Dogtective William and the pirates. Elizabeth Wasserman

me?” the waiter growled suspiciously. “Is your son’s name Alex or William, or perhaps William Alex?”

      My mom, who had heard nothing, looked surprised. “Alex, of course!” she said, firmly.

      The waiter did not measure up to my scrutiny. I did not like him one bit, I quickly decided. Not his oily hair, nor his ratty face. He had a plague of pimples and an oversized Adam’s apple that rode up and down his scrawny neck like a busy elevator.

      A badge pinned to his shirt announced that this skunk was called “Preston”.

      What a silly name!

      Preston glared at me.

      “Our company welcomes children over twelve years of age. But surely you know that we cannot accommodate kids younger than that,” he added.

      That was as good as a declaration of war. My twelfth birthday had been a few months ago, and I was ready to put up a fight.

      My mother ignored the ungracious welcome, and a more obliging stewardess escorted us to the cabin that we shared on the middle deck. Our baggage had already arrived. There were two comfortable single beds with side tables, fresh flowers on a dres­ser, a narrow cupboard and a small bathroom with a shower.

      My mother dropped her handbag on her bed and then she was off to explore. “Come, Alex, we are going to cast off any time now. I want to see the view of Table Mountain!”

      “I’ll be there soon, Mom.”

      The door barely slammed shut behind her back when I unzipped my bag and William’s head popped out.

      “We have to get you out of here! This was a lousy idea!” I fretted. How did we ever think of such a silly scheme? There was nowhere to hide a dog for a whole week. We were sure to get into enormous trouble. We would be forced to walk the plank like stowaways always do in the movies, and that lousy waiter would be overjoyed at my disgrace!

      William stretched and yawned. He shook himself until his loose lips made a curious flapping sound. Then he sat down on the bed to scratch his ear. “Chill, Alex. I’m hungry. Why don’t you go and fetch us something to eat?”

      I glared at him. My shoulder still hurt from carrying him. He had put on weight over the last few months. “You only ever think of food, and now is not the time!” I scolded. “Rather consider what we’re going to do with you in this tiny cabin.”

      “Oh, but I’m not going to stay here. Three doors down the passage there is a linen closet just the right size for me. Once you have stopped complaining, you could take me there. And then, some sandwiches. Ham, of course. Also a bottle of water – still, not sparkling.”

      His arrogance was mind-boggling. He did not even say please.

      “And how do you know about this closet-thing?”

      He just sat there and glared at me.

      I went to see. For sure – there was the linen closet just as he’d said. It looked pleasant enough: racks stacked with white sheets and towels, a few buckets with stuff for cleaning floors and windows, and even a small round porthole. I peered out to see a seal playing in the murky water of the harbour. He glanced back at me in a friendly manner and bumped a floating plastic bottle playfully with his nose before he disappeared back under the water.

      The door of the closet could close from the inside. That’s somewhat strange, I thought. The lock looked new, as if it had been recently changed. One could still trace the imprint of the previous one. It almost looked as if the space had been especially equipped to accommodate William.

      But how could that be?

      I sighed and went in search of sandwiches.

      Strange Happenings

      I quickly found my sea legs. I loved life aboard the big cruise liner. The Sonata was equipped with absolutely everything one would ever need: a games arcade, two pools (one of them heated) and a string of restaurants offering the very best fare, all included in our prize.

      I loved it so much I almost forgot about my little canine stowaway.

      It was very late that night when I eventually got back to our cabin, sunburned and dead tired. My mom was still gallivanting somewhere and I went to visit William in his closet, armed with a doggy bag full of yummy leftovers from one of the restaurants.

      I knocked softly and turned the handle of the door. It was open.

      William was curled on a bundle of towels in a corner. He looked miserable. Suddenly he jumped up and was sick through the porthole.

      He had the worst case of seasickness ever!

      He crawled back to his towels with his tail tightly tucked between his legs.

      “Now, old boy,” I teased him. “Seems that you’re no sailor, what?”

      He glared at me.

      “Come,” I said and patted his back with sympathy. “Let’s go for a walk on the deck. You need some fresh air.”

      He nodded his head in agreement. His eyes drooped. I could see he was really feeling very sorry for himself.

      “I never suspected it could be so bad!” he moaned. “But I do have to go outside. You left me here all day! What did you think I was supposed to do? I have a bladder, you know, and . . . ”

      “Okay, I get it! Let’s go.”

      I popped my head round the door and scouted the passage. The coast was clear. The passengers who were not in bed already were having a ball in the disco upstairs.

      We sneaked down the passage and found the stairs leading to the upper deck.

      It was a beautiful moonlit night. All was quiet. Cape Town’s lights had long since disappeared behind the horizon, and we were cruising around the coastline.

      William soon felt better. His whiskers bristled and he ran a few laps around the deck. He stopped to lift his leg against a deckchair, and then, a few paces further down the deck, he squatted and . . .

      “What do you think I am supposed to do with that?” I asked.

      “Didn’t you bring a plastic bag or something?” he retaliated.

      But before we could start an argument, we heard voices approaching.

      “Quick!” I said. “Hide in here!”

      We slipped into a cupboard where fresh towels and a stack of cushions for the deckchairs were kept. The voices approached.

      I immediately recognised one of them. It was Preston, the disgusting little waiter. He was talking to someone else who had a gruff voice and a thick French accent.

      “You better see to it that everything is sorted out. I shall disembark tomorrow at Durban to take care of the final arrangements with Robberts. It is too risky to contact him from the ship. Just remember: any mistake, and you will pay!”

      “Yes, yes, I hear you. Stop fretting!” Preston said. “I know exactly what to do. Everything will be ready.”

      The stranger gave a snort. I guessed he also didn’t trust that mangy waiter.

      The two of them were now standing right next to our hiding-hole, and I heard one of them strike a match. This was followed by the sweet smell of cherry pipe tobacco: filthy habit, but it smelled rather nice.

      “You will have to excuse me now. I have to go and serve those horrible tourists. For all I care, you can feed them all to the sharks!”

      We heard Preston’s footsteps fading towards the stairs.

      But suddenly he swore loudly and vigorously.

      “What’s the matter?” the rough voice of the stranger with the French accent asked.

      “I stepped into something. Dog poo, I swear!”

      “Oh