THE SHAGGY DOG MURDERS

 

 

Peter Kidd should have suspected the shaggy dog of something, right away. He got into trouble the first time he saw the animal. It was the first hour of the first day of Peter Kidd's debut as a private investigator. Specifically, ten minutes after nine in the morning.

 It had taken will power on the part of Peter Kidd to make himself show up a dignified ten minutes late at his own office that morning instead of displaying an unprofessional overenthusiasm by getting there an hour early. By now, he knew, the decorative secretary he had engaged would have the office open. He could make his entrance with quiet and decorum.

The meeting with the dog occurred in the downstairs hallway of the Wheeler Building, halfway between the street door and the elevator. It was entirely the fault of the shaggy dog, who tried to pass to Peter Kidd's right, while the man who held the dog's leash — a chubby little man with a bulbous red nose — tried to walk to the left. It didn't work.

“Sorry,” said the man with the leash, as Peter Kidd stood still, then tried to step over the leash. That didn't work, either, because the dog jumped up to try to lick Peter Kidd's ear, raising the leash too high to be straddled, even by Peter's long legs.

Peter raised a hand to rescue his shell-rimmed glasses, in imminent danger of being knocked off by the shaggy dog's display of affection.

“Perhaps,” he said to the man with the leash, “you had better circumambulate me.”

“Huh?”

“Walk around me, I mean,” said Peter. “From the Latin, you know. Circum,  around — ambulare,  to walk. Parallel to circumnavigate,  which means to sail around. From ambulare also comes the word ambulance —  although an ambulance has nothing to do with walking. But that is because it came through the French hôpital ambulant,  which actually means—”

“Sorry,” said the man with the leash. He had already circumambulated Peter Kidd, having started the procedure even before the meaning of the word had been explained to him.

“Quite all right,” said Peter.

“Down, Rover,” said the man with the leash. Regretfully, the shaggy dog desisted in its efforts to reach Peter's ear and permitted him to move on to the elevator.

“Morning, Mr. Kidd,” said the elevator operator, with the deference due a new tenant who has been introduced as a personal friend of the owner of the building.

“Good morning,” said Peter. The elevator took him to the fifth, and top floor. The door clanged shut behind him and he walked with firm stride to the office door whereupon — with chaste circumspection — golden letters spelled out:

 

 

PETER KIDD

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

 

 

He opened the door and went in. Everything in the office looked shiny new, including the blonde stenographer behind the typewriter desk. She said, “Good morning, Mr. Kidd. Did you forget the letterheads you were going to pick up on the floor below?”

He shook his head. “Thought I'd look in first to see if there were any — ah—”

“Clients? Yes, there were two. But they didn't wait.

They'll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

Peter Kidd's eyebrows lifted above the rims of his glasses. “Two? Already?”

“Yes. One was a pudgy-looking little man. Wouldn't leave his name.”

“And the other?” asked Peter.

“A big shaggy dog,” said the blonde. “I got his name, though. It's Rover. The man called him that. He tried to kiss me.”

“Eh?” said Peter Kidd.

“The dog, not the man. The man said 'Down, Rover,' so that's how I know his name. The dog's, not the man's.”

Peter looked at her reprovingly. He said, “I'll be back in five minutes,” and went down the stairs to the floor below.

The door of the Henderson Printery was open, and he walked in and stopped in surprise just inside the doorway. The pudgy man and the shaggy dog were standing at the counter. The man was talking to Mr. Henderson, the proprietor.

“—will be all right,” he was saying. “I'll pick them up Wednesday afternoon, then. And the price is two-fifty?” He took a wallet from his pocket and opened it. There seemed to be about a dozen bills in it. He put one on the counter. “Afraid I have nothing smaller than a ten.”

“Quite all right, Mr. Asbury,” said Henderson, taking change from the register. “Your cards will be ready for you.”

Meanwhile, Peter walked to the counter also, a safe distance from the shaggy dog. From the opposite side of the barrier Peter was approached by a female employee of Mr.

Henderson. She smiled at him and said, “Your order is ready.

I'll get it for you.”

She went to the back room and Peter edged along the counter, read, upside down, the name and address written on the order blank lying there: Robert Asbury, 633 Kenmore Street. The telephone number was BEacon 3-3434. The man and the dog, without noticing Peter Kidd this time, went on their way out of the door.

Henderson said, “Hullo, Mr. Kidd. The girl taking care of you?”

Peter nodded, and the girl came from the back room with his package. A sample letterhead was pasted on the outside.

He looked at it and said, “Nice work. Thanks.”

Back upstairs, Peter found the pudgy man sitting in the waiting room, still holding the shaggy dog's leash.

The blonde said, “Mr. Kidd, this is Mr. Smith, the gentleman who wishes to see you. And Rover.”

The shaggy dog ran to the end of the leash, and Peter Kidd patted its head and allowed it to lick his hand. He said,

“Glad to know you, Mr. — ah — Smith?”

