Chapter Three
The day had become overcast by the time they stepped outside again.
Evening was fast approaching, driving ominous-looking clouds before it. Remi scowled at the grey sky overhead, keeping a tight hold on the scarf that an insistent breeze was trying to unwind from around his neck. More than that, he valued the typewriter and camera he carried in his bag; he certainly didn't want them rained on.
Though the way back to the office was familiar to him, he felt a strange sense of dislocation as he walked along the same old streets. He attributed it to the two unlikely companions he had by his side. In his time, he had worked with many junior reporters, had mentored many news cadets, each with their own peculiar habits and quirks.
But an escape-artist of a mutt, and a cadet who adopted stray animals ? Never, in his long career, had he been allied with such unlikely workmates as this.
As he walked, he appraised the pair with a sideways glance.
The dog ambled along in close proximity to his ankle, keeping its own pace. Every so often it ran ahead, giving chase after a squirrel or a pigeon that dared venture down onto the pavement, until its quarry invariably vanished up a tree or took to the air. Other times it hung back, snuffling interestedly at dropped crumbs, investigating open lids on dustbins. Despite these frequent diversions, it kept close by them, gambolling about their feet in a way that seemed to proclaim ownership of them. Remi couldn't help but smile at its antics, though he was rather chagrined to suddenly find himself the secondary caretaker of a very energetic little dog.
His co-worker had no such reservations. Martin was watching the dog's every move, an ecstatic grin spread wide across his face. He looked, to Remi's shrewd eye, more than a little besotted with it. He finally raised his glance from the pup scampering ahead of him, to find Remi watching him steadily. He hastily rearranged him features, managing to look apologetic - even rather guilty.
"I'm very sorry, Mr. Remi," he said, with genuine remorse. "I really should have asked your permission before taking him, since looking after a dog will likely affect my work. I certainly don't want it to be a bother to you around the office. If I hadn't been asked on the spot, I would certainly have given it far more consideration. The newspaper must come first, of course, so if you want me to take him back-"
"No," Remi said, a little more hastily than he meant to, making the boy start and stare at him. He caught himself, realizing for the first time just how glad he was to have the lop-eared little creature alongside them. It was a distraction, no doubt; but a surprisingly welcome one. He rather liked dogs, and this one seemed to be a plucky little thing. "No," he said again, more matter-of-factly this time, "there's no need for that. I honestly don't mind having him along. He seems well-behaved, at least."
He watched the dog dash ahead and launch himself at a sparrow that was perched on a nearby lamp post; unable to reach it, he settled for yapping incessantly at it until it flew away, trotting back to them with an unmistakably smug look upon his face. Remi grinned, before adding: "I just hope this isn't going to happen on every one of our assignments. One little dog is fine, but I don't want to be dragging along a whole menagerie."
Martin smiled too, looking very much relieved. "That depends on how many pet store owners we interview - heaven forbid a story should take us to the zoo!"
"Hmph," Remi muttered, letting this bit of cheek slide. "I guess it also depends on how many biscuits you can carry. Lucky you had them on you."
Martin inclined his head in a demurring sort of way, patting his pocket; hearing a faint rustle of paper, the dog raised its head, looking hopeful. "Boy scout's motto: always be prepared. You never know when you might need a snack." He glanced up at the sky above; it seemed to be glowering back down at him. "At the moment, though, I think I'd rather an umbrella."
"You think it's likely to rain?" Remi asked, eying the bag slung over Martin's shoulder worriedly.
"I'm not sure; but in Scouts, they taught us to recognize different types of clouds. That big one there looks like a cumulonimbus, and when they form, it usually means th-"
A sudden gust of wind buffeted them; it was strong enough, and cold enough, to cut him off in mid-sentence. A moment later, an ominous rumble sounded overhead, and all at once heavy rain began to fall around them, as if a facet had been turned on directly over their heads.
"Quick, this way!" Remi shouted. He broke into a run, holding his collar closed with one hand, checking his casebook was safely tucked into his pocket with the other. He didn't look around, though the thud of footsteps and occasional splash of a puddle told him that the boy was following close behind. Given the scamper of paws and the few excited yips he heard on his other side, it seemed the dog was doing the same.
They dashed across a narrow lane, rounded the corner of a large brick guildhall, and hurtled down an alleyway. Martin obediently followed Remi's lead, trusting that he had a destination in mind. Sure enough, the senior reporter came to a stop beneath a wide awning that jutted out over a small antique shop. The store itself was closed, but the awning offered them adequate shelter.
