The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

by Fredric Brown

  He went out into the blue dusk. He took a cab. Not for practical reasons; it was only ten blocks and he could easily have walked. But, psychologically, a cab was im-portant. As important as was an oversize tip to the driver.

  The Blue Flamingo, Nick Corianos's current club, was still closed, of course, but the service entrance was open. Sir Charles went in. One waiter was working, putting cloths on tables. Sir Charles asked, "Will you direct me to Mr. Corianos's office, please?"

  "Third floor. There's a self-service elevator over there." He pointed, and, looking again at Sir Charles, he added, "Sir."

  "Thank you," said Sir Charles.

  He took the elevator to the third floor. It let him off in a dimly lighted corridor, from which opened several doors. Only one door had a light behind it showing through the ground glass. It was marked "Private." He tapped on it gently; a voice called out, "Come in." He went in. Two big men were playing gin rummy across a desk.

  One of them asked him, "Yeah?"

  "Is either of you Mr. Corianos?"

  "What do you want to see him about?"

  "My card, sir." Sir Charles handed it to the one who had spoken; he felt sure by looking at them that neither one of them was Nick Corianos. "Will you tell Mr. Corianos that I wish to speak to him about a matter in connection with the play he is backing?"

  The man who had spoken looked at the card. He said, "Okay," and put down his hand of cards; he walked to the door of an inner office and through it. After a moment he appeared at the door again; he said, "Okay." Sir Charles went in.

  Nick Corianos looked up from the card lying on the ornate mahogany desk before him. He

  asked, "Is it a gag?"

  "Is what a gag?"

  "Sit down. Is it a gag, or are you really Sir Charles Han-over Gresham? I mean, are you really a—that would be a knight, wouldn't it? Are you really a knight?"

  Sir Charles smiled. "I have never yet admitted, in so many words, that I am not. Would it not be foolish to start now? At any rate, it gets me in to see people much more easily."

  Nick Corianos laughed. He said, "I see what you mean. And I'm beginning to guess what you want. You're a ham, aren't you?"

  "I am an actor. I have been informed that you are backing a play; in fact, I have seen a script of the play. I am interested in playing the role of Richter."

  Nick Corianos frowned. "Richter—that's the name of the blackmailer in the play?"

  "It is." Sir Charles held up a hand. "Please do not tell me offhand that I do not look the part. A true actor can look, and can be, anything. I can be a blackmailer."

  Nick Corianos said, "Possibly. But I'm not handling the casting."

  Sir Charles smiled, and then let the smile fade. He stood up and leaned forward, his hands resting on Nick's ma-hogany desk. He smiled again, but the smile was different. His voice was cold, precise, perfect. He said, "Listen, pal, you cant shove me off. I know too much. Maybe I can't prove it myself, but the police can, once I tell them where to look. Walter Donovan. Does that name mean anything to you, pal? Or the date September first? Or a spot a hundred yards off the road to Bridgeport, halfway between Stamford and there. Do you think you can—?"

  "That's enough," Nick said. There was an ugly black automatic in his right hand. His left was pushing a buzzer on his desk.

  Sir Charles Hanover Gresham stared at the automatic, and he saw it—not only the automatic, but everything. He saw death, and for just a second there was panic.

  And then all the panic was gone, and there was left a vast amusement.

  It had been perfect, all down the line. The Perfect Crime—advertised as such, and he hadn't guessed it. He hadn't even suspected it.

  And yet, he thought, why wouldn't—why shouldn't— Wayne Campbell be tired enough of a blackmailer who had bled him, however mildly, for so many years? And why wouldn't one of the best playwrights in the world be clever enough to do it this way?

  So clever, and so simple, however Wayne had come across the information against Nick Corianos which he had written on a special page, especially inserted in his copy of the script. Speak the speech, I pray you—

  And he had even known that he, Charles, wouldn't give him away. Even now, before the trigger was pulled, he could blurt: "Wayne Campbell knows this, too. He did it, not I!"