“Aloysius Smith,” said the little man. “I have a case I'd like you to handle for me.”

“Come into my private office, then, please, Mr. Smith.

Ah — you don t mind if my secretary takes notes of our conversation?”

“Not at all,” said Mr. Smith, trolling along at the end of the leash after the dog, which was following Peter Kidd into the inner office. Everyone but the shaggy dog took chairs.

The shaggy dog tried to climb up onto the desk, but was dissuaded.

“I understand,” said Mr. Smith, “that private detectives always ask a retainer. I—” He took the wallet from his pocket and began to take ten-dollar bills out of it. He took out ten of them and put them on the desk. “I — I hope a hundred dollars will be sufficient.”

“Ample,” said Peter Kidd. “What is it you wish me to do?”

The little man smiled deprecatingly. He said, “I'm not exactly sure. But I'm scared. Somebody has tried to kill me —twice. I want you to find the owner of this dog. I can't just let it go, because it follows me now. I suppose I could — ah —take it to the pound or something, but maybe these people would keep on trying to kill me. And anyway, I'm curious.”

Peter Kidd took a deep breath. He said, “So am I. Can you put it a bit more succinctly?”

“Huh?”

“Succinctly,” said Peter Kidd patiently, “comes from the Latin word, succinctus,  which is the past participle of succingere,  the literal meaning of which is to gird up — but in this sense, it—”

“I knew I'd seen you before,” said the pudgy man.

“You're the circumabulate guy. I didn't get a good look at you then, but—”

“Circumambulate,” corrected Peter Kidd.

The blonde quit drawing pothooks and looked from one to another of them. “What was that word?” she asked.

Peter Kidd grinned. “Never mind, Miss Latham. I'll explain later. Ah — Mr. Smith, I take it you are referring to the dog which is now with you. When and where did you acquire it — and how?”

“Yesterday, early afternoon. I found it on Vine Street near Eighth. It looked and acted lost and hungry. I took it home with me. Or rather, it followed me home once I'd spoken to it. It wasn't until I'd fed it at home that I found the note tied to its collar.”

“You have that note with you?”

Mr. Smith grimaced. “Unfortunately, I threw it into the stove. It sounded so utterly silly, but I was afraid my wife would find it and get some ridiculous notion. You know how women are. It was just a little poem, and I remember every word of it. It was — uh — kind of silly, but—”

“What was it?”

The pudgy man cleared his throat. “It went like this: I am the dog

  Of a murdered man.

 Escape his fate, Sir,

  If you can.”

“Alexander Pope,” said Peter Kidd.

“Eh? Oh, you mean Pope, the poet. You mean that's something of his?”

“A parody on a bit of doggerel Alexander Pope wrote about two hundred years ago, to be engraved on the collar of the King's favorite dog. Ah — if I recall rightly, it was:

 

I am the dog

Of the King at Kew.

Pray tell me, Sir,

Whose dog are you?”

 

The little man nodded. “I'd never heard it, but— Yes, it would be a parody all right. The original's clever. 'Whose dog are you?' ” He chuckled, then sobered abruptly. “I thought my verse was funny, too, but last night—”

“Yes?”

“Somebody tried to kill me, twice. At least, I think so. I took a walk downtown, leaving the dog home, incidentally, and when I was crossing the street only a few blocks from home, an auto tried to hit me.”

“Sure it wasn't accidental?”

“Well, the car actually swerved out of its way to get me, when I was only a step off the curb. I was able to jump back, by a split second and the car's tires actually scraped the curb where I'd been standing. There was no other traffic, no reason for the car to swerve, except—”

“Could you identify the car? Did you get the number?”

“I was too startled. It was going too fast. By the time I got a look at it, it was almost a block away. All I know is that it was a sedan, dark blue or black. I don't even know how many people were in it, if there was more than one. Of course, it might have been just a drunken driver. I thought so until, on my way home, somebody took a shot at me.

“I was walking past the mouth of a dark alley. I heard a noise and turned just in time to see the flash of the gun, about twenty or thirty yards down the alley. I don't know by how much the bullet missed me — but it did. I ran the rest of the way home.”

“Couldn't have been a backfire?”

“Absolutely not. The flash was at shoulder level above the ground, for one thing. Besides— No, I'm sure it was a shot.”

“There have never been any other attempts on your life, before this? You have no enemies?”

“No, to both questions, Mr. Kidd.”

Peter Kidd interlocked his long fingers and looked at him. “And just what do you want me to do?”

“Find out where the dog came from and take him back there. To — uh — take the dog off my hands meanwhile. To find what it's all about.”

Peter Kidd nodded. “Very well, Mr. Smith. You gave my secretary your address and phone number?”

“My address, yes. But please don't call me or write me. I don't want my wife to know anything about this. She is very nervous, you know. I'd rather drop in after a few days to see you for a report. If you find it impossible to keep the dog, you can board it with a veterinary for some length of time.”

