The Fourth Bear

one thing, but taking a loss on an oat deal was quite another. He took a pace toward Jack and stared at him in the sort of way he’d stare at a leaping salmon, if he’d ever done such a thing, which he hadn’t. Jack stood his ground.

“You are so out of order!” yelled Tarquin.

“No,” said Jack, “you are out of order. This is what happens to bears who smuggle over quota. I’ve got nothing against moderate porridge use, but I don’t take to bears like you seeking to capitalize on ursine weaknesses. I’ll ignore the forty kilos this time, but if I catch you with so much as an ounce in the future, you’ll be making license plates as a career.”

“License plates?”

“It’s a euphemism for prison. Take the money.”

“No,” said Tarquin, as he moved closer. “What if I tell you to go take a running jump into a mountain lake somewhere?”

Jack stared at him and didn’t waver for a moment.

“Listen here, Boo-Boo,” he said slowly, “you’ve been busted good and proper. Take it like a bear or I’ll spread it around that you’ve been cutting the oats with Maltex.”

“They’d never believe you,” he growled.

“Wouldn’t they? Take a step closer and my associate hiding over there will tranq your fuzzy butt, and then we can talk it over at the station. Me with a cup of tea and an Oreo, and you with a splitting headache and a numb ass. Your choice.”

Tarquin thought for a moment, sighed and then relaxed. “Okay, Inspector,” he said with a forced smile, “we’ll play it your way.”

Greatly relieved at this, Algy gave Tarquin the reduced price and started to load the bags of oats into his wheelbarrow. He paused for thought and then asked, “Do you really cut it with Maltex?”

“Of course not.”

“But I still get the honey, right?”

“NO!”

“Here’s to the day when they repeal Porribition,” said Jack as they walked out of the garage and into the sunshine. “The associated criminal element of supply far outweighs the harm that it does to the bear population.”

“What’s the alternative?” said Mary. “Unregulated porridge use? We’d have trippy, spaced-out bears wandering around the town, hallucinating who-knows-what in the Oracle Center.”

“If I made the laws, I’d let them,” said Jack. “Porridge is a great deal less harmful than alcohol—and we seem to embrace and promote the sale of that almost everywhere.”

“I agree it doesn’t make much sense,” replied Mary, adding, “I thought calling Tarquin ‘Boo-Boo’ was a bit daring. You know how sensitive they can get on the whole Yogi issue.”

“Bears are big on dominance—I had to insult him. Besides, you had a tranquilizer aimed on Tarquin’s ass the whole time, right?”

“The dart gun?” said Mary with surprise as she started the engine. “Not me. I thought you had it. Where now?”

“Next time we’re tackling bears,” pleaded Jack, who had suddenly turned a little pale, “please make sure you’ve got the tranquilizer gun. And we’re off to Charvil. I need to buy a new car.”

5. The Austin Allegro Equipe

Feeblest British car of the seventies: It was a close call between the Morris Marina and the Austin Allegro, but the latter finally won out. Although originally designed as sharp and sporty, the Allegro (1973–82) was a victim of design and manufacturing compromises that conspired to dilute the original concept until the resultant car was utterly lacking in appeal, and the buying public responded in a lukewarm manner. When production was eventually shelved, there were—tantalizingly—plans in the design office for a 420-horsepower V12 “Muscle” Allegro, a stretch “Allegrosine” and an RB-211 turbofan-powered version, with which it was proposed to break the land speed record.

The Bumper Book of Berkshire Records, 2004 edition

Jack’s last car, a very reliable Austin Allegro Estate, had been written off when he ignored a complicated and little-understood—at least to him—procedure for setting the torque on the rear wheel bearings. The cost of repairing it far outstripped the value, so it had been scrapped. On reflection he should have just rebuilt it at any price, but at the time he hadn’t realized how much he liked it. For all his sneering at other detectives for owning classic cars, such as Moose’s Jaguar, Chymes’s delightful old Delage-Supersport and Miss Lockett’s wonderful pair of Bristols, he had begun to like the Allegro in a strange sort of way. It was his hunt for another in showroom condition that had led them here to Charvil on the eastern edge of the town.

They pulled up outside a shabby used-car lot that was exactly the sort of place you might expect to buy a used Allegro. It was decidedly low-rent and displayed about a dozen well-used cars of dubious provenance. Faded bunting fluttered from light standards at the four corners of the yard, and Jack rechecked the address before getting out of the car. Mary, passionately disinterested in Allegros, like most other people on the planet, picked up the paper from the backseat and started to read the sports pages. Her cell phone rang. She took one look at the screen and then put it back in her pocket, where it trilled plaintively to itself. Despite several subtle hints and a raft of unsubtle ones, her ex-boyfriend, Arnold, still hadn’t figured out the “ex” part of their relationship.

Jack walked up between the ranks of the cars, being careful not to touch them, as they were all covered with a thin film of dust; it didn’t seem the dealer sold that many. He was looking around for the Allegro when a young man stepped out of the office. He was impeccably dressed in a morning suit, bow tie, high collar and starched cuffs. From the bloodred carnation in his buttonhole to his shiny patent leather shoes, the young man carried with him the haughty air of undeniable superiority—and incongruity. He looked as though he were dressed for a society party, not selling cars. He regarded Jack with suspicion and then forced a smile onto his thin lips.

“Can I help you, sir?”

“I hope so,” replied Jack. “I called yesterday. You had an Allegro—”

The car salesman’s manner changed abruptly, and a genuine smile supplanted the bogus one. “Detective Chief Inspector Spratt?”

Jack nodded, and the salesman put out a well-manicured hand for him to shake.

“Pleased to meet you, sir,” he said excitedly, giving off wafts of expensive aftershave as he moved. “I followed the Humpty case with enthusiasm. Extremely impressive. My name is Gray, Dorian Gray—but you must call me Dorian. I for one do not believe a word when Josh Hatchett refers to you as ‘a bad joke’ or ‘a stain upon the good name of the Reading police force.’'

“You’re very kind,” said Jack a bit uneasily.

“Think nothing of it!” replied Dorian happily. “I’ve wanted to meet you for such a long time, but my diary is so very full. It was lucky, in fact, that you caught me when you rang. Society is such a drain on one’s energy. Would you follow me?”

He led Jack through the collection of battered wrecks that had nothing over two hundred pounds written on their windshields and on to a small lockup garage at the back of the lot. Dorian smiled again, carefully donned white gloves and pulled the doors open with a loud sqraunch of long-forgotten hinges.

Gray must have seen Jack looking doubtful, for he added quickly, “It has been in storage for a number of years, yet I don’t believe it has aged significantly.”

The garage opened to reveal an immaculate 1979 Allegro Equipe two-door sedan. It was painted silver with orange and red stripes down the sides and had alloy wheels and twin headlamps at the front. The paintwork