He reached for Powell’s arm, asked, “What happened 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 directions. 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 departed 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.
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, before 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 moment 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 someone who’d just called— What was that, Mr. Kidd?”
Peter Kidd didn’t care to repeat it. He said, “Never mind.
Go on.”