When the pudgy man had left, the blonde asked, “Shall I transcribe these notes I took, right away?”

Peter Kidd snapped his fingers at the shaggy dog. He said, “Never mind, Miss Latham. Won't need them.”

“Aren't you going to work on the case?”

“I have worked on the case,” said Peter. “It's finished.”

The blonde's eyes were big as saucers. “You mean—”

“Exactly.” said Peter Kidd. He rubbed the backs of the shaggy dog's ears and the dog seemed to love it. “Our client's right name is Robert Asbury, of six-thirty-three Kenmore Street, telephone Beacon three, three-four-three-four. He's an actor by profession, and out of work. He did not find the dog, for the dog was given to him by one Sidney Wheeler who purchased the dog for that very purpose undoubtedly — who also provided the hundred-dollar fee. There's no question of murder.”

Peter Kidd tried to look modest, but succeeded only in looking smug. After all, he'd solved his first case — such as it was — without leaving his office.

He was dead right, too, on all counts except one:

 

The shaggy dog murders had hardly started.              

 

 

• • •

 

The little man with the bulbous nose went home — not to the address he had given Peter Kidd, but to the one he had given the printer to put on the cards he'd had engraved.          His name, of course, was Robert Asbury and not Aloysius Smith. For all practical purposes, that is, his name was Robert Asbury. He had been born under the name of Herman Gilg. But a long time ago he'd changed it in the interests of euphony the first time he had trodden the boards; 633 Kenmore Street was a theatrical boardinghouse.

Robert Asbury entered, whistling. A little pile of mail on the hall table yielded two bills and a theatrical trade paper for him. He pocketed the bills unopened and was looking at the want ads in the trade paper when the door at the back of the hall opened.

Mr. Asbury closed the magazine hastily, smiled his most winning smile. He said, “Ah, Mrs. Drake.”

It was Hatchet-face herself, but she wasn't frowning.

Must be in a good mood. Swell! The five-dollar bill he could give her on account would really tide him over. He took it from his wallet with a flourish.

“Permit me,” he said, “to make a slight payment on last week's room and board, Mrs. Drake. Within a few days I shall—”

“Yes, yes,” she interrupted. “Same old story, Mr.

Asbury, but maybe this time it's true even if you don't know it yet. Gentleman here to see you, and says it's about a role.”

“Here? You mean he's waiting in the—?”

“No, I had the parlor all tore up, cleaning. I told him he could wait in your room.”

He bowed. “Thank you, Mrs. Drake.” He managed to walk, not run, to the stairway, and start the ascent with dignity. But who the devil would call to see him about a role?

There were dozens of producers any one of whom might phone him, but it couldn't be a producer calling in person.

More likely some friend telling him where there was a spot he could try out for.

Even that would be a break. He'd felt it in his bones that having all that money in his wallet this morning had meant luck. A hundred and ten dollars! True, only ten of it was his own, and Lord, how it had hurt to hand out that hundred! But the ten meant five for his landlady and two and a half for the cards he absolutely had to have — you can't send in your card to producers and agents unless you have cards to send in —and cigarette money for the balance. Funny job that was. The length some people will go to play a practical joke. But it was just a joke and nothing crooked, because this Sidney Wheeler was supposed to be a right guy, and after all, he owned that office building and a couple of others; probably a hundred bucks was like a dime to him. Maybe he'd want a follow-up on the hoax, another call at this Kidd's office. That would be another easy ten bucks.

Funny guy, that Peter Kidd. Sure didn't look like a detective; looked more like a college professor. But a good detective ought to be part actor and not look like a shamus.

This Kidd sure talked the part, too. Circum — am —Circumambulate, and — uh — succinctly. “Perhaps you had better circumambulate me succinctly.” Goofy! And that “from the Latin” stuff!

The door of his room was an inch ajar, and Mr. Asbury pushed it open, started through the doorway. Then he tried to stop and back out again.

There was a man sitting in the chair facing the doorway and only a few feet from it — the opening door had just cleared the man's knees. Mr. Asbury didn't know the man, didn't want to know him. He disliked the man's face at sight and disliked still more the fact that the man held a pistol with a long silencer on the barrel. The muzzle was aimed toward Mr. Asbury's third vest button.

Mr. Asbury tried to stop too fast. He stumbled, which, under the circumstances, was particularly unfortunate. He threw out his hands to save himself. It must have looked to the man in the chair as though Mr. Asbury was attacking him, making a diving grab for the gun.

The man pulled the trigger.

 

 

• • •

 

 

 “ 'I am the dog of a murdered man,' ” said the blonde. “ 'Escape his fate, Sir, if you can.' ” She looked up from her shorthand notebook. “I don't get it.”

Peter Kidd smiled and looked at the shaggy dog, which had gone to sleep in the comfortable warmth of a patch of sunlight under the window.

