A breeze caught me, and a wet chill ran down my back. I was sweating again. The light went on in the room a few feet behind me, and I ran like hell.
I was about thirty feet away and slowed down by two guns and a dog, when the voice called, “Hold it, police.”
Maybe I could have stopped and explained. Maybe I would have wound up back in Phil’s office with the dog but no murderer and some very bad headlines for the Roosevelts. So I kept running. The cop fired, but I could tell from the sound that he wasn’t shooting at me. Given another few hundred thousand miles of push, he might have hit the moon. My chest was burning like dry ice had been pressed against it. I don’t know if they followed me. Maybe they did. I was back on the street and ducked into the nearest clump of bushes. I gave it a full twenty seconds, was sure no one was behind me, and in spite of the pain and the dog licking my face, I ran for the corner, rounded it, and got to my car. It would have been nice if the night were over, but I knew it was just starting.
Getting the front door open when I got to Mrs. Plaut’s rooming house was a minor but distinct problem. I was afraid to put the dog down, afraid that he’d make a run for it. So I used my key and kept saying “Good boy,” as I let myself in. The house was dark. The time was after eleven. By the glow of the forty-watt night light at the top of the stairs, the dog and I moved without a fall, bark, or comment from a resident.
I was almost at the top step when the dog began to whine. It started low and then rose.
“Cut it out,” I whispered, but he didn’t cut it out. I had two choices. I could either run for my room and try to keep him quiet or I could recognize what he wanted and go back outside. I went back down the stairs and let us out quietly. The dog whined all the way.
When I got him down the porch steps, I held onto him tightly while I got my belt off and looped it around his neck. With one hand on my pants and another on my belt serving as a leash, I let him lead me to the curb. I was on the way back to the porch when the front door opened and I started working on a lie, but it wasn’t needed.
“Toby,” whispered Gunther. He was in total disarray, at least for Gunther he was. He wore pants, shirt, tie, vest, but no jacket. “I heard you coming up and then going down.”
“I had to walk the dog,” I explained, whispering back.
He looked at the dog and the dog looked at him curiously. On his hind legs, the dog would have been about Gunther’s size. We could have saddled the animal for him.
“This, then, is the dog of the president of the United States?” he whispered.
“Looks that way,” I said.
“Why are you bringing him here instead of to the police or the president?” he asked reasonably.
I came up on the porch and sat on the bottom step. Gunther moved closer. We were about eye level.
“I think the people who took the dog have a woman named Jane Poslik,” I explained. “I might have to make a trade or something. I’ll just have to wait till they contact me and try to stay out of the way of the police, who I promised to give the killer to.”
I sat on the porch talking and the animal kept his eyes riveted on Gunther. Gunther stood erect the entire time while I went over the events of the past two days. Gunther touched a spot just under his lip, a sure sign that he had an idea.
“In my mind,” he said, “I have gone over the listing of suspects, events. Perhaps it is a problem in logical or even literary formalism.”
“Maybe,” I said with no great hope as I reached over to pet the dog. “I’ve got a plan.”
“What might that be?” asked Gunther seriously. A slight night breeze ruffled his neat hair and a tiny hand went up immediately to put it back in place.
“I’ll find Lyle and threaten to kick his face in if he doesn’t confess and tell me where Jane Poslik is,” I explained. “It’s direct, simple, and inexpensive.”
“And not likely to yield results,” he said pensively. “May I suggest an alternative procedure?”
“If it’s not one that requires a lot of thought on my part,” I said wearily. “I’ve had a long hard day. Hell, a long hard lifetime.”
Thunder rumbled somewhere far over the hills near Santa Monica as Gunther went through his chain of logic. It made sense to me but it would take time to set up. It also involved the possibility that I had made a big mistake.
When he was done talking and I agreed, as much out of pain and tiredness as out of conviction. I picked up the dog. did an awkward dance as I put my belt back on, and followed Gunther into the house and up the stairs.
When we got in front of my room, I whispered to Gunther, “I’ll set it up for tomorrow night, in my office.”
“That,” said Gunther, “will be sufficient.”
When I got into my room, I considered removing the itching tape on my chest, but that would have proven foolish. Instead, I took off my clothes, put on fresh underwear, took one of the pills Doc Hodgdon had given me, and shared the last of a bottle of milk with the dog.
“You want Wheaties?” I asked. He looked like the answer was yes. so I gave him a bowl of Wheaties, which he ate dry.
Sleeping was a little problem. I’m not used to a warm body near mine through the night. Even if it’s a dog, it brings back memories, but I finally fell asleep on my mattress on the floor. Once during the night I started to turn over The pain woke me, and the dog, in the moonlight, wept for me. I gave him a pat and went back to a careful sleep.
“Mr. Peelers,” came the distinct, thin, and insistent morning voice of Mrs. Plaut.
“Huh?” I answered alertly, glancing around the room for something I couldn’t remember but knew would be familiar when it came before my eyes. The dog was sitting on the sofa looking at me, his pink tongue out. I rolled over, felt the pain in my chest, and let myself fall back on the mattress on the floor as Mrs. Plaut stepped in.
“Come in,” I said with what I thought was good-natured sarcasm.
“I’m already in,” she replied, hands on her hips She didn’t seem to notice a dog panting and looking at her from the depths of the sofa.
“What can I do for you, Mrs. Plaut?” I asked, forcing myself up on one elbow.
“Pensecola cookies,” she replied.
My first thought was that this was one of the colorful near-curses of her family. I immediately learned the truth.
“I would like to make my recipe for Pensecola cookies,” she explained. “But I can’t.”
I looked at her and she looked back at me.
“Go on,” she finally said.
“Where am I going?” I asked, coming to a sitting position and rubbing the stubble on my chin.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I can’t make Pensecola cookies?” she said with exasperation.
“Why can’t you make Pensecola cookies?” I asked, feeling something like George Burns.
“No sugar-or not enough sugar-calls for a lot of sugar,” she said, looking around the room to see if there was some doily or knick-knack she could straighten. “The recipe was developed in the old country by my Uncle Fabian’s wife.”
“The old country?” I asked, knowing from Mrs. Plaut’s massive family biography that the Plaut’s, Cornell’s, Lamphrets, and all the other ilk of my landlady had been in on the first invasions of the American shores. Some of them had predated the Indians.
“Ohio,” Mrs. Plaut explained. “We can pick up sugar rationing books at the elementary school. As a resident of this home, I think you should allow me some of your sugar ration in exchange for which I will give you a generous dose of Pensecola cookies.”
I wrapped the blanket around my waist and stood up.
“I’ll pick my sugar stamps up this afternoon,” I promised, reaching for my pants, which were on the sofa and covered with a fine layer of dark dog hair.
“This morning will be essential,” she said. “I’m working on the cookies this morning.”