The 101 Dalmatians (5 page)

Nanny Cook also went to the window, intending to point out the nearest way into the park. As she did so, she noticed a small black van standing in front of the house. At that very moment it drove off at a great pace.

Cruella suddenly seemed in a hurry. She almost ran out of the house and down the front-door steps.

“Can't think how she can move so fast, huddled in all those furs,” thought Nanny Cook, closing the front door. “And those poor pups, in only their own thin little skins, catching their death of cold.”

She hurried down to the kitchen and opened the door to the area.

Not a pup was in sight.

“They're playing me a trick. They're hiding,” Nanny Cook told herself. But she knew there was nowhere for fifteen puppies to hide. All the same, she looked behind every tub of shrubs—where not even a mouse could have hidden. The gate at the top of the steps was firmly closed—and no pup could possibly have opened it. Still, she ran up to the street and searched wildly.

“They've been stolen, I know they have!” she moaned, bursting into tears. “They must have been in that black van I saw driving away.”

Cruella de Vil seemed to have changed her mind about going into the park. She was already halfway back to her own house, walking very fast indeed.

THROUGH her tears, Nanny Cook stared towards the park. She could now see Mrs. Dearly, Nanny Butler, and the three dogs, who had just turned for home. It seemed a strange and terrible thing that they could be strolling along so happily, when every step brought them nearer to such dreadful news.

As they came across the Outer Circle, Nanny Cook ran to meet them—crying so much that Mrs. Dearly found it hard to understand what had happened. The dogs heard the word “puppies,” saw Nanny Cook's tears, and rushed down to the area. Then they went dashing over the whole house, searching, searching. Every few minutes Missis and Perdita howled, and Pongo barked furiously.

While the dogs searched and the Nannies cried on each other's shoulders, Mrs. Dearly telephoned Mr. Dearly. He came home at once, bringing with him one of the Top Men from Scotland Yard. The Top Man found a bit of sacking on the area railings and said the puppies must have been dropped into sacks and driven away in the black van. He promised to Comb the Underworld, but warned the Dearlys that stolen dogs were seldom recovered unless a reward was offered. A reward seemed an unreasonable thing to offer to a thief, but Mr. Dearly was willing to offer it.

He rushed to Fleet Street and had large advertisements put on the front pages of the evening papers (this was rather expensive) and arranged for even larger advertisements to be on the front pages of the next day's morning papers (this was even more expensive). Beyond this, there seemed nothing he or Mrs. Dearly could do except try to comfort each other and comfort the Nannies and the dogs. Soon the Nannies stopped crying and joined in the comforting, and prepared beautiful meals which nobody felt like eating. And at last night fell on the stricken household.

Worn out, the three dogs lay in their baskets in front of the kitchen fire.

“Think of my baby Cadpig in a sack,” said Missis with a sob.

“Her big brother Patch will take care of her,” said Pongo soothingly—though he felt most unsoothed himself.

“Lucky is so brave, he will bite the thieves,” wailed Perdita. “And then they will kill him.”

“No, they won‘t,” said Pongo. “The pups were stolen because they are valuable. No one will kill them. They are only valuable while they are alive.”

But even as he said this, a terrible suspicion was forming in his mind. And it grew and grew as the night wore on. Long after Missis and Perdita, utterly exhausted, had fallen asleep, he lay awake, staring at the fire, chewing the wicker of his basket as a man might have smoked a pipe.

Anyone who did not know Pongo well would have thought him handsome, amusing, and charming, but not particularly clever. Even the Dearlys did not quite realize the depths of his mind. He was often still so puppyish. He would run after balls and sticks, climb into laps far too small to hold him, roll over on his back to have his stomach scratched. How was anyone to guess that this playful creature owned one of the keenest brains in Dogdom?

It was at work now. All through the long December night he put two and two together and made four. Once or twice he almost made five.

He had no intention of alarming Missis and Perdita with his suspicions. Poor Pongo! He not only suffered on his own account, as a father; he also suffered on the account of two mothers. (For he had come to feel the puppies had two mothers, though he never felt he had two wives—he looked on Perdita as a much loved young sister.) He would say nothing about his worst fears until he was quite sure. Meanwhile, there was an important task ahead of him. He was still planning it when the Nannies came down to start another day.

As a rule, this was a splendid time—with the fire freshly made, plenty of food around, and the puppies at their most playful. This morning—well, as Nanny Butler said, it just didn't bear thinking about. But she thought about it, and so did everybody else in that pupless house.

No good news came during the day, but the Dearlys were surprised and relieved to find that the dogs ate well. (Pongo had been firm: “You girls have got to keep your strength up.”) And there was an even greater surprise in the afternoon. Pongo and Missis showed very plainly that they wanted to take the Dearlys for a walk. Perdita did not. She was determined to stay at home in case any pup returned and was in need of a wash.

Cold weather had come at last—Christmas was only a week away.

“Missis must wear her coat,” said Mrs. Dearly.

It was a beautiful blue coat with a white binding; Missis was very proud of it. Coats had been bought for Pongo and Perdita too. But Pongo had made it clear he disliked wearing his.

So the coat was put on Missis, and both dogs were dressed in their handsome chain collars. And then they put the Dearlys on their leashes and led them into the park.

From the first it was quite clear the dogs knew just where they wanted to go. Very firmly they led the way right across the park, across the road, and to the open space which is called Primrose Hill. This did not surprise the Dearlys as it had always been a favourite walk. What did surprise them was the way Pongo and Missis behaved when they got to the top of the hill. They stood side by side and they barked.