“Purely a hoax,” said Peter Kidd. “I had a hunch Sid Wheeler would try to pull something of the sort. The hundred dollars is what makes me certain. That's the amount Sid thinks he owes me.”

“Thinks he owes you?”

“Sid Wheeler and I went to college together. He was full of ideas for making money, even then. He worked out a scheme of printing special souvenir programs for intramural activities and selling advertising in them. He talked me into investing a hundred dollars with the understanding that we'd split the profits. That particular idea of his didn't work and the money was lost.

“He insisted, though, that it was a debt, and after he began to be successful in real estate, he tried to persuade me to accept it. I refused, of course. I'd invested the money and I'd have shared the profits if there'd been any. It was my loss, not his.”

“And you think he hired this Mr. Smith — or Asbury—”

“Of course. Didn't you see that the whole story was silly?

Why would anyone put a note like that on a dog's collar and then try to kill the man who found the dog?”

“A maniac might, mightn't he?”

“No. A homicidal maniac isn't so devious. He just kills.

Besides, it was quite obvious that Mr. Asbury's story was untrue. For one thing, the fact that he gave a false name is pretty fair proof in itself. For another he put the hundred dollars on the desk before he even explained what he wanted.

If it was his own hundred dollars, he wouldn't have been so eager to part with it. He'd have asked me how much of a retainer I'd need.

“I'm only surprised Sid didn't think of something more believable. He underrated me. Of all things — a lost shaggy dog.”

The blonde said, “Why not a shag— Oh, I think I know what you mean. There's a shaggy dog story,  isn't there? Or something?”

Peter Kidd nodded. “The shaggy dog story, the archetype of all the esoteric jokes whose humor values lie in sheer nonsensicality. A New Yorker, who has just found a large white shaggy dog, reads in a New York paper an advertisement offering five hundred pounds sterling for the return of such a dog, giving an address in London. The New Yorker compares the markings given in the advertisement with those of the dog he has found and immediately takes the next boat to England. Arrived in London, he goes to the address given and knocks on the door. A man opens it. 'You advertised for a lost dog,' says the American, 'a shaggy dog.'

'Oh,' says the Englishman coldly, 'not so damn shaggy' . . . and he slams the door in the American's face.”

The blonde giggled, then looked thoughtful. “Say, how did you know that fellow's right name?”

Peter Kidd told her about the episode in the printing shop. He said, “Probably didn't intend to go there when he left here, or he wouldn't have taken the elevator downstairs first.

Undoubtedly he saw Henderson's listing on the board in the lobby, remembered he needed cards, and took the elevator back up.”

The blonde sighed. “I suppose you're right. What are you going to do about it?”

He looked thoughtful. “Return the money, of course. But maybe I can think of some way of turning the joke. After all, if I'd fallen for it, it would have been funny.”

The man who had just killed Robert Asbury didn't think it was funny. He was scared and he was annoyed. He stood at the washstand in a corner of Asbury's dingy little room, sponging away at the front of his coat with a soiled towel. The little guy had fallen right into his lap. Lucky, in one way, because he hadn't thudded on the floor. Unlucky, in another way, because of the blood that had stained his coat. Blood on one's clothes is to be deplored at any time. It is especially deplorable when one has just committed a murder.

He threw the towel down in disgust, then picked it up and began very systematically to wipe off the faucets, the bowl, the chair, and anything else upon which he might have left fingerprints.

A bit of cautious listening at the door convinced him that the hallway was empty. He let himself out, wiping first the inside knob and then the outside one, and tossing the dirty towel back into the room through the open transom.

He paused at the top of the stairs and looked down at his coat again. Not too bad — looked as though he'd spilled a drink down the front of it. The towel had taken out the color of blood, at least.

And the pistol, a fresh cartridge in it, was ready if needed, thrust through his belt, under his coat. The landlady— well, if he didn't see her on the way out, he'd take a chance on her being able to identify him. He'd talked to her only a moment.

He went down the steps quietly and got through the front door without being heard. He walked rapidly, turning several corners, and then went into a drugstore which had an enclosed phone booth. He dialed a number.

He recognized the voice that answered. He said, “This is— me. I saw the guy. He didn't have it. ... Uh, no, couldn't ask him. I — well, he won't talk to anyone about it now, if you get what I mean.”

He listened, frowning. “Couldn't help it,” he said. “Had to. He — uh — well, I had to. That's all. ... See Whee — the other guy? Yeah, guess that's all we can do now. Unless we can find out what happened to — it. . . .  Yeah, nothing to lose now. I'll go see him right away.”

Outside the drugstore, the killer looked himself over again. The sun was drying his coat and the stain hardly showed. Better not worry about it, he thought, until he was through with this business. Then he'd change clothes and throw this suit away.

He took an unnecessarily deep breath, like a man nerving himself up to something, and then started walking rapidly again. He went to an office in a building about ten blocks away.

