The detective got the praise, but the dog did the digging.

I had reached the top of the stairs when I heard a small gasping cry from a room towards the back of the building. "Shall I kill the dog, Mr O'Neil?" A cold voice asked and my heart fell.

"No Sean. We need her to ensure our host's further co-operation." A more cultivated, but infinitely colder man replied with a cruel sarcasm, "anyway the poor dog didn't write that note so I think the guilty should suffer."

"What are you going to do then?" There was an air of gloating anticipation in the first voice.

"Nothing much," O'Neil replied. "I think I'll cut off a finger, just so he knows I mean what I say."

Beside me, Canary gave a small shocked meow and glancing at her, I saw her claws extend.

"Not now, little one," I spoke reassuringly. "This is dog's work. When I've finished they won't be interested in hurting your human."

I looked round the doorjamb to see a middle-aged man struggling against a tough, labouring type who was trying to lay his victim's hand flat on a table. O'Neil stood with his back to the door a large vicious knife dangling loosely in his right hand.

On the other side of the room, a partly open window looked out on a dingy yard. I needed a distraction so I threw the dynamite, as one would toss a dead rat, over the head of O'Neil and, to my complete amazement, watched it fly straight through the window.