Free The Alternative Detective (Hob Draconian) by Robert Sheckley Page B

the advantages of taking an evening stroll with a gun in your ribs is the way it promotes a very real appreciation of even the most evanescent sensory pleasures, such as the sight of an old friend on the sidewalk, his face painted white, mimicking people.
    “Hi, Arne,” I said as we passed, hoping he’d read the note of desperation in my voice.
    Arne made an exaggerated bow, stuck his hand into his right hand pocket in imitation of my abductor and fell into step beside and slightly behind us. What a time for him to play the fool! Arne’s face took on an expression of worried evil. His eyes slunk back and forth. He did furtiveness to perfection, and my abductor didn’t like it. He made a menacing gesture at Arne. Arne returned the gesture with exaggeration.
    That was my chance. During the few moments that this byplay took, I managed to slip away.
    Or rather, I would have managed to slip away if I hadn’t noticed, in the crowd, the indisputable plum shape, dark blue suit and red carnation of Mr. Tony Romagna.
    I decided that I was faced with too many mysteries and that I’d better solve at least one of them immediately.
    “Put away that silly gun,” I said to my abductor. “Lead me to wherever you’re taking me.”
    “I am just supposed to trust you?”
    “That’s right.”
    He gave me an ironic look, but he did take his right hand from his pocket.
    “You know,” he said, “they told me you were a little different.”
    “I suppose I am,” I said.
    “What they didn’t mention is that you are downright silly. My name is Etiènne. Come and meet the boys.”
    And so we marched onward into the night of terminal ironies and faint transparent ecstasies, the accordion-haunted night of Paris, our lady of the roasting chestnuts.
     
     

 
    ETIÈNNE
    18
     
     
    EtiÈnne was a little nervous. It may have been his first abduction. But he was working hard to stay cool. “Come on,” he said, “we’ll take a cab. And don’t try to kid around with me. I still ’ave ze gun.”
    A taxi stopped and we got in and Etiènne gave an address in the thirteenth arrondissement near the Porte d’Italie. No sooner were we underway than we heard something growling from the front seat, passenger side. Then we noticed the large black French police poodle sitting there. It was looking at us hard with its glittery attack dog eyes and making those scary sounds dogs make when they peel their lips back over their teeth and come on like King Kong having a seizure.
    “What’s the matter with ze dog?” Etiènne asked.
    “It is, perhaps,” the driver said, “that one of you gentlemen has a gun, n’est-çe pas?”
    The dog meanwhile was working herself into an hysterical lather. Her fur stuck out like electrified fleece and yellow globules of what looked like corrosive sublimate ran down her fangs, while her eyes flashed green and red, the devil’s stoplight.
    Etiènne made a quick decision and said, “Yeah, I got a gun, so what?”
    “It is indifferent to me,” the driver said, shrugging, of course, “but the dog, she does not like it.”
    “Well, can’t you speak to her or something? A man has a right to have a gun; it has nothing to do with ze dog; do you understand?”
    “One is not dense, m’sieu,” the cab driver said. “It deranges me to have to admit that while your reasoning is sound, your grasp of the essentials is imperfect. A dog cannot be reasoned with, and so, in her implicit stubbornness, she must be considered part of the given, implacable environment rather than a malleable player. To simplify matters, it would please the dog if you put your gun very carefully on the front seat. I will return it to you at the conclusion of the journey and everyone will be satisfied.”
    Etiènne didn’t feel that he would be satisfied, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could say about it, especially to a Parisian taxi driver with a police poodle riding shotgun for him.
    Etiènne leaned past the dog’s bristling