“Mrs. Retsch,” he announced in a surprisingly high voice. The woman with the collie stood up nervously, looked for someplace to put her cigarette, found an ashtray, and, head down, moved past the huge blond man and through the door, her collie coughing docilely at her side.
“You,” the man said looking at me. “You got no animal.”
He was observant.
“That’s what I want to see the doctor about,” I said. “I’m looking for a pet. My name’s Rosenfeldt. I made an appointment.”
“But you got no pet,” he repeated.
“Mr …?”
“I’m Bass,” he said. “You’ve got an appointment and no pet.”
“That’s about it,” I agreed.
Though I didn’t see that anything had been settled, Bass nodded, wiped his hands on his coat, and looked at the others waiting.
“You’re next,” he said, pointing at the parrot man. He turned and disappeared through the door.
Amidst the smell of blood and animal I passed an hour with Collier’s, enjoying particularly a story about Chiang Kai-shek’s vow that China would never fall to the Japanese. He certainly looked determined in the pictures, and his wife at his side looked even better.
At five, one hour later, the door to the interior of the building opened and the teen with the spaniel emerged and sped past and out. Bass stood looking down at me, so I assumed since I was alone that it was my turn. I stood up and put Collier’s and the Orient aside.
“Doctor’s ready,” he said.
“I’m ready,” I said and followed Bass down a narrow corridor. The walls were white and the little surgery-examining rooms we passed were white and stainless steel and looked clean. The blood smell, however, was strong, as was the sound of whining animals.
Bass stopped and put out a hand. I almost ran into it.
“In there,” he said. “Doctor will be with you.”
I went into the room he was pointing to, and he closed the door behind me. It was like the others we had passed, one chair in a corner, a cabinet, a sink, a counter against the wall with bottles and instruments on it, and in the center of the room, firmly bolted to the floor, a stainless steel table with lipped sides. The table was big enough to hold a fair-sized dog or a very short man. I didn’t think I could fit comfortably on it. I didn’t think anyone, even my friend Gunther, who doesn’t top four feet, could be comfortable on that table.
My thoughts were on the table when the door opened and a man who looked like Guy Kibbe came in, rosy-cheeked and rubbing his hands together rapidly. His freckled balding head was fringed with white hair that grew down over both ears. He wore an open white jacket over a very neat, three-piece suit with a matching blue striped tie.
Without looking at me, he moved to the counter, opened a cabinet, turned a knob, and music filled the room. It sounded like a tinny piano.
“Harpsichord,” explained Dr. Olson, turning to me with a benevolent smile, rubbing his palms together. “Louis Couperin, Suite in D Major,” he said. “‘Le Tombeau de M. Blancrocher.’ Seventeenth century. Louis Couperin lived from 1626 to 1661. Some people confuse him with his nephew, Francois Couperin, who was sometimes called Le Grand Couperin. This is Louis. Listen.”
We listened for a minute or two with Olson leaning back against the wall, arms folded.
“Animals like music,” he said. “Most animals anyway. Not orchestras, not the big loud stuff like Beethoven. That scares them, but baroque they go for every time. Bach, Mozart, Haydn. Cats even like Vivaldi sometimes. Don’t know what to make of that. What can I do for you Mr. Rosenfeldt? Bass says its something about a dog?”
“I’m looking for a dog.” I said.
“Wait, wait, listen to this part.” Olson said, holding a finger up to his lips. His hands were clean and looked as if they had just been powdered. “That trill, holding back, the undulation. What can you compare it to, Mr. Rosenfeldt?”
“Sex?”
Olson looked at me seriously.
“Why not,” he said. “Heightened emotion, combination of mind and body like good music. The animals have it. They are not inferior to us, not at all. We’ve just moved away from our origins, made things more artificial. That makes us think we’re better. Is thinking better than feeling, Mr. Rosenfeldt?”
“I came about a dog,” I said.
Olson scratched the inside of his ear with a clean pinky and with a sigh moved to the cabinet, reached in, and turned off the record.
“I’m attentive,” he said, turning to me.
“My dog is sick,” I said.
“So Bass told me, though it seemed a bit cryptically stated to him when you called.”
“My dog is dying,” I said without emotion. “I’d like another just like it, a small black Scotch terrier, just like the president’s Fala. You familiar with the dog?”
“Alas,” sighed Olson, “I’m not in the business of selling dogs, only in keeping them healthy. Perhaps if you bring your dog in there might be something we can do to help him or, if you are correct, make his final days less painful.”
“Alas?” I said.
“I beg your pardon?” Olson said, beaming at me.
“I never met anyone before who used alas in normal conversation,” I pushed. Olson was not unsettling as easily as I hoped he might, which suggested that he was one hell of a liar or had nothing to hide.
“Well, you have now and may your life be enriched for the experience, Mr. Rosenfeldt,” Olson went on. “I’m afraid we have no business together unless you or your missus wishes to bring your pet into the clinic. Believe me, if anything can be done, I will do it.”
He put out a friendly hand across the small room to guide me to the door. I pushed away from the wall and took a step toward it before turning.
“You sure you wouldn’t know where I could pick up a dog to replace Fala,” I said. “It would save me and other people a lot of trouble.”
Olson shook his head sadly and, arm out, came to my side to guide me to the door. “I’m afraid I simply cannot give you solace or help,” he said. “Many people want black or white Scotch terriers. Now, I’ve had a long day with my patients. Between us, Mr. Rosenfeldt, there is no essential difference between what I do and that which is done by an expensive Beverly Hills surgeon who makes incisions into movie stars. The anatomy of the mammal is essentially the same regardless of species. The knowledge needed to treat, to cure, is essentially the same. Ah, but the mystique is different. As a veterinary surgeon, I remove the mystique. For example, I see you have a slight limp. Sore back?”
He guided me with a surprisingly strong arm to the door of the room.
“Sore back,” I agreed, “but it comes and goes.”
“Yes.” He chuckled. “If I were a big downtown surgeon, I could put you right up on that table and have you taken care of within an hour.”
“Taken care of?” I said, pushing the door closed as he opened it.
“Yes.” He smiled. “I could take care of all your problems.”
“I’m determined to get that little black dog, Doc,” I whispered.
“Who are you?” he whispered back, licking his lower lip.
“The name is Peters.” I pushed, feeling that I was getting through to something. “I’m a private investigator looking for a missing dog.”
“A missing dog?”
“You make a nice echo,” I said. “Let’s try for some original material.”
“Leave,” he said, his voice cracking, but the smile still frozen in place. “You’ve come to the wrong place.”
“I don’t think so, Doc,” I said.
“Bass,” Olson said. He hadn’t raised his voice much, so the big blond must have been right outside the door waiting. He came in fast, the door catching me on the shoulder as he pushed through.
“Doc?” he said.
“This man’s name is Peters,” Olson said slowly. “Please look at him.”