“Mr. Wheeler?” the receptionist asked. “Yes, he's in.

Who shall I say is calling?”

“He doesn't know my name. But I want to see him about renting a property of his, an office.”

The receptionist nodded. “Go right in. He's on the phone right now, but he'll talk to you as soon as he's finished.”

“Thanks, sister,” said the man with the stain on his coat.

He walked to the door marked Private — Sidney Wheeler, went through it, and closed it behind him.

 

 

• • •

 

 

Stretched out in the patch of sunlight by the window, the white shaggy dog slept peacefully. “Looks well fed,” said the blonde. “What are you going to do with him?” Peter Kidd said, “Give him back to Sid Wheeler, I suppose. And the hundred dollars, too, of course.”

He put the bills into an envelope, stuck the envelope into his pocket. He picked up the phone and gave the number of Sid Wheeler's office. He asked for Sid.

He said, “Sid?”

“Speaking— Just a minute—”

He heard a noise like the receiver being put down on the desk, and waited. After a few minutes Peter said, “Hello,” tried again two minutes later, and then hung up his own receiver.

“What's the matter?” asked the blonde.

“He forgot to come back to the phone.” Peter Kidd tapped his fingers on the desk. “Maybe it's just as well,” he added thoughtfully.

“Why?”

“It would be letting him off too easily, merely to tell him that I've seen through the hoax. Somehow, I ought to be able to turn the tables, so to speak.”

“Ummm,” said the blonde. “Nice, but how?”

“Something in connection with the dog, of course. I'll have to find out more about the dog's antecedents, I fear.”

The blonde looked at the dog. “Are you sure it has antecedents? And if so, hadn't you better call in a veterinary right away?”

Kidd frowned at her. “I must know whether he bought the dog at a pet shop, found it, got it from the pound, or whatever. Then I'll have something to work on.”

“But how can you find that out without—? Oh, you're going to see Mr. Asbury and ask him. Is that it?”

“That will be the easiest way, if he knows. And he probably does. Besides, I'll need his help in reversing the hoax. He'll know, too, whether Sid had planned a follow-up of his original visit.”

He stood up. “I'll go there now. I'll take the dog along.

He might need — he might have to— Ah — a bit of fresh air and exercise may do him good. Here, Rover, old boy.” He clipped the leash to the dog's collar, started to the door. He turned. “Did you make a note of that number on Kenmore Street? It was six hundred something, but I've forgotten the rest of it.”

The blonde shook her head. “I made notes of the interview, but you told me that afterward. I didn't write it down.”

“No matter. I'll get it from the printer.” Henderson, the printer, wasn't busy. His assistant was talking to Captain Burgoyne of the police, who was ordering tickets for a policemen's benefit dance. Henderson came over to the other end of the railing to Peter Kidd. He looked down at the dog with a puzzled frown.

“Say,” he said, “didn't I see that pooch about an hour ago, with someone else?”

Kidd nodded. “With a man named Asbury, who gave you an order for some cards. I wanted to ask you what his address is.”

“Sure, I'll look it up. But what's it all about? He lose the dog and you find it, or what?”

Kidd hesitated, remembered that Henderson knew Sid Wheeler. He told him the main details of the story, and the printer grinned appreciatively.

“And you want to make the gag backfire,” he chuckled.

“Swell. If I can help you, let me know. Just a minute and I'll give you this Asbury's address.”

He leafed a few sheets down from the top on the order spike. “Six-thirty-three Kenmore.” Peter Kidd thanked him and left.

A number of telephone poles later, he came to the corner of Sixth and Kenmore. The minute he turned that corner, he knew something was wrong. Nothing psychic about it —there was a crowd gathered in front of a brownstone house halfway down the block. A uniformed policeman at the bottom of the steps was keeping the crowd back. A police ambulance and other cars were at the curb in front.

Peter Kidd lengthened his stride until he reached the edge of the crowd. By that time he could see that the building was numbered 633. By that time the stretcher was coming out of the door. The body on the stretcher — and the fact that the blanket was pulled over the face showed that it was a dead body — was that of a short, pudgy person.

The beginning of a shiver started down the back of Peter Kidd's neck. But it was a coincidence, of course. It had to be, he told himself, even if the dead man was Robert Asbury.

A dapper man with a baby face and cold eyes was running down the steps and pushing his way out through the crowd. Kidd recognized him as Wesley Powell of the Tribune.

He reached for Powell's arm, asked, “What happened in there?”

Powell didn't stop. He said, “Hi, Kidd. Drugstore —phone!”

He hurried off, but Peter Kidd turned and fell in step with him. He repeated his question. “Guy named Asbury, shot. Dead.”

“Who was it?”

“Dunno. Cops got description from landlady, though, the guy was waiting for him in his room when he came home less'n hour ago. Musta burned him down, lammed quick.