They barked to the north, they barked to the south, they barked to the east and west. And each time they changed their positions they began the barking with three very strange short, sharp barks.

“Anyone would think they were signalling,” said Mr. Dearly.

But he did not really mean it. And they
were
signalling.

Many people must have noticed how dogs like to bark in the early evening. Indeed, twilight has sometimes been called “Dogs' Barking Time.” Busy town dogs bark less than country dogs, but all dogs know all about the Twilight Barking. It is their way of keeping in touch with distant friends, passing on important news, enjoying a good gossip. But none of the dogs who answered Pongo and Missis expected to enjoy a gossip, for the three short, sharp barks meant “Help! Help! Help!”

No dog sends that signal unless the need is desperate. And no dog who hears it ever fails to respond.

Within a few minutes the news of the stolen puppies was travelling across England, and every dog who heard at once turned detective. Dogs living in London's Underworld (hard-bitten characters, also hard-biting) set out to explore sinister alleys where dog thieves lurk. Dogs in Pet Shops hastened to make quite sure all puppies offered for sale were not Dalmatians in disguise. And dogs who could do nothing else swiftly handed on the news, spreading it through London and on through the suburbs, and on, on to the open country: “Help! Help! Help! Fifteen Dalmatian puppies stolen. Send news to Pongo and Missis Pongo, of Regent's Park, London. End of message.”

Pongo and Missis hoped all this would be happening. But all they really knew was that they had made contact with the dogs near enough to answer them, and that those dogs would be standing by, at twilight the next evening, to relay any news that had come along.

One Great Dane, over towards Hampstead, was particularly encouraging.

“I have a chain of friends all over England,” he said in his great, booming bark. “And I will be on duty day and night. Courage, courage, O Dogs of Regent's Park!”

It was almost dark now. And the Dearlys were suggesting—very gently—that they should be taken home. So after a few last words with the Great Dane, Pongo and Missis led the way down Primrose Hill. The dogs who had answered them were silent now, but the Twilight Barking was spreading in an ever-widening circle. And tonight it would not end with twilight. It would go on and on as the moon rose high over England.

The next day a great many people who had read Mr. Dearly's advertisements rang up to sympathize. (Cruella de Vil did, and seemed most upset when she was told the puppies had been stolen while she was talking to Nanny Cook.) But no one had anything helpful to say. And Scotland Yard was Frankly Baffled. So it was another sad, sad day for the Dearlys, the Nannies, and the dogs.

Just before dusk, Pongo and Missis again showed that they wished to take the Dearlys for a walk. So off they started, and again the dogs led the way to the top of Primrose Hill. And again they stood side by side and gave three sharp barks. But this time, though no human ear could have detected it, they were slightly different barks. And they meant, not “Help! Help! Help!” but “Ready! Ready! Ready!”

The dogs who had collected news from all over London replied first. Reports had come in from the West End and the East End and south of the Thames. And all these reports were the same.

“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo of Regent's Park. No news of your puppies. Deepest regrets. End of message.”

Poor Missis! She had hoped so much that her pups were still in London. Pongo's secret suspicion had led him to pin his hopes to news from the country. And soon it was pouring in—some of it relayed across London. But it was always the same.

“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo of Regent's Park. No news of your puppies. Deepest regrets. End of message.”

Again and again Pongo and Missis barked the “Ready!” signal, each time with fresh hope. Again and again came bitter disapointment. At last only the Great Dane over towards Hampstead remained to be heard from. They signalled to him—their last hope!

Back came his booming bark.

“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo of Regent's Park. No news of your puppies. Deepest regrets. End of—”

The Great Dane stopped in mid-bark. A second later he barked again. “Wait! Wait Wait!”

Dead still, their hearts thumping, Pongo and Missis waited. They waited so long that Mr. Dearly put his hand on Pongo's head and said, “What about coming home, boy?” For the first time in his life, Pongo jerked his head from Mr. Dearly's hand, then went on standing stock still. And at last the Great Dane spoke again, booming triumphantly through the fast gathering dusk.

“Calling Pongo and Missis Pongo. News! News at last! Stand by to receive details.”

A most wonderful thing had happened. Just as the Great Dane had been about to sign off, a Pomeranian with a piercing yap had got a message through to him. She had heard it from a Poodle who had heard it from a Boxer who had heard it from a Pekinese. Dogs of almost every known breed had helped to carry the news—and a great many dogs of unknown breed (none the worse for that, and all of them bright as buttons). In all, four hundred and eighty dogs had relayed the message, which had travelled over sixty miles as the dog barks. Each dog had given the “Urgent” signal, which had silenced all gossiping dogs. Not that many dogs were merely gossiping that night; almost all the Twilight Barking had been about the missing puppies.

This was the strange story that now came through to Pongo and Missis: Some hours earlier, an elderly English Sheepdog, living on a farm in a remote Suffolk village, had gone for an afternoon amble. He knew all about the missing puppies and had just been discussing them with the tabby cat at the farm. She was a great friend of his.

Some little way from the village, on a lonely heath, was an old house completely surrounded by an unusually high wall. Two brothers, named Saul and Jasper Baddun lived there, but were merely caretakers for the real owner. The place had an evil reputation—no local dog would have dreamed of putting its nose inside the tall iron gates. In any case, these gates were always kept locked.

It so happened that the Sheepdog's walk took him past this house. He quickened his pace, having no wish to meet either of the Badduns. And at that moment, something came sailing out over the high wall.