Spencer Quinn - Thereby Hangs a Tail

thereby
hangs a tail

Also by Spencer Quinn
Dog on It

SPENCER QUINN
thereby
hangs a tail

A CHET & BERNIE MYSTERY

ARENA
ALLAN&UNWIN

First published in Australia and New Zealand by Allen & Unwin in 2010
First published in the United States in 2010 by Atria Books,
a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

Copyright Spencer Quinn 2010

The right of Spencer Quinn to be identified as Author of this Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher. The Australian Copyright Act 1968 (the Act) allows a maximum of one chapter or 10 per cent of this book, whichever is the greater, to be photocopied by any educational institution for its educational purposes provided that the educational institution (or body that administers it) has given a remuneration notice to Copyright Agency Limited (CAL) under the Act.

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Cataloguing-in-Publication details are available
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ISBN 978 1 74175 935 8

Printed in Australia by McPhersons Printing Group

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

This book is dedicated to Diana.

Contents

T he perp looked aroundwhat nasty little eyes he had!and saw there was nowhere to go. We were in some kind of warehouse, big and shadowy, with a few grimy high-up windows and tall stacks of machine parts. I couldnt remember how the warehouse fit in, exactly, or even what the whole case was all about; only knew beyond a doubt, from those nasty eyes and that sour end-of-the-line smell, a bit like those kosher pickles Bernie had with his BLTsId tried one; once was enough for the kosher pickles, although I always had time for a BLTthat this guy was the perp. I lunged forward and grabbed him by the pant leg. Case closed.

The perp cried out in pain, a horrible, high-pitched sound that made me want to cover my ears. Too bad I cant do that, but no complaintsIm happy the way I am (even if my ears dont match, something I found out about a while back but cant get into right now). The perps noises went on and on and finally it hit me that maybe I had more than just his pant leg. That happened sometimes: my teeth are probably longer than yours and sharper, too. What was that? Yes, the taste of blood. My mistake, but a very exciting one all the same.

Call him off ! the perp screamed. I give up.

Bernie came running up from behind. Good work, Chet, he said, huffing and puffing. Poor Berniehe was trying to give up smoking again but not having much luck.

Get him off ! Hes biting me!

Chet wouldnt bite, Bernie said. Not deliberately.

Not deliberately? What are you

On the other hand, round about now he usually likes to hear a confession.

Huh? Hes a goddamn dog.

Language, said Bernie.

Those nasty eyes shifted around, looking wild now. But hes a dog.

True, Bernie said.

I wagged my tail. And maybe, on account of the good mood I was inwhat was better than a job well done?shook my head from side to side a bit.

Aaiieeee! I confess! I confess!

To what?

To what? The El Camino jewel heist, for Christ sake.

El Camino jewel heist? said Bernie. Were here about the Bar J Guest Ranch arson.

That, too, said the perp. Just get him offa me.

Chet? Bernie said. Chet?

Oh, all right, but how about that taste, human blood? Addictive or what?

Hours later we had two checks, one for the arson, one for the jewel heist, and a good thing, too, because our finances were a messalimony, child support, a bad investment in some company with plans to make Hawaiian pants just like the Hawaiian shirts Bernie wears on special occasions, and not much work lately except for divorce cases, never any fun. We run a detective agency, me and Bernie, called the Little Detective Agency on account of Little being Bernies last name. My names Chet, pure and simple. Headquarters is our house on Mesquite Road, a nice place with a big tree out front, perfect for napping under, and the whole canyon easily accessible out back, if it just so happens someone left the gate open. And then, up in the canyonwell, say no more.

This calls for a celebration, Bernie said. How about a chew strip? Was that a serious question? Who says no to a chew strip? He opened the cupboard over the sink, where the chew strips were kept; at one time, a very nice time, theyd been on an open shelf, lower down. And while were at it... Uh-oh. Bernie reached for the bottle of bourbon, standing by the chew strip box.

We sat out back, watching the light change on the far side of the canyon as the sun went down, Bernie at the table sipping bourbon, me under it, trying to take my time with the chew strip. This wasnt any chew strip, but a high-end bacon-flavored rawhide chew from Rover and Company, an outfit owned by our buddy Simon something or other, whom wed met on a missing-persons case, our specialty. Bacon smellthe best there isrose all around me, like a dense cloud. I glanced up at Bernie through the glass tabletop. Could he smell it? Probably not. The puniness of his sense of smelland the sense of smell of humans in generalwas something Ive never gotten used to.

He looked down at me. Whats on your mind, boy? Ten to one youre thinking about how you chased that guy down. Wrong, but at that moment he reached over and scratched between my ears, right on a spot I hadnt even realized was desperate for scratching, so I gave my tail a thump. Bernie laughed. Read your mind, he said. Not close, but I didnt carehe could believe whatever he wanted as long as he kept up this scratching, digging his nails in just so, an expert. He stoppedtoo soon, always too soonand said, How about Dry Gulch? Hell, we earned it.

I was on my feet, gulping down what was left of the chew strip. The Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon was one of our favorites. They had a big wooden cowboy out frontId lifted my leg against him once, not good, I know, but just too tempting and a patio bar in back where my guys were welcome. We went in the Porschean old topless one that had replaced our not-quite-as-old topless one after it shot off a cliff on a day Ill never forget, although Ive actually forgotten most of it alreadybrown with yellow doors, Bernie driving, me riding shotgun. Loved riding shotgun: what was better than this? I stuck my head way up, into the wind: smells went by faster than I could sort them out, a kind of nose feast that Im afraid youll never

Hey, Chet, a little space, buddy.

Oops. Way over on Bernies side. I shifted closer to my door.

And ease up on the drooling.

Drooling? Me? I moved over as far as I could and sat stiffly the rest of the way, back straight, eyes forward, aloof. I wasnt alone in the drooling department, had seen Bernie drooling in his sleep more than once, and Leda, too, Bernies ex-wife, meaning humans drooled, big time. But had I ever made the slightest fuss about it, or thought less of them? You tell me.

We sat in the patio bar at the Dry Gulch Steakhouse and Saloon, Bernie on the end stool, me on the floor. The big summer heat not just heat but pressure, like a heavy blanket is always weighing down on youwas over, but it was still plenty hot and the cool tiles felt good. Bernie pointed across the street with his chin. Whats that?