brilliant, Opuu, that’s really a terrific idea.” He leaned forward. “But now what? We’ve got a whole island, plus an archipelago of another hundred and fourteen islands covering an area as big as Europe from Portugal to Moscow, with two hundred thousand people on them. And half of them seem to own German shepherds. Why couldn’t this damned sniffer be a big white French poodle? Or a three-legged Labrador?”
“Why don’t we offer a reward for the sighting of every German shepherd? It’d take a lot of work to check them all out, but sooner or later—”
“If we did that, whoever stole him would just kill the dog out of hand and bury him. No, Opuu, we’ve got to think our way to this dog.”
“Hrmph,” snorted the inspector, sounding almost like his superior. “So let’s think then. Here’s what I think: No Tahitian would come within a mile of the damned thing. So that eliminates, what? One hundred and eighty out of the two hundred thousand people you mentioned? And most Chinese are just as afraid of dogs as Tahitians are, so that eliminates another—”
“Unless, of course, they’re a member of the Kennel Club,” muttered Tama around a mouthful of pie.
“The Kennel Club?”
“Those characters you see in the newspapers every now and then showing off their dogs and all the tricks they’ve been taught. Most of the dogs seem to be German shepherds, if I remember the pictures right, and there are all sorts of members in the Club — mostly French, but some Chinese and some Tahitians too. None of them would be afraid to steal a great big dog.”
“Hmmm,” murmured Opuu, sipping his coffee. “But where does that get us?”
“Let’s just see,” said Tama, suddenly incisive. “You’ve got your phone with you?”
The inspector rummaged through the attache case he had placed beneath the table and handed over a dark green phone. “I’ve got a cousin, I think, who belongs to this dog club,” rumbled the Commissaire. “I’ll get the switchboard to track her down.”
Three phone calls later, Tama returned the phone to Opuu. “We’re in luck — the secretary of the club is the director of the Territorial Office of Statistics. If there’s anyone on this island who’s organized, it’s him.” The Commissaire pushed himself to his feet. “I don’t dare go back to the office — let’s go see this fellow Beaudenon.”
“The TOS is down in the old Donald Building. Shall I get the car?”
“For half a mile? It’d take us all day to get through the traffic — we’ll walk.”
Monsieur le Directeur de l’Office Territoriale des Statistiques was a roly-poly little Corsican with thick spectacles and a toothy grin who had once been a nationally ranked tennis player in France and was still the island’s best player. He was also, Tama discovered to his dismay, the president of the local Macintosh Club as well as being secretary to the Kennel Club.
“Look,” said Gerard Beaudenon, hunched over a bank of Macintosh computers that took up an entire wall of his corner office. “Here’s a list of all this year’s members. These are the ones who’ve paid their dues. Here’s the kind of dogs they have. Here’s how long they’ve been members. Here’s the prizes they’ve won, listed by—”
“Very impressive,” interrupted Tama. “I told Opuu you were the most organized man on the island.” He rubbed his chin as he scowled at the brightly colored computer screen. “Tell me this: Could you give us a list of everyone who’s ever been a member of the club, even if they’re no longer members?”
“I can tell you what kind of toothpaste they use to clean their dogs’ teeth! All I have to do is merge my annual membership records, sort the new list, and then eliminate the duplications. With a Macintosh you can—”
“Could you also give us their addresses and phone numbers?” asked Tama hastily before the Frenchman could expound further upon the marvels of his machine.
“Of course. The only problem is that I’ve only been secretary for four years now. Before then we don’t have any lists at all. So all I can give you is data I’ve entered myself.” As he talked, his fingers flashed across the keyboard and groups of names scrolled down the screen. “What font do you want it printed up in? What size? How many copies?”