"How do you mean, Mr. Kidd?"
"That the money was the object of the crimes, not the dog. That money was in the hands of Wheeler, Asbury, and myself, just as was the dog. The killer's been trying to get that money back."
"Back? How do you mean, back? I don't get what you're driving at, Mr. Kidd."
"Not because it's a hundred dollars. Because it isn't."
"You mean counterfeit? We can check that easy enough, but what makes you think so?"
"The fact," said Peter Kidd, "that I can think of no other motive at all. No reasonable one, I mean. But postu-late, for the sake of argument, that the money is counter-feit. That would, or could, explain everything. Suppose one of Sid Wheeler's tenants is a counterfeiter."
West frowned. "All right, suppose it."
"Sid could have picked up the rent on his way to his office this morning. That's how he makes most of his collections. Say the rent is a hundred dollars. Might have been slightly more or less--but by mistake, sheer mistake, he gets paid in counterfeit money instead of genuine.
"No counterfeiter--it is obvious--would ever dare give out his own product in such a manner that it would di-rectly trace back to him. It's--uh--"
"Shoved," said West. "I know how they work."
"But as it happened, Sid wasn't banking the money. He needed a hundred to give to Asbury along with the dog. And--"
He broke off abruptly and his eyes got wider. "Lord," he said, "it's obvious!"
"What's obvious?" West growled.
"Everything. It all spells Henderson."
"Huh?"
"Henderson, the job printer on the floor below this. He's the only printer-engraver among Wheeler's tenants, to begin with. And Asbury stopped in there this morning, on his way here. Asbury paid him for some cards out of a ten-dollar bill he got from Wheeler! Henderson saw the other tens in Asbury's wallet when he opened it, knew that Asbury had the money he'd given Wheeler for the rent.
"So he sent his torpedo--the tall thin man--to see Asbury, and the torpedo kills Asbury and then finds the money is gone--he's given it to me. So he goes and kills Sid Wheeler--or thinks he does--so the money can't be traced back to him from wherever Asbury spent it.
"And then--" Peter Kidd grinned wryly-- "I put my-self on the spot by dropping into Henderson's office to get Asbury's address, and explaining to him what it's all about, letting him know I have the money and know As-bury got it from Wheeler. I even tell him where I'm going--to Asbury's. So the torpedo waits for me there. It fits like a gl-- Wait, I've got something that proves even better. This--"
As he spoke he was bending over and opening the second drawer of his desk. His hand went into it and came out with a short-barreled Police Positive.
"You will please raise your hands," he said, hardly chang-ing his voice. "And, Miss Latham, you will please phone for the police."
"But how," demanded the blonde, when the police had left, "did you guess that he wasn't a real detective?"
"I didn't," said Peter Kidd, "until I was explaining things to him, and to myself at the same time. Then it occurred to me that the counterfeiting gang wouldn't simply drop the whole thing because they'd missed me once, and--well, as it happens, I was right. If he'd been a real detec-tive, I'd have been making a fool out of myself, of course, but if he wasn't, I'd have been making a corpse out of my-self, and that would be worse."
"And me, too," said the blonde. She shivered a little. "He'd have had to kill both of us!"
Peter Kidd nodded gravely. "I think the police will find that Henderson is just the printer for the gang and the tall thin fellow is just a minion. The man who came here, I'd judge, was the real entrepreneur."
"The what?"
"The manager of the business. From the Old French entreprendre, to undertake, which comes from the Latin inter plus pren--"
"You mean the bigshot," said the blonde. She was open-ing a brand-new ledger. "Our first case. Credit entry-one hundred dollars counterfeit. Debit--given to police-one hundred dollars counterfeit. And--oh, yes, one shaggy dog. Is that a debit or a credit entry?"
"Debit," said Peter Kidd.
The blonde wrote and then looked up. "How about the credit entry to balance it off? What'll I put in the credit column?"
Peter Kidd looked at the dog and grinned. He said, "Just write in 'Not so damn shaggy!' "
Life and Fire
Mr. Henry Smith rang the doorbell. Then he stood looking at his reflection in the glass pane of the front door. A green shade was drawn down behind the glass and the reflection was quite clear.
It showed him a little man with gold-rimmed spectacles of the pince-nez variety, wearing a conservatively cut suit of banker's gray.
Mr. Smith smiled genially at the reflection and the re-flection smiled back at him. He noticed that the necktie knot of the little man in the glass was a quarter of an inch askew; he straightened his own tie and the reflection in the glass did the same thing.
Mr. Smith rang the bell a second time. Then he decided he would count up to fifty and that if no one answered by then, it would mean that no one was home. He'd counted up to seventeen when he heard footsteps on the porch steps behind him, and turned his head.
A loudly checkered suit was coming up the steps of the porch. The man inside the suit, Mr. Smith decided, must have walked around from beside or behind the house. For the house was out in the open, almost a mile from its nearest neighbor, and there was nowhere else that Check-ered Suit could have come from.
Mr. Smith lifted his hat, revealing a bald spot only medium in size but very shiny. "Good afternoon," he said. "My name is Smith. I--"
"Lift 'em," commanded Checkered Suit grimly. He had a hand jammed into his right coat pocket.
"Huh?" There was utter blankness in the little man's voice. "Lift what? I'm sorry, really, but I don't--"
"Don't stall," said Checkered Suit. "Put up your mitts and then march on into the house."
The little man with the gold pince-nez glasses smiled. he raised his hands shoulder-high, and gravely replaced his hat. Checkered Suit had removed his hand halfway from his coat pocket and the heavy automatic it contained looked--from Mr. Smith's point of view--like a small can-non.
"I'm sure there must be some mistake," said Mr. Smith brightly, smiling doubtfully this time. "I am not a burglar, nor am I--"
"Shut up," Checkered Suit said. "Lower one hand enough to turn the knob and go on in. It ain't locked. But move slow."
He followed Mr. Smith into the hallway.
A stocky man with unkempt black hair and a greasy face had been waiting just inside. He glowered at the little man and then spoke over the little man's shoulder to Checkered Suit. "What's the idea bringing this guy in here?" he wanted to know.
"I think it's the shamus we been watching out for, Boss. It says its name's Smith."
Greasy Face frowned, staring first at the little man with the pince-nez glasses and then at Checkered Suit.
"Hell," he said. "That ain't a dick. Lots of people named Smith. And would he use his right name?"
Mr. Smith cleared his throat. "You gentlemen," he said, with only the slightest emphasis on the second word, "seem to be laboring under some misapprehension. I am Henry Smith, agent for the Phalanx Life and Fire Insur-ance Company. I have just been transferred to this ter-ritory and am making a routine canvass.
"We sell both major types of insurance, gentlemen, life and fire. And for the owner of the home, we have a combination policy that is a genuine innovation. If you will permit me the use of my hands, so I can take my rate book from my pocket, I should be very pleased to show you what we have to offer."