The 101 Dalmatians (12 page)

“They never change their awful old clothes,” whispered Lucky, “and they never wash. I don't think they are real humans, Father. Is there such a thing as a half-human?”

Pongo could well believe it after seeing the Badduns, but he couldn't imagine what their non-humans half was. It was no animal he had ever seen.

“Have they ill-treated any of you?” he asked anxiously.

“No, they're too frightened of being bitten,” said Lucky. “They're terrible cowards. Some of the big pups did think of attacking them—but there seemed no way of getting out. And if they'd killed the Badduns, there would have been no one to feed us. Oh, Father, how glad I am you've come!”

Pongo licked his son's ear. Pups, like boys, do not like fathers to be too sentimental (mothers are different), but this was a very private moment.

Then they went and sat with Missis and the family. It seemed strange that they could all be so peaceful right in the enemy's camp. Gradually the Pongos' puppies fell asleep—all except Lucky, Patch, and the Cadpig. Lucky was not sleepy. Patch was—but stayed awake because the Cadpig was awake. And the Cadpig stayed awake because she was crazy about television.

Many of the big pups, too, were lying down to sleep, stretching luxuriously, feeling—for the first time since they had been imprisoned in Hell Hall—that there was someone they could rely on. Pongo had come! And Missis too. They had looked at her shyly, quite understanding that she must care for her own children first, but hoping she would have a little time for them later. Some of them could hardly remember their mothers. But the younger pups could remember theirs and they were not sleeping. Slowly, silently, they were inching their way towards Missis.

She had been watching the television, beginning to get the hang of it, with the Cadpig's help. Then some tiny sound, close at hand, brought her attention back to her family. But the sound had not come from her family. There were now nearly thirty puppies, not so very much bigger than her own, just a few feet away, all staring at her hopefully.

“Goodness, they're grubby,” was her first thought. “Didn't their mothers teach them to wash themselves?”

Then she felt a pang of pity. What mother had any of them now? She smiled at them all—and they wrinkled their little noses in a return smile. Then she looked beyond then, to the larger pups. Some of the half-grown girls reminded her of herself at their age—so slim, so silly. They knew how to wash themselves but there were many things they didn't know, many ways in which they needed a mother's advice. And suddenly all the puppies were her puppies; she was their mother—just as Pongo had felt he was their father. And indeed the younger ones creeping closer and closer to her were now so mingled with her own that she could scarcely tell where her little family ended and her larger family began.

Drowsiness spread throughout the warm red room. Even the Baddun brothers dozed. They did not much like the programme that was on the television and wanted to be fresh for their very favourite programme, which was due later. Even Missis slept a little, knowing that Pongo would keep watch. At last only three pairs of eyes were open. Pongo was wide awake, thinking, thinking. Lucky was wide awake, for he thought of himself as a sentry, who must not sleep on duty. And the Cadpig was wide awake, watching her lovely, lovely television.

Suddenly there was a thunder of thumps on the front door. The sleeping pups awoke in alarm. The Baddun brothers lumbered to their feet and stumbled towards the door. But before they got there it had been flung open.

Outside, against the moonlit sky stood a figure in a long white cloak.

It was Cruella de Vil.

F
OR a few seconds she stared into the dimly lit room. Then she shouted, “Saul! Jasper! Turn off that television! And turn on the light!”

“We can't turn on the light because we've no electric bulbs left,” said Saul Baddun. “When the telly finishes, we go to bed.”

“And if we turn the telly off, there'll be no light at all,” said Jasper Baddun.

“Well, turn the sound off, anyway,” said Cruella, angrily.

Jasper did as he was told, and the little figures moving on the screen were suddenly voiceless. The Cadpig yapped indignantly. Missis, who was crouching low in the midst of her family, instantly hushed her. Pongo, also crouched low, got ready to spring at Cruella if she attacked any pup. But she seemed scarcely to notice any of them. Those near her shrank back as she strode into the room.

“I've got a job for you, my lads,” she said to the Badduns. “The pups must be killed tonight—every single one of them.”

The Badduns gaped at her. “But they're not big enough to be made into fur coats yet,” said Saul.

“The largest ones are, and the little ones can be made into gloves. Anyway, they've got to die—before someone finds them. There's been so much in the papers about the Dearlys' dogs. All England's on the hunt for Dalmatians.”

“But how could anyone find them here?” said Jasper Baddun. “Why can't they just stay on, growing bigger and bigger?”

“It's too risky,” said Cruella. “Someone might hear them yapping and tell the police. My husband's going to ship the skins abroad—except the ones I keep for my own coat. I shall have it reversible—Persian lamb one side and Dalmatian dog the other—and wear the dog inside until people forget about the Dearlys' pups. When that happens, I'll collect another lot and we'll start our Dalmatian fur farm again. But this lot must be got rid of—quickly.”

“How?” said the Badduns, both together.

“Any way you like. Poison them, drown them, hit them on the head. Have you any chloroform in the larder?”

“Not a drop,” said Saul Baddun. “And no ether, either.”

“We can't afford .luxuries, growled Jasper Baddun.

“Drown them, then.”

“Dogs can swim,” said Saul Baddun. “Anyway, the pond's less than a foot deep.”

“Then you must hit them on the head,” said Cruella.

Saul Baddun had gone pale. “What, hit ninety-seven pups on the head?” he said shakily. “We couldn't do it. Have pity, Mrs. de Vil. We'd be wore out.”

“Listen,” said Cruella de Vil. “I don't care how you kill the little beasts. Hang them, suffocate them, drop them off the roof—good gracious, there are dozens of lovely ways. I only wish I'd time to do the job myself.”