Landlady found corpse. Heard other guy leave and went up to ask Asbury about job — guy was supposed to see him about a job. Asbury an actor, Robert Asbury. Know him?”

“Met him once,” Kidd said. “Anything about a dog?”

Powell walked faster. “What you mean,” he demanded, “anything about a dog?”

“Uh — did Asbury have a dog?”

“Hello, no. You can't keep a dog in a rooming house.

Nothing was said about a dog. Damn it, where's a store or a tavern or any place with a phone in it?”

Kidd said, “I believe I remember a tavern being around the next corner.”

“Good.” Powell looked back, before turning the corner, to see if the police cars were still there, and then walked even faster. He dived into the tavern and Kidd followed him.

Powell said, “Two beers,” and hurried to the telephone on the wall.

Peter Kidd listened closely while the reporter gave the story to a rewrite man. He learned nothing new of any importance. The landlady's name was Mrs. Belle Drake. The place was a theatrical boardinghouse. Asbury had been “at liberty” for several months.

Powell came back to the bar. He said, “What was that about a dog?” He wasn't looking at Kidd, he was looking out into the street, over the low curtains in the window of the tavern.

Peter Kidd said, “Dog? Oh, this Asbury used to have a dog when I knew him. Just wondered if he still had it.”

Powell shook his head. He said, “That guy across the street — is he following you or me?”

Peter Kidd looked out the window. A tall, thin man stood well back in a doorway. He didn't appear to be watching the tavern. Kidd said, “He's no acquaintance of mine. What makes you think he's following either of us?”

“He was standing in a doorway across the street from the house where the murder was. Noticed him when I came out of the door. Now he's in a doorway over there. Maybe he's just sight-seeing. Where'd you get the pooch?”

Peter Kidd glanced down at the shaggy dog. “Man gave him to me,” he said. “Rover, Mr. Powell. Powell, Rover.”

“I don't believe it,” Powell said. “No dog is actually named Rover any more.”

“I know,” Peter Kidd agreed solemnly, “but the man who named him didn't know. What about the fellow across the street?”

“We'll find out. We go out and head in opposite directions. I head downtown, you head for the river. We'll see which one of us he follows.”

When they left, Peter Kidd didn't look around behind him for two blocks. Then he stopped, cupping his hands to light a cigarette and half turning as though to shield it from the wind.

The man wasn't across the street. Kidd turned a little farther and saw why the tall man wasn't across the street. He was directly behind, only a dozen steps away. He hadn't stopped when Kidd stopped. He kept coming.

As the match burned his fingers, Peter Kidd remembered that these two blocks had been between warehouses. There was no traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. He saw that the man had already unbuttoned his coat — which had a stain down one side of it. He was pulling a pistol out of his belt.

The pistol had a long silencer on it, obviously the reason why he'd carried it that way instead of in a holster or in a pocket. The pistol was already half out of the belt.

Kidd did the only thing that occurred to him. He let go the leash and said, “Sic him, Rover!”

The shaggy dog bounded forward and jumped up just as the tall man pulled the trigger. The gun pinged dully but the shot went wild. Peter Kidd had himself set by then, jumped forward after the dog. A silenced gun, he knew, fires only one shot. Between him and the dog, they should be able . . .

Only it didn't work that way. The shaggy dog had bounded up indeed, but was now trying to lick the tall man's face. The tall man, his nerve apparently having departed with the single cartridge in his gun, gave the dog a push and took to his heels. Peter Kidd fell over the dog. That was that. By the time Kidd untangled himself from dog and leash, the tall man was down an alley and out of sight.

Peter Kidd stood up. The dog was running in circles around him, barking joyously. It wanted to play some more.

Peter Kidd recovered the loop end of the leash and spoke bitterly. The shaggy dog wagged its tail.

They'd walked several blocks before it occurred to Kidd that he didn't know where he was going. For that matter, he told himself, he didn't really know where he'd been. It had been such a beautifully simple matter, before he'd left his office.

Except that if the shaggy dog hadn't been the dog of a murdered man, it was one now. Except for that bullet having gone wild, his present custodian, one Peter Kidd, might be in a position to ask Mr. Aloysius Smith Robert Asbury just exactly what the devil it was all about.

It had been so beautifully simple, as a hoax.  For a moment he tried to think that— But no, that was silly. The police department didn't go in for hoaxes. Asbury had really been murdered.

“I am the dog of a murdered man. . . . Escape his fate, Sir, if you can....”

Had Asbury actually found such a note and then been murdered? Had the man with the silenced gun been following Kidd because he'd recognized the dog? A nut, maybe, out to kill each successive possessor of the shaggy dog?

Had Asbury's entire story been true — except for the phony name he'd given — and had he given a wrong name and address only because he'd been afraid?

