Peter Kidd stood up. The dog was running in circles around him, barking joyously. It wanted to play some more. Peter Kidd recovered the loop end of the leash and spoke bitterly. The shaggy dog wagged its tail.
They'd walked several blocks before it occurred to Kidd that he didn't know where he was going. For that matter, he told himself, he didn't really know where he'd been. It had been such a beautifully simple matter, be-fore he'd left his office.
Except that if the shaggy dog hadn't been the dog of a murdered man, it was one now. Except for that bullet having gone wild, his present custodian, one Peter Kidd, might be in a position to ask Mr. Aloysius Smith Robert Asbury just exactly what the devil it was all about.
It had been so beautifully simple, as a hoax. For a mo-ment he tried to think that-- But no, that was silly. The police department didn't go in for hoaxes. Asbury had really been murdered. "I am the dog of a murdered man... Escape his fate, Sir, if you can...." Had Asbury actually found such a note and then been murdered? Had the man with the silenced gun been following Kidd because he'd recognized the dog? A nut, maybe, out to kill each successive possessor of the shaggy dog?
Had Asbury's entire story been true--except for the phony name he'd given--and had he given a wrong name and address only because he'd been afraid?
But how to--? Of course. Ask Sid Wheeler. If Sid had originated the hoax and hired Asbury, then the murder was a coincidence--one hell of a whopping coincidence. Yes, they were bound for Sid Wheeler's office. He knew that now, but they'd been walking in the wrong direction. He turned and started back, gradually lengthening his strides. A block later, it occurred to him it would be quicker to phone. At least to make certain Sid was in, not out collecting rents or something.
He stopped in the nearest drugstore and: "Mr. Wheeler," said the feminine voice, "is not here. He was taken to the hospital an hour ago. This is his secretary speaking. If there is anything I can--" "What's the matter with Sid?" he demanded. There was a slight hesitation and he; went on: "This is Peter Kidd, Miss Ames. You know me. What's wrong?"
"He--he was shot. The police just left. They told me not to g-give out the story, but you're a detective and a friend of his, so I guess it's all ri--" "How badly was he hurt?"
"They-they say he'll get better, Mr. Kidd. The bullet went through his chest, but on the right side and didn't touch his heart. He's at Bethesda Hospital. You can find out more there than I can tell you. Except that he's still unconscious--you won't be able to see him yet." "How did it happen, Miss Ames?" "A man I'd never seen before said he wanted to see Mr. Wheeler on business and I sent him into the inner office. Mr. Wheeler was talking on the phone to some-one who'd just called-- What was that, Mr. Kidd?"
Peter Kidd didn't care to repeat it. He said, "Never mind. Go on."
"He was in there only a few seconds and came out and left, fast. I couldn't figure out why he'd changed his mind so quick, and after he left I looked in and-- Well, I thought Mr. Wheeler was dead. I guess the man thought so too, that is, if he meant to kill Mr. Wheeler, he could have easily --uh--" "A silenced gun?"
"The police say it must have been, when I told them I hadn't heard the shot." "What did the man look like?"
"Tall and thin, with a kind of sharp face. He had a light suit on. There was a slight stain of some kind on the front of the coat."
"Miss Ames," said Peter Kidd, "did Sid Wheeler buy or find a dog recently?" "Why, yes, this morning. A big white shaggy one. He came in at eight o'clock and had the dog with him on a leash. He said he'd bought it. He said it was to play a joke on somebody." "What happened next--about the dog?"
"He turned it over to a man who had an appointment with him at eight-thirty. A fat, funny-looking little man. He didn't give his name. But he must have been in on the joke, whatever it was, because they were chuckling to-gether when Mr. Wheeler walked to the door with him." "You know where he bought the dog? Anything more about it?" "No, Mr. Kidd. He just said he bought it. And that it was for a joke." Looking dazed, Peter Kidd hung up the receiver.
Sid Wheeler, shot.
Outside the booth, the shaggy dog stood on its hind legs and pawed at the glass. Kidd stared at it. Sid Wheeler had bought a dog. Sid Wheeler had been shot with intent to kill. Sid had given the dog to actor Asbury. Asbury had been murdered. Asbury had given the dog to him, Peter Kidd. And less than half an hour ago, an attempt had been made on his life.
The dog of a murdered man.
Well, there wasn't any question now of telling the police. Sid might have started this as a hoax, but a wheel had come off somewhere, and suddenly.
He'd phone the police right here and now. He dropped the dime and then--on a sudden hunch--dialed his own office number instead of that of headquarters. When the blonde's voice answered, he started talking fast: "Peter Kidd, Miss Latham. I want you to close the office at once and go home. Right away, but be sure you're not followed before you go there. If anyone seems to be following you, go to the police. Stay on busy streets meanwhile. Watch out particularly for a tall, thin man who has a stain on the front of his coat. Got that?"
"Yes, but--but the police are here, Mr. Kidd. There's a Lieutenant West of Homicide here now, just came into the office asking for you. Do you still want me to--?"
Kidd sighed with relief. "No, it's all right then. Tell him to wait. I'm only a few blocks away and will come there at once."
He dropped another coin and called Bethesda Hospital. Sid Wheeler was in serious, but not critical, condition. He was still unconscious and wouldn't be able to have visitors for at least twenty-four hours.
He walked back to the Wheeler Building, slowly. The first faint glimmering of an idea was coming. But there were still a great many things that didn't make any sense at all.
"Lieutenant West, Mr. Kidd," said the blonde.
The big man nodded. "About a Robert Asbury, who was killed this morning. You knew him?"
"Not before this morning," Kidd told him. "He came here--ostensibly--to offer me a case. The circumstances were very peculiar."
"We found your name and the address of this office on a slip of paper in his pocket," said West. "It wasn't in his handwriting. Was it yours?"
"Probably it's Sidney Wheeler's handwriting, Lieuten-ant. Sid sent him here, I have cause to believe. And you know that an attempt was made to kill Wheeler this morning?"
"The devil! Had a report on that, but we hadn't con-nected it with the Asbury murder as yet." "And there was another murder attempt," said Kidd. "Upon me. That was why I phoned. Perhaps I'd better tell you the whole story from the beginning."
The lieutenant's eyes widened as he listened. From time to time he turned to look at the dog.
"And you say," he said, when Kidd had finished, "that you have the money in an envelope in your pocket? May I see it?"
Peter Kidd handed over the envelope. West glanced inside it and then put it in his pocket. "Better take this along," he said. "Give you a receipt if you want, but you've got a witness." He glanced at the blonde.
"Give it to Wheeler," Kidd told him. "Unless--maybe you've got the same idea I have. You must have, or you wouldn't have wanted the money." "What idea's that?"
"The dog," said Peter Kidd, "might not have anything to do with all this at all. Today the dog was in the hands of three persons--Wheeler, Asbury, and myself. An at-tempt was made--successfully, I am glad to say, in only one case out of the three--to kill each of us. But the dog was merely the--ah--deus ex machina of a hoax that didn't come off, or else came off too well. There's something else involved--the money."