There was a scratching and pawing in the apartment, but no sounds of a merry-go-’round, so I opened the door and walked in. There on the carpet was an envelope and the dog was scratching at it with his paw, sniffing of it, and then scratching again. Evidently some messenger had picked the lock and placed the envelope on the floor where I’d be sure and see it.
Oh well, it’s all in a lifetime.
“Bring it here, Bobo,” I said, and he got an edge of it in his mouth and brought it over.
The note within was typewritten, and there wasn’t very much to it.
“GO SEE DON G. HERMAN AT ONCE,” it said and the message was unsigned.
I sighed. Lord! How many times I’d had things put up to me in just that way. Some politician wanted a crook to do a piece of dirty work, some local king of the underworld wanted to get in touch with me, usually on some double-crossing scheme or other. They didn’t want to be connected up with me later, so they’d choose some dramatic stunt like this to get in touch with me. At that, though, this one worried me a little, because I didn’t figure anyone knew where I was holding out.
I’d heard of Don G. Herman, a big time political crook. He was rumored to have blackmailed a dozen of the prominent men in San Francisco at different times and to have a world of political power obtained from the same source. I didn’t owe Don G. Herman anything and I didn’t intend to, but I did figure I’d find out who his messenger was.
I called the dog over and let him smell good and long at the envelope and sheet of paper within.
“Just remember that smell, old boy,” I told him.
He looked up inquiringly, ears thrust forward, head on one side, tail wagging slowly from side to side.
I shook my head. “No. Not to follow. Just to remember.”
I don’t know whether he got me or not, but there was no harm in trying. I got up and put on my hat, beckoned to the dog and we went back out. In the outer doorway I turned to Bobo.
“Wait there a minute. — Down.”
He crouched and waited, watching me as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.
Dusk was falling and there was a thick fog rolling in and settling down. Occasionally a machine would slip past with the lights on, a pedestrian or two walked on up or down the hill. There was a skinny runt standing with his coat collar turned up leaning against the mailbox in the middle of the block, and I’d have spotted him as the messenger, always supposing the messenger was sticking around.
As far as that was concerned, I’d have bet ten to one the man that delivered that message was where he could see me, right then. In the first place a man who delivers one of those mysterious messages likes to stick around and see how the other fellow takes it, and, in the second place, Don G. Herman was probably wondering whether I was going to call me a taxi and start for his house.
After a minute or two I called out the dog, speaking in a low voice: “Go hunt ’em out, Bobo.”
I spoke over my shoulder, not looking at the dog. I’d trained him not to stand near me or act as though he knew me at all unless I looked at him, and when he came out and saw me standing erect, looking out over the traffic on Bush Street, he just stuck his tail up in the air and went pattering around the street like a stray dog looking for garbage cans.
He swung over toward the figure at the mailbox the first thing, barely brushed against him, then ran off down the street, stopped at the corner, looked back, saw that I was still standing straight and erect, and ran across the street, nosing around automobiles and doorways.
I wondered whether I’d made a poor guess on the bird at the mailbox or whether Bobo didn’t understand what I wanted. I was watching the dog out of the corner of my eye, musing, speculating, when, suddenly, his tail stiffened and his head lowered. He was in front of a little cigar stand at the corner, and there was a well-dressed, heavyset bird standing at the counter, talking with the boss. He had all the earmarks of a man who had just picked out his favorite brand of cigar and was chinning the boss while he lit it.
Bobo walked stiff legged up to this bird, took a wiff at his leg, then half-turned to me and whined. I walked casually down the street and whistled to Bobo when I was well around the corner. For once I was fooled. That bird at the cigar stand looked like a bank president. I couldn’t imagine a guy like that playing messenger boy.
I walked around the block, and ducked into a drug store where I got a private detective agency on the telephone. Believe me, one of the nicest things a crook can have is a private detective agency. I patronized this one as a Mr. Green, and that was all the name they knew me under. They’d seen my checks, but they’d never seen my face, and I didn’t intend that they should. They got all instructions over the telephone, a check on the first of the month and it worked satisfactorily all around. They figured I was a lawyer somewhere, and I let ’em figure.
“Shoot a man out to corner of Bush and Polk streets,” I barked into the telephone, “and do it right now. There’s a heavyset bird in a light colored hat, brown suit, pearl gray tie and tan shoes. He’s about forty-five years old, has a double chin, gray eyes. He’s at the cigar stand on the corner, and if he’s still there when your man gets there, follow him and find out who he really is. Then let me know where he goes and what he does. If your man gets out there after he’s gone, forget it. This is Harry Green talking, and you can charge me.”
I hung up the telephone right afterwards. That was the order, and they could take it or leave it.
I walked back to the corner. Yep, the guy was still at the cigar stand. He wasn’t following me on any casual strolls, but was sticking around and watching the apartment. That was something funny in itself. Maybe he’d figured I was just walking around the block, and then again maybe he was watching for something else. One thing was certain, I’d trust Bobo’s nose and that was the bird that had either written or delivered that message.
I loafed around for ten minutes, and then a small coupe slid around the corner and parked. A kid got out, took a rubber around, spotted the bird at the cigar stand and then climbed back in the coupe.
I stuck around, the man at the cigar stand stuck around, and the kid from the detective agency stuck around. There was another ten minutes of it while the light faded, and then a rough looking figure came driving up in an old, rusty car and the heavy set bird bowed to the man at the cigar counter and got in the machine. They drove up to Van Ness and turned the corner with the little coupe slipping through traffic right behind.
I didn’t expect the kid would get any too much dope on that bird, but I figured I’d shaken my own shadow for a while, anyway. I was just a little nervous. Bobo was a great pal, a big help, but a big dog is something of a tag for a man, and I saw I was going to be labelled if I wasn’t careful. I had no doubt they’d located me through the dog. Well, there was one thing, Bobo was trained to keep clear if I got in any real jam, and they could follow him until the cows came home for all the good it’d do them. I went upstairs, kicked off my shoes, read for a while, and went to sleep. Bobo slept at the foot of the bed and never stirred, which was a good sign.
The next morning I rang up the detective agency and found that the party they’d shadowed for me was a man named E. C. Simpson, and he lived in an apartment out in the panhandle district.
I laughed at the dick that made the report.
“That’s the name he’s going under,” I told him. “I want to know who he really is.”