Dogs Are Deep, Devious Creatures
By Leonard Wibberley
First Published November 3, 1978
11/7/2015
Years ago I was a newspaperman in England—of no great promise, but that’s the way things often are and you have to make the best of them.
My main occupation was trying to avoid the eye of the city editor lest he find me idle or give me an assignment that I could not possibly handle—like getting an exclusive interview with Mrs. Wallis Simpson on whether she was really in love with the Prince of Wales. It was that long ago.
One day, the city editor called me over to his desk and handed me a piece of paper.
“See what you can get out of that,” he said.
The piece of paper was a letter from a man in jail. He was serving a few months for burglary. His name was Cordy Bright and he was worried about his dog. Someone was taking care of his dog, but he didn't know how well and he would like to see it. Could someone from the newspaper bring the dog to see him on visiting day?
It took me two days to find the dog. Its name was Blackie and whoever was looking after it wasn’t doing such a good job. But I got Blackie at last and got a photographer and went to the jail and this resulted in a nice human-interest story about a soft-hearted burglar and his love for his dog.
After I got the story, there was the problem of what to do with the dog. I didn't feel like taking it back to the address in Islington where it had been allowed to roam the streets. So, in the end, I took it to my flat in High Holborn and kept it until Cordy was set free.
This was a hardship on me because the dog was a burglar too. It opened drawers and cupboards and ate my clothes and it even ate a print of Van Gogh's “Chrysanthemums,” which I had bought to liven up my drab flat.
But, at last, Cordy was released and I restored Blackie to him. Cordy said he'd fine some way to repay my kindness, so help me God.
The newspaper I was working on was the Sunday Express, so our hard news day was Saturday. One Saturday I got a telephone call from Cordy.
“I haven't forgotten how kind you was to me and Blackie,” he said. “I got a scoop for you. I'm going to knock over Lloyds Bank on Leandenhall Street this afternoon. Bye.”
Well, a bank robbery in the city on a dull Saturday afternoon is front-page news for the London edition and I'd never made the front page. I didn't have an account at Lloyds (mine was at Barclays on Fleet Street) and that was something to bear in mind.
As a matter of fact, Lloyds had refused me a small loan when I was in my usual financial state—which was one inch short of desperation.
I sneaked out and had a short beer at the Mucky Duck (officially the White Swan) while I thought the thing over. We had a top crime reporter on the Express whose name actually was Jack Frost and he was in the Mucky Duck speculating on the availability of the barmaid, which was a subject of speculation all up and down Fleet Street.
I told him the story and asked his advice. “If he's caught, you'll wind up taking care of that dog again,” he said.
“Oh no I won't,” I replied.
“Oh yes you will. You're a pushover.” The barmaid, who had been listening (they all do), said, “You're a nice, kind gentleman, sir.” And then, to Jack, “Isn't it time to catch the train home to your wife, Mr. Frost?” (Barmaids were great protectors of domesticity in those days.)
I didn't go back to the office but, instead, went to the bank on Leandenhall Street. I hung around for awhile and Cordy turned up with Blackie and a sledgehammer.
“I'm going through the roof,” he said. “It's like opening a can of sardines. You do it from the top.”
“Cordy,” I said. “I'm not going to take care of the dog again.”
He looked puzzled. “I'm only doing it for you,” he said. “To get you a story. You know. Tit for tat.” (That wasn't true, but that's what be said.)
“I don't need a story that bad. So forget it,” I replied.
A lone policeman rounded the corner, and Cordy gave him the sledgehammer. “Found it,” he said. “Belongs to the Lord Mayor.” Off he went and Lloyds Bank was saved.
Thinking the whole thing over, I give the credit to the dog. I think it messed up my apartment for months so I wouldn't take care of it any more so Cordy wouldn't run the risk of knocking over any more banks.
Dogs are deep and devious creatures and interfere in human affairs far more than most of us realize.
(Next time I was at Lloyds looking for a loan, I told the bank manager the whole story, but I didin’t get the loan. Plainly he believed that the credit belonged to the dog too.)
Leonard wrote a series of murder mysteries about a priest-turned-amateur detective named Father Bredder who both solves crimes and saves souls under the pen name Leonard Holton.
Deliver Us From Wolves — the third and possibly the best book in the series — is now available on Kindle.
Description:
When Father Bredder leaves his California parish for a visit to the shrine of Fatima in Portugal, he is asked by the local bishop to investigate a murder blamed on werewolves by the superstitious locals in a remote village, complete with medieval castle and an elegant countess with a passion for racing cars.
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