  But even to say that now couldn't save him, for that black automatic had turned fiction into fact, and although he might manage Campbell's death along with his own, it wouldn't save his own life. Wayne had even known him well enough to know, to be sure, that he wouldn't do that—at no advantage to himself

  He stood up straight, taking his hands off the desk but carefully keeping them at his sides, as the two big men came through the wide doorway that led to the outer office.

  Nick said, "Pete, get that canvas mail sack out of the drawer out there. And is the car in front of the service entrance?"

  "Sure, chief." One of the men ducked back through the door.

  Nick hadn't taken his eyes— or the cold muzzle of the gun— off Sir Charles.

  Sir Charles smiled at him. He said, "May I ask a boon?"

  "What?"

  "A favor. Besides the one you already intend to do for me. I ask thirty-five seconds."

  "Huh?"

  "I've timed it; it should take that long. Most actors do it in thirty— they push the pace. I refer, of course, to the immortal lines from Macbeth. Have I your permission to die thirty-five seconds from now,

  rather than right at this exact instant?"

  Nick's eyes got even narrower. He said, "I don't get it, but what's thirty-five seconds, if you really keep your hands in sight?"

  Sir Charles said, "Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and to-morrow—"

  One of the big men was back in the doorway, something made of canvas rolled up under his arm. He asked, "Is the guy screwy?" "Shut up," Nick said.

  And then no one was interrupting him. No one was even impatient. And thirty-five seconds were ample.

  "... Out, out, brief candle

  Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player

  That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

  And then is heard no more; it is a tale

  Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,

  Signifying nothing."

  He paused, and the quiet pause lengthened.

  He bowed slightly and straightened so the audience would know that there was no more. And then Nick's finger tightened on the trigger. The applause was deafening.

  Beware of the Dog

  The seed of murder was planted in the mind of Wiley Hughes the first time he saw the old man open the safe.

  There was money in the safe. Stacks of it.

  The old man took three bills from one orderly pile and handed them to Wiley. They were twenties.

  "Sixty dollars even, Mr. Hughes," he said. "And that's the ninth payment." He took the receipt Wiley gave him, closed the safe, and twisted the dial.

  It was a small, antique-looking safe. A man could open it with a cold chisel and a good crowbar, if he didn't have to worry about how much noise he made.

  The old man walked with Wiley out of the house and down to the iron fence. After he'd closed the gate behind Wiley, he went over to the tree and untied the dog again.

  Wiley looked back over his shoulder at the gate, and at the sign upon it: "Beware of the Dog."

  There was a padlock on the gate too, and a bell button set in the gatepost. If you wanted to see old man Erskine you had to push that button and wait until he'd come out of the house and tied up the dog and then unlocked the gate to let you in.

  Not that the padlocked gate meant anything. An able-bodied man could get over the fence easily enough. But once in the yard he'd be torn to pieces by that hound of hell Erskine kept for a watchdog.

  A vicious brute, that dog.

  A lean, underfed hound with slavering jaws and eyes that looked death at you as you walked by. He didn't run to the fence and bark. Nor even growl.

  Just stood t
here, turning his head to follow you, with his yellowish teeth bared in a snarl that was the more sinister in that it was silent.

  A black dog, with yellow, hate-filled eyes, and a quiet viciousness beyond ordinary canine ferocity. A killer dog. Yes, it was a hound of hell, all right.

  And a beast of nightmare, too. Wiley dreamed about it that night. And the next.

  There was something he wanted very badly in those dreams. Or somewhere he wanted to go. And his way was barred by a monstrous black hound, with slavering jowls and eyes that looked death at you. Except for size, it was old man Erskine's watchdog. The seed of murder grew.