But how to—? Of course. Ask Sid Wheeler. If Sid had originated the hoax and hired Asbury, then the murder was a coincidence — one hell of a whopping coincidence. Yes, they were bound for Sid Wheeler's office. He knew that now, but they'd been walking in the wrong direction. He turned and started back, gradually lengthening his strides. A block later, it occurred to him it would be quicker to phone. At least to make certain Sid was in, not out collecting rents or something.

He stopped in the nearest drugstore and: “Mr. Wheeler,” said the feminine voice, “is not here. He was taken to the hospital an hour ago. This is his secretary speaking. If there is anything I can—”

“What's the matter with Sid?” he demanded. There was a slight hesitation and he went on: “This is Peter Kidd, Miss Ames. You know me. What's wrong?”

“He — he was shot. The police just left. They told me not to g-give out the story, but you're a detective and a friend of his, so I guess it's all ri—”

“How badly was he hurt?”

“They — they say he'll get better, Mr. Kidd. The bullet went through his chest, but on the right side and didn't touch his heart. He's at Bethesda Hospital. You can find out more there than I can tell you. Except that he's still unconscious —you won't be able to see him yet.”

“How did it happen, Miss Ames?”

“A man I'd never seen before said he wanted to see Mr. Wheeler on business and I sent him into the inner office. Mr. Wheeler was talking on the phone to someone who'd just called— What was that, Mr. Kidd?”

Peter Kidd didn't care to repeat it. He said, “Never mind.

Go on.”

“He was in there only a few seconds and came out and left, fast. I couldn't figure out why he'd changed his mind so quick, and after he left I looked in and— Well, I thought Mr. Wheeler was dead. I guess the man thought so too, that is, if he meant to kill Mr. Wheeler, he could have easily — uh—”

“A silenced gun?”

“The police say it must have been, when I told them I hadn't heard the shot.”

“What did the man look like?”

“Tall and thin, with a kind of sharp face. He had a light suit on. There was a slight stain of some kind on the front of the coat.”

“Miss Ames,” said Peter Kidd, “did Sid Wheeler buy or find a dog recently?”

“Why, yes, this morning. A big white shaggy one. He came in at eight o'clock and had the dog with him on a leash.

He said he'd bought it. He said it was to play a joke on somebody.”

“What happened next — about the dog?”

“He turned it over to a man who had an appointment with him at eight-thirty. A fat, funny-looking little man. He didn't give his name. But he must have been in on the joke, whatever it was, because they were chuckling together when Mr. Wheeler walked to the door with him.”

“You know where he bought the dog? Anything more about it?”

“No, Mr. Kidd. He just said he bought it. And that it was for a joke.”

Looking dazed, Peter Kidd hung up the receiver.

 Sid Wheeler, shot.

Outside the booth, the shaggy dog stood on its hind legs and pawed at the glass. Kidd stared at it. Sid Wheeler had bought a dog. Sid Wheeler had been shot with intent to kill.

Sid had given the dog to actor Asbury. Asbury had been murdered. Asbury had given the dog to him, Peter Kidd. And less than half an hour ago, an attempt had been made on his life.

 The dog of a murdered man.

Well, there wasn't any question now of telling the police.

Sid might have started this as a hoax, but a wheel had come off somewhere, and suddenly.

He'd phone the police right here and now. He dropped the dime and then — on a sudden hunch — dialed his own office number instead of that of headquarters. When the blonde's voice answered, he started talking fast: “Peter Kidd, Miss Latham. I want you to close the office at once and go home. Right away, but be sure you're not followed before you go there. If anyone seems to be following you, go to the police. Stay on busy streets meanwhile. Watch out particularly for a tall, thin man who has a stain on the front of his coat. Got that?”

“Yes, but — but the police are here, Mr. Kidd. There's a Lieutenant West of Homicide here now, just came into the office asking for you. Do you still want me to—?”

Kidd sighed with relief. “No, it's all right then. Tell him to wait. I'm only a few blocks away and will come there at once.”

He dropped another coin and called Bethesda Hospital.

Sid Wheeler was in serious, but not critical, condition. He was still unconscious and wouldn't be able to have visitors for at least twenty-four hours.

He walked back to the Wheeler Building, slowly. The first faint glimmering of an idea was coming. But there were still a great many things that didn't make any sense at all.

“Lieutenant West, Mr. Kidd,” said the blonde.

The big man nodded. “About a Robert Asbury, who was killed this morning. You knew him?”

“Not before this morning,” Kidd told him. “He came here — ostensibly — to offer me a case. The circumstances were very peculiar.”

“We found your name and the address of this office on a slip of paper in his pocket,” said West. “It wasn't in his handwriting. Was it yours?”

“Probably it's Sidney Wheeler's handwriting, Lieutenant.

Sid sent him here, I have cause to believe. And you know that an attempt was made to kill Wheeler this morning?”

“The devil! Had a report on that, but we hadn't connected it with the Asbury murder as yet.”

“And there was another murder attempt,” said Kidd.

“Upon me. That was why I phoned. Perhaps I'd better tell you the whole story from the beginning.”

