The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

by Fredric Brown

  "Sid Wheeler and I went to college together. He was full of ideas for making money, even then. He worked out a scheme of printing special souvenir programs for in-tramural activities and selling advertising in them. He talked me into investing a hundred dollars with the under-standing that we'd split the profits. That particular idea of his didn't work and the money was lost.

  "He insisted, though, that it was a debt, and after he began to be successful in real estate, he tried to persuade me to accept it. I refused, of course. I'd invested the money and I'd have shared the profits if there'd been any. It was my loss, not his."

  "And you think he hired this Mr. Smith—or Asbury—"

  "Of course. Didn't you see that the whole story was silly? Why would anyone put a note like that

  on a dog's collar and then try to kill the man who found the dog?"

  "A maniac might, mightn't he?"

  "No. A homicidal maniac isn't so devious. He just kills. Besides, it was quite obvious that Mr. Asbury's story was untrue. For one thing, the fact that he gave a false name is pretty fair proof in itself. For another he put the hundred dollars on the desk before he even explained what he wanted. If it was his own hundred dollars, he wouldn't have been so eager to part with it. He'd have asked me how much of a retainer I'd need.

  "I'm only surprised Sid didn't think of something more believable. He underrated me. Of all things—a lost shaggy dog."

  The blonde said, "Why not a shag— Oh, I think I know what you mean. There's a shaggy dog story, isn't there? Or something?"

  Peter Kidd nodded. "The shaggy dog story, the archetype of all the esoteric jokes whose humor values lie in sheer nonsensicality. A New Yorker, who has just found a large white shaggy dog, reads in a New York paper an advertisement offering five hundred pounds sterling for the return of such a dog, giving an address in London. The New Yorker compares the markings given in the adver-tisement with those of the dog he has found and im-mediately takes the next boat to England. Arrived in Lon-don, he goes to the address given and knocks on the door. A man opens it. 'You advertised for a lost dog,' says the American, 'a shaggy dog.' 'Oh,' says the Englishman coldly, 'not so damn shaggy' ...and he slams the door in the American's face."

  The blonde giggled, then looked thoughtful. "Say, how did you know that fellow's right name?"

  Peter Kidd told her about the episode in the printing shop. He said, "Probably didn't intend to go there when he left here, or he wouldn't have taken the elevator down-stairs first. Undoubtedly he saw Henderson's listing on the board in the lobby, remembered he needed cards, and took the elevator back up."

  The blonde sighed. "I suppose you're right. What are you going to do about it?"

  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 com-mitted 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 land-lady—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, turn-ing several corners, and then went into a drugstore which had an enclosed plume booth. He dialed a number.

  He recognized the voice that answered. He said, "This is—me. 1 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 nerv-ing 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 sup-pose. 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 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 d
own."

  "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.

  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.