The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

by Fredric Brown

  I scooped up Haskins's revolver. The cat had jumped clear as he had fallen; it crouched under the tree.

  I bent over Haskins. He was still alive but badly hurt.

  Lights were flashing on in neighboring houses, and windows were flying up. I stepped clear of the trees and saw Ruth Carson's face, white and frightened, leaning out of an upper window of her house.

  She called, "Brian, are you all right? What happened?"

  I said, "I'm all right. Will you phone for a police ambu-lance?"

  "Aunt Elsa's already phoning the police. I'll tell her."

  We didn't learn the whole story until almost noon the next day, when Lieutenant Decker called. Of course we'd been making guesses, and some of them were fairly close.

  I let Lieutenant Becker in and he sat down—not in the Morris chair—and told us about it. He said, "Milo Haskins isn't dying, but he thought he was, and he talked. Lasky was Walter Burke." He stopped as though that ought to make sense to us, but it didn't, so he went on:

  "He was famous about fifteen years ago—Public Enemy Number Four. Then no one heard of him after that. He simply retired, and got away with it.

  "He moved here and took the name of Lasky, and be-came an eccentric cuss. Not deliberately; he just naturally got that way, living alone and liking it."

  "Except for the cat," I said.

  "Yeah, except for the cat. He was nuts about that cat. Well, a year or so ago, this Haskins found out who his neighbor across the street was. He wrote a letter to the police about it, put the letter in a deposit box, and started in to blackmail Lasky, or Burke."

  "Why a letter to the police?" Ruth asked. "I don't see—"

  I explained that to her. "So Lasky couldn't kill him and get clear of the blackmail that way. If he killed Haskins, the letter would be found. Go on, Lieutenant."

  "Burke had to pay. Even if he ran out, Haskins could put the police on his trail and they might get him. So he finally decided to fool Haskins—and everybody else—into think-ing he was dead. He wanted to take the cat with him, of course, so the first thing he did was to fake its death. He boarded it out to a cat farm or cat kennel or whatever it would be, and got another black cat, killed it, and buried it so people would notice. Also that gave color to the idea of his committing suicide. Everybody knew he was crazy about the cat.

  "Then, somewhere, maybe by advertising, he found a man about his age and build, and with a beard. He didn't have to resemble Lasky otherwise, the way Lasky worked it.

  "I don't know on what kind of a story Lasky got the other guy here, but he did, and he killed him with mor-phine. Meanwhile, he'd written the suicide note, timed his phone call to the police telling them he'd taken mor-phine, and then ducked out—with, of course, the balance of his money. When the police got here, they found the corpse."

  "But wouldn't they have got somebody to identify it?" The lieutenant shrugged. "I suppose, technically, they should have. But there wasn't any relative or friend to call in. And there didn't seem to be any doubt. There was the suicide note in Lasky's handwriting, and he'd phoned them. I guess it simply never occurred to anyone that further identification was necessary.

  "And none of his neighbors, except maybe Haskins, knew him very well. He'd probably trimmed the other guy's beard and hair to match his, and probably if any neighbor had been called down to the morgue, they might have made identification. A man always looks different anyway, when he's dead."

  I said, "But last night why did Haskins—?"

  "Coming to that," said the lieutenant. "Somehow the cat got lost from Lasky. I mean Burke. Maybe he just got around to calling for it where it'd been boarded, and found it had got away, or maybe he lost it himself, traveling, be-fore it got used to a new home. Anyway, he figured it'd find its way back here, and that's why he took the risk of coming back to get it. See?"

  "Sure. But what about Haskins?" I asked.

  "Haskins must have seen the cat come back," said the lieutenant.

  I nodded, remembering that Haskins had been mow-ing his lawn when I'd gone to the door.

  "He realized it was Lasky's cat and that Lasky had tricked him. If the cat was alive, probably Lasky was too.

  He figured Lasky would come back for the cat, and he watched the house for that reason. First he tried to get you to give him the cat by saying it was his. He figured he'd have an ace in the hole if he had the cat himself.

  "He didn't intend to kill Lasky; he had no reason to. He just wanted to follow him when he left, and find out where he was and under what identity, so he could resume the blackmail. But Lasky saw him there when you turned on the flashlight. Lasky went for a gun. Haskins had brought one because he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man. He beat Lasky, I mean Burke, to the draw. That's all."

  That explained everything—except one thing. I said, "Haskins was too far away to have rung my doorbell. Burke wasn't there. Who rang it?"

  "The cat," said Lieutenant Becker simply.

  "Huh? How? The button was too high for it to—"

  The lieutenant grinned. He said, "I told you Lasky was crazy about that cat. It had a doorbell of its own, down low on one side of the door frame, so when he let it out it wouldn't have to yowl to get back in. It could just ring the bell with its paw. He'd taught it to do that when it wanted in."

  "I'll be damned," I said. "If I'd thought to look—"

  "Black cats look pretty much alike," said the lieutenant, "but that was how Haskins knew this was Lasky's cat. From across the street he saw it ring that trick doorbell."

