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 committed 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 landlady— 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, turning several corners, and then went into a drugstore which had an enclosed phone booth. He dialed a number.
He recognized the voice that answered. He said, “This is— me. I 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 nerving 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 suppose. 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.
“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 antecedents? 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 interview, 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 ordering 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 policeman 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 running down the steps and pushing his way out through the crowd. Kidd recognized him as Wesley Powell of the Tribune.