"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 ante-cedents? 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 inter-view, 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 order-ing 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 police-man 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 run-ning 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 hap-pened 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 direc-tions. 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 de-parted 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.