“I am interested in all good works, Mr Charles, within the modest territorial limits of this pleasant little town. And when I observe one that attracts the keen attention of Europe’s third biggest food corporation, I think I may be forgiven for being curious.”
A smile spread slowly over Charles’s face. “You don’t know what it means, do you? R.I.P. You’d like to trick me into telling you.” There was something challenging, goading almost, in his amusement.
“The prevalent disease of abbreviation,” replied Miss Teatime with dignity, “has been propagated by those same agencies of public befuddlement that are so diligently demolishing syntax, proliferating pseudo-scientific jargon, and evolving ever more intimidating gobbledegook for use by gangsters posing as captains of commerce. There is not anything discreditable in failing to translate one of their wretched cyphers.”
“No,” said Charles, simply, “there isn’t. But you mustn’t be so censorious. I am only trying to help.”
Miss Teatime reached for the telephone. “Will you kindly excuse me a moment; there is a matter on which I should like to set my mind at rest.”
She dialled.
“Ah, Mr Leaper... Yes, indeed it is. I hope you are getting along amicably with Mr Simon... Oh, has he?... Yes, I see... Now tell me, Mr Leaper—I am speaking of this little secret of ours—what exactly did Digger say the code letters R.I.P. stood for?” She smiled. “No, not Rest in Peace—I did realise that much... Imperial?... Ah, imperilled, yes... Of course, but how clever!” She listened a while longer, and nodded. “You are absolutely right—not a word to the Fuzz, naturally... And chow to you, Mr Leaper.”
She put down the phone and met Charles’s inquiring stare.
“So far as he is concerned,” she explained, “R.I.P. means ‘Rescue Imperilled Pets’. His late companions must have persuaded him to believe that he was helping them to abduct and preserve stray animals that otherwise would have been destroyed.”
“You think, do you, that he was deceived in believing that?”
“I know he was.”
“Why?”
“Because, whatever else the initials R.I.P. may represent, they most certainly have no reference to rescuing anything. The P stands not for Pets but for Protein. As you, Mr Charles, are well aware.”
“And what about the R and the I?”
“I shall work them out in time. I love puzzles.”
Charles took some moments off for thought. When he spoke again, it was with the air of having made an important decision.
“I am going to be more frank with you,” he said, “than your knowledge warrants. Partly because you have the intelligence to fill the gaps for yourself quite quickly. Partly because I don’t want you to suppose Cultox has anything to hide. What has happened here in Flaxborough boils down to this—a bit of disloyalty—a bit of trouble-making. Nothing more, believe me. So here’s your lecture.
“P for Protein, you say. And you’re right. P for Protein it is. And protein is an essential ingredient of animal feeding stuff. You do realise, I suppose, the absolutely fantastic scale of production of pet food in this country?”
“We are a kindly people, Mr Charles.”
He inclined his head. “And Cultox is glad of it. The supply problem exists, certainly, but the market is very profitable. Sufficiently profitable, it might be argued, to justify unorthodox methods. Which brings us, Miss Teatime”—Charles regarded his glass, turning it this way and that—“to the rather unpleasant core of this otherwise enjoyable dialogue of ours...”
He paused.
“Oh, dear,” she said.
“Which is,” said Charles at once, “the idea you’ve got into your head that there has been a conspiracy to include the flesh of domestic animals in the output of our Flaxborough plant.”
Miss Teatime stared at him. “I have suggested nothing so dreadful.”
“Only because you are clever enough to make everything sound suspicious without actually laying down an accusation.”
“You do me an injustice.”
“In that case, allow me to make amends by satisfying your curiosity.” He leaned back in his chair. “What would you like to know first?”
She considered. “Very well. Let us start, as a test of good faith, with R.I.P., shall we?”
“Re-cycled Indigenous Protein.”
The answer had come pat, like a delivery from a coin machine. Miss Teatime’s “Good gracious me!” followed only after several seconds of incredulous silence.
“Neatly put?” prompted Charles.
“Clever,” she conceded. “In a jargony sort of way.”
“But shocking?”
“Certainly. In context, quite abominable. Who thought it up? Not that chairman of yours, surely? The longest word Sir Malcolm ever mastered was money.”
“I hate to have to admit this, but it isn’t a Cultox phrase at all. It was invented by Parish-Biggs.” He looked up. “You’ve heard of them, I presume?”
Millers, seaweed processors, prefabricators of discotheques, publishers, manufacturers of soft drinks, tape cassettes, disinfectants and art prints. Miss Teatime had heard of Parish-Biggs.
“PB are diversifying into pet foods,” said Charles. “They’ve taken over LIK from Californian Cement, and now they’re after WOOF, but they naturally would like to reduce share prices first. A really damaging scandal could shave perhaps a million off Doggigrub’s market value.”
In response to Miss Teatime’s glance of inquiry, Charles handed her his glass. She poured, very steadily. He was silent while he watched the slow rise of the almost colourless spirit—it was the palest greeny-gold—then went on with his story.
“About a year ago, PB were recruiting a new batch of technical staff when they came across a young woman graduate whose home was in Flaxborough. They decided she was good material for their espionage division, gave her a few months’ training, and told her to plant herself in that dogs’ home place as a part-time helper—what do they call it?—kennel maid. Bobby Lintz was her name. Short for Roberta presumably. Her father’s a journalist.”
“He is the editor of the Flaxborough Citizen.”
“There’s glory for you,” said Charles, it seemed almost automatically. The remark interested Miss Teatime. It indicated, she thought, a degree of reversion to type, brought on by stress. Here was a man more sophisticated, more sardonic, than he cared to be thought. Was he, and not silent Simon, the dangerous one?
“Anyway,” he said, “she soon enlisted a helper. Apparently she has a very persuasive way with the opposite sex, if you see what I mean...”