"Alright there?" Remi asked, looking around at his colleague as he shook out the sodden lapels of his coat. It took an effort to peel his saturated collar away from the back of his neck; he felt as if he had just swum across the Bruxelles-Charleroi Canal.
"Yes, sir," Martin said, huddling under the awning beside him, blinking wet strands of red hair out of his eyes. He knew what his superior was really asking; as he ran, he had bundled the bag of equipment in the folds of his coat and held it close to his body, protecting it from the wet as best he could. He unwrapped it now; to the relief of them both, it was mostly dry.
"Good," Remi said, approvingly. The lad may be idealistic and somewhat naive, but at least he's practical...
"The dog!" Martin exclaimed, abruptly breaking in on his thoughts. "Where is the dog?!"
He craned his head around frantically, searching the dim alleyway for a flash of white fur. Remi did the same, rapidly becoming more than a little concerned; then he glanced downward, and laughed.
"There he is!" he said, pointing. Martin also looked down, and found a black nose poking out from beneath the hem of his coat. The dog had positioned itself squarely between his feet, using him as its own personal umbrella.
"Thank goodness!" Martin breathed a relieved sigh, patting the terrier's head with his free hand. It too was soaked; its thick white fur stood up in points, and the tips of its ears were dripping.
"Clever dog," Remi said, with a chuckle. Looking suddenly thoughtful, he added: "Are you going to give that clever mutt a name? It would be a bother if he ran off again and we had no way to call him back."
"You're right. I'd better come up with something as soon as possible." Martin looked down at the dog, frowning in concentration; it turned to face him, watching him expectantly. "How about... Rex?" he tried, experimentally. The dog looked unimpressed; it tilted its head at a disapproving angle. "I guess not. Well then, let's try... Rover? Max? Bailey? Bowser? Pero? Gus? Albus? Blanchet? Alvin? Emile? um... Fluffy?"
The dog did not appreciate any of these suggestions; it gave him a withering glare, snuffed in disgust, and drew its head beneath the hem of his coat.
Remi was by now doubled up with laughter; he tried to contain his mirth when he caught sight of the lad's disappointed face, only to quickly lose himself again. Martin wore a wry expression, though he too saw the humour in the situation. "I guess it'll take some time to find the right one," he said, mildly.
"It looks that way," Remi agreed, straightening again with one last hearty chuckle.
Turning his attention to more pressing matters, he attempted to wring out his waterlogged scarf; it now felt twice as heavy around his neck. Realizing just how soaked he was, Martin reached up and took off his sodden cap, fixing his hair in the reflection of the shop window. His quiff had been flattened against his head by the rain, but after running a hand through it a few times, it stood up quite straight again. He began feeling through his pockets, checking that none of his belongings - his watch, his notepad, his handkerchief - had been ruined by the damp.
As he dipped into his coat pocket, something - more than one something - unexpectedly brushed against his hand. With a puzzled frown, he pushed aside the crumpled biscuit wrapper - now empty, to the disappointment of the dog - and pulled out two things: a large red feather, and a scrap of yellow-brown fabric.
He blinked in surprise at them. He didn't remember putting them there; he must have distractedly stuffed them into his pocket when the dog had first broken free of its crate. As if to remind him of the incident, the dog, at the sight of these objects, made a low grumbling in its throat. Martin stared at it, then at the items in his hand. He took the feather and held it in front of the dog's face. It sniffed it once, then fastened its gaze on Martin's other hand, its hackles raised.
The boy examined the scrap of cloth carefully. It was the same fragment that he had disentangled from the dog's jaws; no wonder he hated it. He wondered how it got th-
Martin's head suddenly sprung up at attention, causing the dog to utter a surprised yelp. A thought had just occurred to him...
"Mr. Remi?" he said, his eyes never leaving the rag in his hand.
"Hmm?" Remi answered without bothering to turn around, trying - in vain - to brush some of the moisture from his hat.
"Have a look at this."
Remi did so, though he did not deign to touch the rag himself. Having examined it as asked, he wrinkled his nose in distaste. "You got that out of the dog's mouth, didn't you? Better get rid of it, it's not very sanitary to keep it around."
The dog, insulted, muttered a low protest which he alone understood. Martin looked at Remi as if he had just uttered something absurd. "Throw it away? But... it's evidence, isn't it?"
It was Remi's turn to stare incredulously at his cadet. "Evidence...? Whatever do you mean?"