  I looked at the cat and said, "Satan," and he opened his eyes. "Why didn't you explain that, damn you?" He blinked once, and then went back to sleep. I said, "The laziest animal I ever saw. Say, Lieutenant, I take it nobody's going to claim him."

  "Guess not. You and your wife can buy a license for him if you want to keep him."

  I looked at Ruth to see how she liked being mistaken for my wife. There was a slight flush in her cheeks that wasn't rouge.

  But she smiled and said, "Lieutenant, I'm not—"

  I said, "Can't we get two licenses while we're at it?" I wasn't kidding at all; I meant it. And Ruth looked at me and I read something besides surprise in her face—and then remembered the lieutenant was still around.

  I turned to him. "Thanks for starting this, Lieutenant, but I don't need a policeman to help me the rest of the way—if you know what I mean."

  He grinned, and left.

  Tell 'Em, Pagliaccio!

  Pop Williams rolled them out and they came snake-eyes again. He spoke eloquently and bitterly about the matter while he watched Whitey Harper pick up the two quarters and the jig next to him pick up the two dimes.

  Pop reached for the dice, and then looked into his left hand to see how much of his capital remained. A dime and a quarter were there.

  He tossed down the two-bit piece and Whitey covered it.

  Pop rolled a five-three. "Eighter from Decatur," he said. "Shoot the works." He dropped the other coin in his hand, and the jig covered. Pop whispered softly to the cubes and let them travel.

  Four and a trey for seven.

  He grunted and stood up.

  Valenti, the daredevil, had been leaning against a quarter-pole, watching the crap game with bland amuse-ment. He said, "Pop, you ought to know better than to buck those dice of Whitey's."

  Whitey, the dice in his hand, looked up angrily, and his mouth opened, then went shut again at the sight of those shoulders on Valenti. Shoulders whose muscles bulged through the thin polo shirt he wore. Valenti would have made two of Whitey Harper, who ran the penny-pitch, and he'd have made three of Pop Williams.

  But Valenti said, "I was just kidding, Whitey."

  "Don't like that kind of kidding," said Whitey. He looked for a moment as though he were going to say something more, and then he turned back to the game.

  Pop Williams went on out of the tent and leaned against the freak-show picket fence, looking down the midway. Most of the fronts were dark, and a
ll the rides had closed down. Up near the front gate, a few of the ball games and wheels were still running to a few late suckers.

  Valenti was standing beside him. "Drop much, Pop?"

  Pop shook his head. "A few bucks."

  "That's a lot," said Valenti, "if it's all you had. That's the only time it's fun to gamble. I used to be dice-nutty. Now I got a few G's ahead and a few tied up in that stuff—" he waved a hand toward the apparatus for the free show in the center of the midway— "and so there's no kick in shooting two bits."

  Pop grunted. "You can't say you don't gamble, though, when you high-dive off a thing like that, into practically a goldfish bowl."

  "Oh, that kind of gambling, sure. How's the old girl?"

  "Lil? Swell. Blast old man Tepperman—" He broke off into grumbling.

  "Boss been riding you again about her?"

  "Yeah," said Pop. "Just because she's been cantankerous for a few days. Sure, she gets cantankerous once in a while. Elephants are only human, and when Tepperman gets seventy-five years old, he's not going to be as easygoing as old Lil is, drat him."

  Valenti chuckled.

  " 'Tain't funny," said Pop. "Not this time. He's talking about selling her off."

  "He's talked like that before, Pop. I can see his point of view. A tractor—"

  "He's got tractors," said Pop bitterly. "And none of 'em can shove a wagon outta mud like Lil can. And a tractor can't draw crowds like a bull can, neither. You don't see people standing around watching a tractor. And a tractor ain't got flash for parades, not like a bull has."

  To circus and carney, all elephants are bulls, regard-less of sex.

  Valenti nodded. "There's that. But look what happened in the last parade. She gets out of line, and goes up on a parking lot and—"

  "That damn Shorty Martin. He don't know how to handle a bull, but just because he's dark and you put a turban on him and he looks like a mahout, the boss puts him on Lil for the parade. Lil can't stand him. She told me— Aw, nuts."

  "You need a drink," said Valenti. "Here." He held out a silver-plated flask. Pop drank. "Smooth," he said. "But kind of weak, ain't it?"

  Valenti laughed. "Hundred-proof Scotch. You must be drinking that stuff they sell two bits a pint at the jig show." Pop nodded. "This ain't got enough fusel oil, or some-thing. But thanks. Guess I'll go see if Lil's okay."

  He went around back of the Dip-a-Whirl to where he'd staked the bull. Lil was there, and she was peacefully asleep.

  She opened little piggy eyes, though, as Pop walked up to her.

  He said, "Hiya, girlie. G'wan back to shuteye. We got to tear-down tomorra night. You won't get much then." His hand groped in his pocket and came out with the two lumps of sugar he'd swiped from the cookhouse.

