Fangio was holding forth to all and sundry upon the subject of dogs.

‘Dogs again, is it?’ I enquired as I ordered two more pints of Times. ‘I recall that chat about Man’s best friend.’

Fangio laughed and handed me the Sunday paper.

SQUADRON LEADER JAILED IN WIFE-IN-BOOT SCANDAL

‘Oh, jolly good,’ I said. ‘That will amuse Mr Rune. So what is it about dogs today then, Fange?’

‘It’s not dogs in general,’ said the barlord, ‘but rather one in particular. Did you ever hear the story of the Devil Dog of Mons?’

‘No I did not,’ I said, ‘but I certainly like the sound of it.’ And I sipped at my newly drawn ale, ignoring Mr Rune’s frantic beckonings to bring his over.

‘Go on then, Fange,’ I said. ‘I have a moment or two spare before I have to swing off on a new case.’

‘Right then,’ said the barlord. ‘It is this way. During the First World War, the Allied soldiers inhabiting their trenches at Mons swore that they saw at night the shape of a huge hound that roamed no-man’s-land feasting upon the corpses of the newly slain.’

‘How absolutely horrid,’ I said. ‘Tell me more.’

‘Well then,’ Fangio continued, ‘many folk didn’t believe this tale. They said it was hysteria or shell shock or suchlike. But after the war, a hospital nearby on the German side of the enemy lines was liberated and it turned out that an evil doctor called Baron von Bacon had been performing terrible experiments there. With dogs and men.’

‘Go on,’ I said. And I turned my back on the flapping Mr Rune.

‘It seems,’ said Fangio, ‘that Baron von Bacon had taken the brain from a dying German soldier and transplanted it into a German wolfhound. And that was the creature that roamed no-man’s-land.’

‘And did they ever find this monstrous hound?’ I asked.

‘Never,’ said Fangio. ‘Nor indeed any trace of Baron von Bacon. Well, not perhaps until now.’

‘Oooooh!’ I said and I made a scaredy face.

‘It’s no laughing matter,’ said Fangio. ‘Recall that enemy bombing of the St Mary’s allotments a few weeks back?’

I did indeed, but I had not divulged the extent of my knowledge to Fangio.

‘Well, something odd got uncovered on Old Pete’s plot. Thrown up by the explosions. A big coffin-type box it was. But by the time Old Pete got to it, it had been busted open. Inside the coffin-type box he found lots of screwed-up German newspapers that dated back to the end of the First World War. At that time the allotments were briefly used as a prisoner-of-war-camp. All kinds of odd stuff was said to have been moved in and out of those allotments around then. Old Pete talks about antique brass machinery and stuff that had found its way back to England after being “liberated” by the Allies. It went onto the allotments, but no one ever saw it leave. Anyway, this German newspaper seemed to have been used to pack two things, because although the things were gone, their shapes were left behind.’

‘And let me guess,’ I said. ‘The shapes were of a man and a gigantic dog.’

‘You have it in one,’ said Fangio the landlord. ‘Or two, if your counting is precise.’

‘And does Old Pete still have this coffin-type box?’

‘Chopped it up for firewood, I believe.’

‘And so no actual proof exists at all?’

‘Not of the coffin-type box, no.’

‘Nor that it contained Baron von Bacon and his Hellish Man-Hound. ’

‘But for these,’ said Fangio, and he handed me-

‘Dog tags,’ I said. And I read the name on them. ‘Baron von Bacon,’ I said. And I was truly impressed. ‘Are you selling these?’ I asked the barlord.

‘If the price is right,’ he said.

I shook my head and returned with my pints to Hugo Rune.

‘Jaw jaw jaw,’ said the guru’s guru, ‘and my ale growing warm whilst you do so.’

‘But you will notice that I did not actually pay for the beers,’ I said, placing same on the table.

‘Buff your fingernails upon your lapel and feel the weight of my stout stick,’ said Hugo Rune, tasting and approving of the ale.

‘Fangio just told me a really creepy story,’ I said.

‘Baron von Bacon’s Hell Hound, I suppose.’

‘It might be running loose on the allotments – what do you think?’

‘I would not totally pooh-pooh the idea. I recall that back in the nineteen twenties I visited a freak show at Blackpool Tower Circus. And there I viewed a most extraordinary exhibit. I remain uncertain even to this day as to whether it was simply a poor imbecile that was being displayed, or, as the showman claimed, the Man with the Brain of a Dog.’

‘It was a two-way transplant?’ I managed to say. ‘Now that is really horrid.’

Hugo Rune just shrugged and said, ‘So, would you care to hear something about our potential case now? Or would you prefer me to spin you a few more horror stories? I can far outrank anything Fangio might have in his repertoire.’

‘Of that I have no doubt,’ I said. ‘So please tell me of Project BBT.’

Hugo Rune sipped from his glass then told his tale to me.

‘BBT, young Rizla, stands for “Big Band Theory”. A little touch of humour there from the Ministry, I believe. It is all to do with sound and the influence of sound. A top-secret scientific team is working upon musical weaponry. Music, Rizla. Music that when played will influence the hearer to take certain actions.’

‘Such as dance?’ I suggested. ‘I think that is called Dance Music. It works, that one, I can vouch for it.’

‘Not dance, Rizla. Go into trance. Become susceptible to instructions, to orders. Music that, when you listen to it, puts you into a receptive frame of mind. Imagine it, Rizla – you fly over the enemy lines in a helicopter with the music playing from loudspeakers, the enemy soldiers become entranced, then you order them to surrender and they do. War over, no more shots fired.’

‘Excellent stuff,’ I said. ‘Just what the War Effort needs. So how is it coming along? Have they got it perfected yet?’

Hugo Rune did raisings of the eyebrows. ‘What do you think?’ he asked.

‘I think perhaps not,’ I said. ‘Which is why you said that they are always on the verge of a breakthrough, but they never actually have a breakthrough.’

Hugo Rune nodded, slowly. ‘But they do play a lot of music,’ he said. ‘And really really bad music, Rizla. The Big Band that they have, that plays the music they write for it, well, Rizla, frankly, they’re rubbish!’

‘Perhaps the theory might be put into practice if they got a better band,’ I suggested.

‘Brilliant deduction, Rizla. I have been suggesting that for the last four years. I suggested Lew Stone and his Orchestra, with Nat Gonella on vocals.’

‘And they did not listen?’

Hugo Rune shook his head. ‘And now some kind of disaster has struck them, probably of their own silly making, and I am expected to drop everything, rush along and sort it out.’

‘Or perhaps lay aside your pint pot and gently stroll along after a hearty lunch,’ I said.

And Hugo Rune sighed most deeply.

‘Come on then, Rizla,’ he said as he sighed. ‘Let us away to the Ministry.’