"Well..." Martin began, slowly. He hadn't yet had time to put his hastily-formed theory into words; he carefully sought the best way to explain. "Well, that scrap of fabric was caught in the dog's mouth. Mrs Hubbard said that the dog's cage was right near the door when the robbers struck; so close to it, in fact, that their car put a hole in it. That was why the dog had to be transferred to the crate instead."
"Which didn't last long either," Remi remarked. The dog gave them a sheepish look; Remi couldn't tell if it was ashamed of the destruction it had wrought, or bashfully proud of its handiwork.
"Yes, well... If you look closely, this fabric appears to be tweed, with a yellow and brown checked pattern. But beside the brown... there is something here, at the edge, that looks like... well, like a few drops of blood..."
Remi, who had been reaching out for the rag to take a closer look, hastily recoiled. "Ugh. And your point is...?"
"My point is that... perhaps... the dog managed to bite one of the thieves during the robbery. It would explain why he reacted so strongly every time someone came into the store; he thought the robbers were coming back, and wanted another go at them. Just look at how he hates this bit of cloth."
Sure enough, the dog's ears were flat against its head in a doggy-glower, and it rumbled like thunder at the scrap in Martin's hand. Or perhaps it really was thunder; Remi couldn't quite tell, with the storm still roiling away overhead. He eyed his companion sceptically. "This is all mere speculation, lad. You don't know it for fact."
"But what if that is what happened?" the boy pressed on, insistent. "This could be an important clue. If we take it to the police, they might be able to-"
"-arrest every man in Brussels who owns a yellow-checked suit?" Remi interrupted, his tone scathing. "I hardly think they would appreciate such a wild-goose chase, all over a little bit of cloth you got from a dog's mouth." Seeing how crestfallen the lad looked after his interruption, he quickly smiled and went on, as graciously as he could, "My dear boy, the police would laugh in your face. You do realize how unlikely it all sounds, don't you?"
"I suppose it does," Martin admitted, more than a little reluctantly. "But, I mean... it's possible, isn't it?"
"Certainly it's possible," Remi conceded, his tone a trifle impatient, "but even if it is a piece of the robber's suit, it's not your place to go chasing it up. It's your job to report the news, not go around making it up. We have all the data we need for a good, solid article. I'm sure they'll fit it in well before the financial report; I seem to recall having a few inches to spare on page 10. But we have neither the time nor the column space to go gadding about, playing detective. You can pester the police with your little fragment if you must, but I'm sure they will have many other leads by now. Let them do their job, and you stick to yours."
By now, the boy was looking at his shoes; the dog peered worriedly up from between them, whining softly. Worried that he had come down a bit too harshly, Remi clapped a hand on Martin's shoulder. "Don't get so invested in every case you cover, my boy. As a reporter, it's your job to write about other people's problems, and once you have the lines you need, that is where your interest in them has to end. You can't possibly solve every puzzle you come across, so don't even think of trying. Journalistic work requires a certain amount of objectivity and discretion; you're not being paid to unnecessarily stick your nose into other people's business, however well intended. I know you feel sorry for Mrs Hubbard and the other animals, but I'm sure the whole thing will be sorted out in no time."
Martin heaved a sigh and smiled thinly. "I hope it does. Sorry, Mr Remi. I just thought, if I could help-"
"Who knew that being in Scouts could make one so gallant?" Remi retorted; the boy managed to chuckle deprecatingly at that. "All's well, lad. Just keep your mind on your immediate duties. Did you get some good notes down back at the store? While we wait for this infernal rain to ease up, you can check them over. It looks like we'll have quite some time to pass here yet."
Martin nodded, meekly pulling the notebook back out of his pocket and flipping it open to the page he had last used. After a few moments' reflection, he took out his pen and began scribbling something down on the next line. Remi noticed that, before he began writing furiously, he replaced the feather and the tweed scrap carefully back in his coat pocket.
Huh, he muttered inwardly, sharing a grin with a strange wood-carved statue in the antique dealer's window. Typical boy scout - guess he's not a litterer.
Author's note: y'see, this is what I meant about the dog's name. Send in your suggestions - I'm already nearly out of ideas, so I could use some help coming up with more names! Have fun with it, I'll try to use as many as I can!
Also, for those wondering, yes, the wooden statue in the antique store window is an oblique reference to 'The Broken Ear'. Probably not chronologically accurate, but I couldn't resist throwing it in!