  Wiley Hughes lived, as it happened, only a block from the old man's house. Every time he went past it on his way to or from work he thought about it. It would be so easy. The dog? He could poison the dog. There were some things he wanted to find out, without asking about them. Patiently, at the office, he cultivated the acquaintance of the collector who had dealt with the old man before he had been transferred to another route. He went out drinking with the man several times be-fore the subject of the old man crept into the conversation —and then, after they'd discussed many other debtors. "Old Erskine? The guy's a miser, that's all. He pays for that stock on time because he can't bear to part with a big chunk of money all at once. Ever see all the money he keeps in—?"

  Wiley steered the conversation into safer channels. He didn't want to have discussed how much money the old man kept in the house.

  He asked, "Ever see a more vicious dog than that hell-hound of his?"

  The other collector shook his head. "And neither did anybody else. That mutt hates even the old man. Can't blame him for that, though; the old geezer half starves him to keep him fierce."

  "The hell," said Wiley. "How come he doesn't jump Erskine then?"

  "Trained not to, that's all. Nor Erskine's son—he visits there once in a while. Nor the man who delivers groceries. But anybody else he'd tear to pieces."

  And then Wiley Hughes dropped the subject like a hot coal and began to talk about the widow who was always behind in her payments and who always cried if they threatened to foreclose.

  The dog tolerated two people besides the old man. And that meant that if he could get past the dog without harm-ing it, or it harming him, suspicion would be directed toward those two people.

  It was a big if, but then the fact that the dog was un-derfed made it possible. If the way to a man's heart is through his stomach, why not the way to a dog's heart?

  It was worth trying.

  He went about it very carefully. He bought the meat at a butcher shop on the other side of town. He took every precaution that night, when he left his own house heading into the alley, that no one would see him.

  Keeping to the middle of the alley, he walked past old man Erskine's fence, and kept walking. The dog was there, just inside the fence, and it kept pace with him, sound-lessly.

  He threw a piece of meat over the fence and kept walk-ing.

  To the corner and back again. He walked just a little closer to the fence and threw another piece of meat over. This time he saw the dog leave the fence and run for the meat.

  He returned home, unseen, and feeling that things were working out his way. The dog was hungry; it would eat meat he threw to it. Pretty soon it would be taking food from his hand, through the fence.

  He made his plans carefully, and omitted no factor. The few tools he would need were purchased in such a way that they could not be traced to him. And wiped off fin-gerprints; they would be left at the scene of the burglary. He studied the habits of the neighborhood and knew that everyone in the block was asleep by one o'clock, except for two night workers who didn't return from work until four-thirty.

  There was the patrolman to consider. A few sleepless nights at a darkened window gave him the information that the patrolman passed at one and again at four.

  The hour between two and three, then, was the safest.

  And the dog. His progress in making friends with the dog had been easier and more rapid than he had anticipated. It took food from his hand, through the bars of the alley fence.

  It let him reach through the bars and pet it. He'd been afraid of losing a finger or two the first time he'd tried that. But the fear had been baseless.

  The dog had been as starved for affection as it had been starved for food.

  Hound of hell, hell! He grinned to himself at the ex-travagance of the descriptive phrase he had once used.

  Then came the night when he dared climb over the fence. The dog met him with little whimpers of delight. He'd been sure it would, but he'd taken every precaution possible. Heavy leather leggings under his trousers. A scarf wrapped many times around his throat. And meat to offer, more tempting than his own. There was nothing to it, after that.

  Friday, then, was to be the night. Everything was ready.

  So ready that between eight o'clock in the evening and two in the morning, there was nothing for him to do. So he set and muffled his alarm, and slept.

  Nothing to the burglary at all. Or the murder.

  Down the alley, taking extra precautions this time that no one saw him. There was enough moonlight for him to read, and to grin at, the "Beware of the Dog" sign on the back gate.

  Beware of the dog! That was a laugh, now. He handed it a piece of meat through the fence, patted its head while it ate, and then he vaulted over the fence and went up toward the house.

  His crowbar opened a window, easily.

  Silently he crept up the stairs to the bedroom of the old man, and there he did what it was necessary for him to do in order to be able to open the safe without danger of being heard.