“Couldn't you make time, Mrs. de Vil?” said Jasper. “You'd do it so beautifuHy—it'd be a pleasure to watch you.”

Cruella shook her head. “I've got to get back to London.” Then a fiendish look came into her eyes. “Here's an idea for you. Shut them up without food, and then they'll kill each other. ”

“But they'd make such a horrible noise about it,” said Saul Baddun. “We'd never be able to hear the telly.”

“Besides, they'd damage each other's skins,” said Cruella. “That would ruin their value. You must kill them carefully. Then you can start the skinning.”

“But
we
can't skin them!” wailed Jasper. “We don't know how.”

“My husband will show you,” said Cruella. “We'll both drive down tomorrow night. And we shall count the bodies—just remember that, will you? If you've let even one pup escape, I'll turn you out of Hell Hall. Now you'd better get busy. Good night.”

Fortunately, few of the pups knew enough Human to understand Cruella's words fully, but they all felt she was evil. And as she made her way to the door she aimed a kick at a small pup who was dangerously close to her. It was more frightened than hurt, but it gave a loud wail of anguish. Several of the bigger pups snarled indignantly at Cruella. Lucky, remembering the time he had nibbled her ear, barked out hastily, “Don't bite her, chaps She tastes hot!”

So Cruella got to the door unhurt. She flung it open, and the moonlight shone on her black-and-white hair and her absolutely simple white mink cloak. Then she looked back at the roomful of puppies.

“Good-bye, you horrid little beasts,” she said. “I shall like you so much better when you're skins instead of pups. And I shall simply love the ones who are made into my own coat. How I'm looking forward to it!”

They saw her walk out past the pond which reflected the black house, and on to the great iron gates, which she unlocked and locked again behind her. Then, through the silent winter night, came the sound of a powerful car driving away, followed by one strident blast from the loudest motor-horn in England.

How well Pongo and Missis remembered that terrifying sound! It took them back to the happy evening when they had stood beside the striped black-and-white car on the Outer Circle. How safe and contented they had been then, little guessing what dangers lay ahead!

Jasper Baddun hurriedly shut the front door, saying, “If we've got to do the pups in, we'd better keep them all in one place.”

Pongo felt stunned. If only he could think! If only the Sheepdog were there to advise him!

Missis whispered, “If you wish to attack those villains, I will help you, Pongo.”

Lucky said quickly, “They always carry knives.”

Pongo's brain was beginning to work. “If we attack them, they may kill us,” he whispered to Missis. “And then there will be no one to help the pups. Quiet! Let me think.”

The Badduns were talking together in low grunts.

“One thing's certain,” said Jasper. “We can't do it tonight or we shall miss ‘What's My Crime?' ”

It was their very favourite television programme. Two ladies and two gentlemen, in faultless evening dress, had to guess the crime committed by a lady or gentleman in equally faultless evening dress. Stern moralists said this programme was causing a crime wave and filling the prisons, because people committed crimes in the hope of being chosen as contestants. But crime is usually waving and the prisons are usually full, so probably “What's My Crime?” had not made much dif ference. Both the Badduns longed to appear as contestants, but they knew they would never be chosen unless they committed a really
original
crime, and they had never been able to think of one.

“We could kill the pups
after
‘What's My Crime?' Jasper,” said Saul. “We ought to do it tonight, while they're sleepy. They'll be more dangerous when they're wide awake.”

“It's a nuisance, that's what it is,” said Jasper. “And whatever way we do it, we shall be
exhausted.
First the killing and then the skinning!”

“Maybe we'll get the knack of the skinning,” said Saul. “Then we can skin while we watch the telly.”

“Still, ninety-seven pups!” said Jasper. Then a wild gleam came into his eyes. “Saul, I bet no one else has ever murdered ninety-seven Dalmatians. It might do the trick for us! It might get us onto ‘What's My Crime?' ”

“Now you're talking!” said Saul Baddun. “You and me, in evening dress with carnations in our buttonholes—and all England watching us. But we must think out some really striking way of doing our crime. Could we skin them
alive?”

“They'd never keep still,” said Jasper. “What about boiling them?”

Pongo whispered to Missis, “We shall have to attack. It's our only hope.”

“I'll get the biggest pups to help you,” said Lucky quietly. “We'll all help. I can bite quite well.”

And then—something happened! The Cadpig, whose eyes were fixed on the silent television screen, gave three short, sharp barks. No human ear would have known that those barks meant “What's My Crime?” but the Baddun brothers, startled by the noise, looked towards the Cadpig and, in doing so, noticed the television screen. Saul Baddun let out a roar of rage; Jasper Baddun gave a howl of misery. It was on! “What's My Crime?”—but without any sound, of course. They were missing it, their favourite of all programmes, and just when for the first time they had hopes of appearing on it! They hurled themselves at the television set. Saul turned the sound on full blast. Jasper adjusted the picture. Then they flung themselves down on their mattresses, grunting with delight.

“They won't stir for the next half-hour,” whispered Lucky.

At last Pongo's brain sprang into full action! Instantly he whispered to Lucky, “March the pups out to the stableyard! Your mother and I will mount guard over the Badduns.”

Lucky whispered, “If we could go out through the larder, we could eat tomorrow's breakfast on our way. That's the door—by the fireplace. It's bolted, but I expect you can unbolt it, can't you, Father?”

Pongo had never even tried to unbolt a door, but he had seen the Sheepdog do it. “Yes, Lucky,” he said firmly. “I can unbolt it.”