Dogs and Canes

It was an exquisite piece of work. The walking cane had a polished ebony handle with mother of pearl detailing, and the stem was encased in finished ivory, right down to the ebony stopper. Okay, so it was a little gaudy, but in a way that absolutely screamed 'expensive'.

Detective Moriarty stared at it on his desk.

An octogenarian in the morgue, a harmless-looking dog in the pound, and a big question mark hanging over the whole lot. Moriarty could feel his ulcer growing just thinking about it.

Ordinarily, a dangerous dog file wouldn't fall into his caseload, but this one was a little quirky. The guy with the expensive cane was walking the dog along a beachfront road when it tore him apart without warning. But the mutt was an absolute cream puff -- Animal Services couldn't raise so much as a stifled yelp from it after hours of agitating. Yet witnesses swore the dog was out of control. What could possibly have enraged such a polite pooch?

The dog's owner was Gregory Robertson – a nice chap, also in his eighties, who seemed legitimately remorseful about his dog 'Jake' attacking the deceased.

"I feel just terrible about it, of course" he said to Moriarty. The old man shuffled back in to the lounge from the kitchen with a cup of tea in each hand. "Oh, I'm sorry, did you say you w-wanted sugar?"

Moriarty shook his head. "Straight is fine, thanks. So, you knew Patrick Learman well?" he asked.

Gregory placed the cups on the table and settled into his chair. "Oh yes. Well, we'd been friends for over f-fifty years I believe."

Moriarty scribbled in his notebook. "And why was he with Jake?"

"Patrick always walked him for me in the afternoons. He really looked f-forward to it, I'm sure."

"And where were you at the time?" Moriarty asked.

"I was at Jeffrey's flat, about a m-mile from here. I thought I'd stop in and say hello," he said. "Jeffrey is my grandson."

Later that day, Moriarty met with Jeffrey Robertson at his unit in the Sea Breeze apartments overlooking Coneshell beach.

"It was bizarre," Jeffrey said. "Grandpa never visits because I'm on the 8th floor. He's afraid of heights."

Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "And what did he do once he arrived?"

"He said something about wanting to look at the view, and went out on to the balcony. Can you believe that? This guy has the worst vertigo, and he's out there wobbling on the balcony!"

Moriarty walked out onto the balcony and had a look around. The view was quite nice, with the rolling surf, sandy beaches, and roads below. He was surprised to find that he could quite clearly see the place where Patrick was attacked, between a parking bay and a phone booth.

"And then?" Moriarty asked.

"Well, he just looked out – no, wait, he was looking down actually. Sort of, down at the beach front I think." Jeffrey nodded to himself, replaying the event in his mind. "And then he came inside and asked to use the phone."

"And he used it?"

"Oh yeah, he made a call, but he didn't actually talk or anything. I guess nobody was home."

Moriarty jotted it down. "And his relationship with Patrick?" he asked.

"They were really close until Patrick won all that money in the lottery, and they kinda fell out a bit after that. I think grandpa was less than understanding when Patrick decided not to share his wealth."

Moriarty smiled.

A search of Gregory Robertson's garage made Moriarty's nose twitch. Firstly, there was a phone extension trailing into the garage, but no phone attached. There was also an animal cage and a pile of old rags on the floor. Some of the rags had Jake's teeth marks over them. But the most intriguing item was found in the garbage bin. A long stick, wrapped in black and white paper, almost identical to the pattern and colouring of the deceased's expensive cane.

Moriarty rushed out to the pound where he was met by Cheryl Jones, assistant manager.

"Well, I don't know what this is all about detective, but I've organised the phone extension into the animal hall as you requested," she said as they hurried through the building.

"And a loud phone?" Moriarty asked.

"Yes, but I don't understand…"

"You'll see," Moriarty interrupted.

Moriarty brought the phone close to Jake's holding cage. From a large bag he produced Patrick's cane and held it in front of the dog.

No reaction.

"Do you want me to let him out, detective?" Cheryl asked.

"No, for god's sake, keep him locked up," Moriarty replied. "What's the number?" he asked, as he retrieved his mobile phone from his pocket.

Cheryl gave Moriarty the number which he then called.

The phone rang loudly in the hallway, and little harmless Jake morphed into a crazed beast – barking loudly, scratching against the cage, trying to get out. Moriarty gave the cane to Cheryl, who then instantly became the object of Jake's hatred.

Moriarty hung up the phone, and the dog began to calm down.

Gregory Robertson was arrested on charges of murder later that day. After hours of interviewing he finally confessed. He decided that if he couldn't have any money, neither could Patrick. Each night he would lock Jake up in the cage, and jab him viciously with the replica cane. As an aural cue for training he took the house phone into the garage and dialled 1191, which caused the phone to ring itself. After intense baiting, he would throw the cane onto the pile of rags and let Jake out. Jake would attack the rags as long as the phone rang.

"I called the phone booth as Patrick and Jake approached it, a-and that was that," Gregory said.

Captain Summerville pulled Moriarty aside. "So was the murder weapon the phone, or the dog?" he asked. Moriarty shrugged and walked out, striding happily with the expensive ivory cane.