  The murder was really necessary, he told himself. Stunned—even tied up—the old man might possibly have managed to raise an alarm. Or might have recognized his assailant, even in the darkness.

  The safe offered a bit more difficulty than he had an-ticipated, but not too much. Well before three o'clock— with an hour's factor of safety—he had it open and had the money.

  It was only on his way out through the yard, after everything had gone perfectly, that Wiley Hughes began to worry and to wonder whether he had made any possible mistake. There was a brief instant of panic.

  But then he was safely home, and he thought over every step he had taken, and there was no possible clue that would lead the police to suspect Wiley Hughes.

  Inside the house, in sanctuary, he counted the money under a light that wouldn't show outside. Monday he would put it in a safe deposit box he had already rented under an assumed name.

  Meanwhile, any hiding place would serve. But he was taking no chances; he had prepared a good one. That afternoon he had spaded the big flower bed in the back yard.

  Now, keeping close under cover of the fence, so he could not be seen in the remotely possible case of a neigh-bor looking from a window, lie scooped a hollow in the freshly spaded earth.

  No need to bury it deep; a shallow hole, refilled, in the freshly turned soil would be best, and could never on earth be detected by human eyes. He wrapped the money in oiled paper, buried it, and covered the hole carefully, leaving no trace whatsoever.

  By four o'clock he was in bed, and lay there thinking pleasantly of all the things that he could do with the money once it would be safe for him to begin spending it.

  It was almost nine when he awakened the next morning. And again, for a moment, there was reaction and panic. For seconds that seemed hours he lay rigidly, trying to recall everything he had done. Step by step he went over it and gradually confidence returned.

  He had been seen by no one; he had left no possible clue.

  His cleverness in getting past the dog without killing it would certainly throw suspicion elsewhere.

  It had been easy, so easy, for a clever man to commit a crime without leaving a single lead. Ridiculously easy. There was no possible-Through the open window of his bedroom he heard voices that seemed excited about something. One of them sounded like the voice of the police
man on the day shift. Probably, then, the crime had been discovered. But why—?

  He ran to the window and looked out.

  A little knot of people were gathered in the alley behind his house, looking into the yard.

  His gaze turned more directly downward and he knew then that he was lost. Across the freshly turned earth of the flower bed, strewn in wild profusion, was a disorderly array of banknotes, like flat green plants that had sprouted too soon.

  And asleep on the grass, his nose beside the torn oiled paper in which Wiley had brought him the

  meat and which Wiley had used later to wrap the banknotes, was the black dog.

  The dangerous, vicious, beware-of-the-dog, the hound of hell, whose friendship he had won so thoroughly that it had dug its way under the fence and followed him home.

  Little Boy Lost

  There was a knock on the door. Gram put the sock she was mending back into the work basket in her lap and then moved the work basket to the table, ready to get up.

  But by that time Ma had come out of the kitchen and, wiping her hands on her apron, opened the door. Her eyes went hard.

  The smile of the sleek young man in the hallway out-side the door showed two gold teeth. He shoved his hat back from his forehead and said: "How ya, Mrs. Murdock? Tell Eddie I'm-"

  "Eddie ain't here." Ma's voice was hard like her eyes.

  "Ain't, huh? Said he'd be at the Gem. Wasn't there so I thought—"

  "Eddie ain't here." There was finality in Ma's repetition. A tense finality that the man in the hallway couldn't pre-tend to overlook.

  His smile faded. "If he comes in, you remind him. Tell him I said nine-thirty's the time."

  "The time for what." There wasn't any rising inflection in Ma Murdock's voice to stamp those four words as a question.

  There was a sudden narrowing of the eyes that looked at Ma. The man with the gold teeth said: "Eddie'll know that." He turned and walked to the stairs.

  Ma closed the door slowly.

  Gram was working on the sock again. Her high voice asked: "Was that Johnny Everard, Elsie? Sounded a bit like Johnny's voice."