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 attack-ing 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 in-tramural activities and selling advertising in them. He talked me into investing a hundred dollars with the under-standing 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 adver-tisement with those of the dog he has found and im-mediately takes the next boat to England. Arrived in Lon-don, 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 down-stairs 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 com-mitted 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 land-lady--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, turn-ing several corners, and then went into a drugstore which had an enclosed plume booth. He dialed a number.
He recognized the voice that answered. He said, "This is--me. 1 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 nerv-ing 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 sup-pose. 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.