“No,” said Amanda, with a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. “I’m sure he can’t have. I think he’s just come up to say hallo to father.”
“Ah, my sweet ones,” said Steropes, beaming fondly at the two children. “Is your father at home? I would very much like to talk to him.”
“Yes, Inspector,” said Amanda meekly. “He’s out on the terrace painting.”
“Is it permitted to interrupt him?” inquired Steropes.
“Oh, yes,” said Amanda. “It doesn’t matter how often you interrupt him, the paintings are still as bad,”
“You shouldn’t say that,” said the Inspector, shocked, “Your father is a very fine artist.”
He made his way out on to the terrace where the General was putting the finishing touches to a sunset that looked like an atomic explosion.
“My dear Inspector,” said the General, putting down his paint brushes and limping forward to shake hands. “How very nice to see you.”
“If you would be so kind as to let me interrupt your work for a few minutes?” asked Steropes.
“Of course, my dear chap,” said the General.
He took his pipe out of his pocket and beat a rapid and complicated rhythm on his leg.
“Congo,” he explained to the Inspector. “What they call talking-drums. They send messages by them. I’ve just been teaching my wife. We’ll see if it works. Sit down, sit down, do.”
At that moment Mrs Finchberry-White appeared on the terrace with a large tray of bottles and glasses.
“By Jove!” said the General in astonished delight, “you’ve got it, Agnes!”
“Got what, dear?” said Mrs Finchberry-White, bewildered.
“My message,” explained the General.
“What message?” asked Mrs Finchberry-White.
“The message to bring out the drinks,” said the General.
“Oh,” said Mrs Finchberry-White. “Oh, yes. Amanda told me.”
The General sighed sorrowfully.
“Have a drink, Inspector,” he said.
They sat sipping their ouzos for a moment and the Inspector made polite comments about the General’s latest painting.
“Tell me,” asked the General, “what brings you to Kalanero!”
“Well,” said the Inspector, “that’s really what I came to see you about. I’m here investigating one of the worst crimes of my career.”
“By George! Really!” asked the General.
“Is it possible that you haven’t heard about the donkeys?” inquired the Inspector.
“Donkeys!” said the General blankly. “What donkeys?”
“All the donkeys of Kalanero,” said the Inspector, making an all-embracing gesture with his arms and nearly upsetting his think. “They’ve all been stolen by Communists.”
The General screwed his monocle firmly into his eye and surveyed the Inspector.
“You don’t say?” he inquired.
“Indeed, yes,” said the Inspector. “I’ve been investigating for the past twenty-four hours without success and so I came to ask for your advice. For, after all, you are a compatriot of Sherlock Holmes.”
“I keep telling you,” said the General with a long-suffering air, “that Sherlock Holmes is an entirely imaginary character.”
“Ah, he couldn’t be entirely imaginary,” said the Inspector, “not with such brilliant powers of mind. I intend some day to go to London and see the place where he lived. But, to return to the donkeys. As I have so far met with no success in my investigations (and you can rest assured that I have left no stone unturned) I would be most grateful for your advice.”
The General took his monocle out, polished it carefully and replaced it, frowning slightly.
“My dear Inspector,” he said, “I come here once a year for a little peace and quiet in order to paint. During my sojourn I endeavour not to get mixed up in any island politics. The first year they tried to get me to decide whose cow belonged to who. The second year they wanted me to decide whether Papa Yorgo had swindled Papa Nikos out of three hundredweight of olives and the third year they wanted me to decide whether it was right that Kouzos should put a lock on his well so that nobody could drink out of it. On all three occasions I refused to participate, so I really don’t see how I could help you with your problem.”
Amanda and David, standing behind the half-closed shutters of the living-room, were listening to this conversation with bated breath.
“That’s a jolly good thing,” whispered Amanda. “With Father helping him, he might get somewhere.”
“But, General,” pleaded the Inspector, “my whole future depends upon you. If I solve this case successfully, who knows, it might get to the ears of my superiors in Athens and I might even earn a promotion.”
The General got to his feet, lit his pipe and limped slowly down the terrace, the Inspector loping along beside him. Amanda and David were mortified, for as their father and the Inspector paced up and down, they could only hear snatches of the conversation.
“. . . and similar cases,” said the General, “frequently happens . . . I remember once in Bangalore, where I lost my leg . . . However, this is what you should do . . .”
They strained their ears, but they could not hear what it was the General was suggesting. Presently the Inspector, wreathed in smiles, took his leave.
The Finchberry-Whites sat down to lunch. Amanda and David glanced uneasily at each other, for their father seemed in a particularly good mood. He kept humming snatches of “The Road to Mandalay” in between mouthfuls of food.
“What did the Inspector want, Father?” asked Amanda at last, her curiosity getting the better of her.
“The Inspector?” asked the General. “Oh, he just popped in to pass the time of day and ask my advice on a little problem.”
“Were you able to help him, dear?” inquired Mrs Finchberry-White.
“Oh, I think so,” said the General airily.
Amanda and David gulped their food down and hurriedly left the table. It was obvious that the General was not going to disclose what his advice had been, so their only hope was to stick as close to the Inspector as possible. They ran down to Yani’s house and panted out the news to him. Then the three of them made their way to the village. Here they found that the Inspector had called an extraordinary meeting of the village council. Needless to say, most of the village attended it as well.
“Now,” said the Inspector, clenching his pipe firmly between his teeth, “as I have said before, this case has many unusual aspects. I have endeavoured, as you know, to solve it by the most modern and up-to-date methods of detection. But detection, as you know, is based upon fair play and Communists, as you know, don’t even comprehend the meaning of the word. That has been our undoing.”
“Quite right, quite right,” agreed Papa Yorgo. “I remember once having my entire strawberry crop stolen by a man from Melissa who was an avowed Communist. As the Inspector says, they have no sense of fair play.”