The lieutenant's eyes widened as he listened. From time to time he turned to look at the dog.

“And you say,” he said, when Kidd had finished, “that you have the money in an envelope in your pocket? May I see it?”

Peter Kidd handed over the envelope. West glanced inside it and then put it in his pocket. “Better take this along,” he said. “Give you a receipt if you want, but you've got a witness.” He glanced at the blonde.

“Give it to Wheeler,” Kidd told him. “Unless — maybe you've got the same idea I have. You must have, or you wouldn't have wanted the money.”

“What idea's that?”

“The dog,” said Peter Kidd, “might not have anything to do with all this at all. Today the dog was in the hands of three persons — Wheeler, Asbury, and myself. An attempt was made — successfully, I am glad to say, in only one case out of the three — to kill each of us. But the dog was merely the —ah — deus ex machina of a hoax that didn't come off, or else came off too well. There's something else involved — the money.”

“How do you mean, Mr. Kidd?”

“That the money was the object of the crimes, not the dog. That money was in the hands of Wheeler, Asbury, and myself, just as was the dog. The killer's been trying to get that money back.”

“Back? How do you mean, back?  I don't get what you're driving at, Mr. Kidd.”

“Not because it's a hundred dollars. Because it isn't.”

“You mean counterfeit? We can check that easy enough, but what makes you think so?”

“The fact,” said Peter Kidd, “that I can think of no other motive at all. No reasonable one, I mean. But postulate, for the sake of argument, that the money is counterfeit. That would, or could, explain everything. Suppose one of Sid Wheeler's tenants is a counterfeiter.”

West frowned. “All right, suppose it.”

“Sid could have picked up the rent on his way to his office this morning. That's how he makes most of his collections. Say the rent is a hundred dollars. Might have been slightly more or less — but by mistake, sheer mistake, he gets paid in counterfeit money instead of genuine.

“No counterfeiter — it is obvious — would ever dare give out his own product in such a manner that it would directly trace back to him. It's — uh—”

“Shoved,” said West. “I know how they work.”

“But as it happened, Sid wasn't banking the money. He needed a hundred to give to Asbury along with the dog.

And—”

He broke off abruptly and his eyes got wider. “Lord,” he said, “it's obvious!”

“What's obvious?” West growled.

“Everything. It all spells Henderson.”

“Huh?”

“Henderson, the job printer on the floor below this. He's the only printer-engraver among Wheeler's tenants, to begin with. And Asbury stopped in there this morning, on his way here.  Asbury paid him for some cards out of a ten-dollar bill he got from Wheeler! Henderson saw the other tens in Asbury's wallet when he opened it, knew that Asbury had the money he'd given Wheeler for the rent.

“So he sent his torpedo — the tall thin man — to see Asbury, and the torpedo kills Asbury and then finds the money is gone — he's given it to me. So he goes and kills Sid Wheeler — or thinks he does — so the money can't be traced back to him from wherever Asbury spent it.

“And then—” Peter Kidd grinned wryly — “I put myself on the spot by dropping into Henderson's office to get Asbury's address, and explaining to him what it's all about, letting him know I have the money and know Asbury got it from Wheeler. I even tell him where I'm going — to Asbury's.

So the torpedo waits for me there. It fits like a gl— Wait, I've got something that proves even better. This—”

As he spoke he was bending over and opening the second drawer of his desk. His hand went into it and came out with a short-barreled Police Positive.

“You will please raise your hands,” he said, hardly changing his voice. “And, Miss Latham, you will please phone for the police.”

“But how,” demanded the blonde, when the police had left, “did you guess that he wasn't a real detective?”

“I didn't,” said Peter Kidd, “until I was explaining things to him, and to myself at the same time. Then it occurred to me that the counterfeiting gang wouldn't simply drop the whole thing because they'd missed me once, and — well, as it happens, I was right. If he'd been a real detective, I'd have been making a fool out of myself, of course, but if he wasn't, I'd have been making a corpse out of myself, and that would be worse.”

“And me, too,” said the blonde. She shivered a little.

“He'd have had to kill both of us!”

Peter Kidd nodded gravely. “I think the police will find that Henderson is just the printer for the gang and the tall thin fellow is just a minion. The man who came here, I'd judge, was the real entrepreneur.”

“The what?”

“The manager of the business. From the Old French entreprendre,  to undertake, which comes from the Latin inter plus pren—”

“You mean the bigshot,” said the blonde. She was opening a brand-new ledger. “Our first case. Credit entry —one hundred dollars counterfeit. Debit — given to police — one hundred dollars counterfeit. And — oh, yes, one shaggy dog. Is that a debit or a credit entry?”

“Debit,” said Peter Kidd.

The blonde wrote and then looked up. “How about the credit entry to balance it off? What'll I put in the credit column?”

Peter Kidd looked at the dog and grinned. He said, “Just write in 'Not so damn shaggy!' ”