  The soft, questing tip of her trunk nuzzled his palm and took the sugar.

  "Damn ya," Pop said affectionately.

  He stared at the huge dim bulk of the bull. Her eyes had closed again.

  "Trouble with you," he said, "you got temperament. But listen, old girl, you can't have temperament no more. That's for prima donnas, that is, and you're a working bull."

  He pretended she'd said something. "Yeah, I know. You didn't used to be— But then me, I wasn't always a bull man, either. Me, I was a clown once. Remember, baby?

  "And now you're just an ol' hay-burner for shoving wagons; and me, I ain't so young myself. I'm fifty-eight, Lil. Yeah, I know you got fifteen years on me, and maybe more'n that if the truth was known, but you don't get drunk like I do, and that makes us even."

  He patted her trunk and the big ears flapped once, in lazy appreciation.

  "That there Shorty Martin," said Pop. "Baby, does he tease you, or anything? Wish I could ride you in the parade, drat it. You'd be all right then, wouldn't you, baby?"

  He grinned. "Then that there Shorty would be mahout of a job!"

  But Lil didn't appreciate puns, he realized. And jokes didn't change the fact that pretty soon he was going to be out of a job because Tepperman Shows was going to sell Lil. If they could find a place to sell her. If they couldn't— Well, he didn't want to think about that.

  Disconsolately, he walked over to the jig village back of the Harlem Casino.

  "Hi, Mista' Pop," said Jabez, the geek. "Lookin" kinda low."

  "Jabe," said Pop, "I'm so low I could wear stilts and walk under a sidewall 'thout lifting it."

  Jabez laughed, and Pop got a pint on the cuff.

  He took a swig and felt a little better. That stuff had authority to it. More you paid for liquor, the weaker it was. He'd tasted champagne once, even, and it had tasted like soda pop. This stuff—

  "Thanks, Jabe," he said. "Be seeing you."

  He strolled back to the crap game. Whitey Harper stood up as Pop came under the sidewall.

  "Bust," Whitey said. "Keep track of those dice for me, Bill. I'll get 'em later. Hi, Pop. Stake me to Java?"

  Pop shook his head. "But have a slug of what's good for what ails you. Here."

  Whitey took the offered drink and headed for the cookhouse. Pop borrowed a quarter from Bill Rendelman, the merry-go-round man, who was now winner in the crap game. He took two come-bets, one for fifteen and one for ten, and lost both.

  Nope, tonight wasn't his night.

  Somewhere toward town, a clock boomed midnight. Pop decided he might as well turn in and call it a night. He could finish what was left of the pint in his bunk.

  He was feeling swell now. And, as always, when he was in that first cheerful, happy stage of inebriation, he sang, as he crossed the deserted midway, the most lugubrious song he knew. The one and only grand opera song he knew. The aria from Pagliaccio.

  "—and just make light of your crying

  and your tears.

  Come—smile, then, Pagliaccio, at the

  heart that is broken;

  Smile at the grief that has haunted your years!"

  Yeah, that guy Pagliaccio was a clown, too, and he knew what it was all about. Life was beautifully sad for a clown; it was more beautifully sad for an ex-clown, and most sadly beautiful of all for a drunken ex-clown.

  "I must clown to get ri-i-d of my unhappiness—"

  He'd finished the third full rendition by the time, still fully dressed except for his shoes, he'd crawled into his bunk under the No. 6 wagon back of the Hawaiian show. He forgot all about finishing what was left of the liquor.

  Overhead the dim, gibbous moon slid out of sight be-hind skittering clouds, and the outside ring of the lot, shielded by tents from the few arcs left burning on the midway, became black mystery. Blackness out of which the tents rose like dim gray monsters in the still, breath-less night. The murderous night-

  Someone was shaking him. Pop Williams opened one eye sleepily. He said, "Aw, ri'. Wha' time zit?" And closed the eye again.

  But the shaking went on. "Pop! Wake up! Lil killed—"

  He was sitting bolt upright then. His eyes were wide, but they wouldn't focus. The face in front of them was a blur, but the voice was Whitey Harper's voice.

  He grabbed at Whitey's shoulder to steady himself. "Huh? You said—"

  "Your bull killed Shorty Martin. Pop! Wake up!"

  Wake up? Hell, he was wider awake than he'd ever been in his life. He was out of bed, almost falling on Whitey as he clambered down from the upper bunk. He jammed his feet into his shoes so that their tongues doubled back over the instep; he didn't stop to pull or tie the laces. And he was off, running.

  There were other people running, too. Quite a few of them. Some of them from the sleeping cars, some of them from tents along the midway where a good many slept in hot weather. Some running from the brightly lighted cookhouse up at the front of the midway.

  When he got to the Hawaiian show, Pop stole a glance around behind him to see if Whitey Harper were in sight. He wasn't.

  So Pop ducked under the Hawaiian show sidewall, and came out at the side of the tent instead of the front of it, and doubled back to Tepperman's private trailer. Of course, Te
pperman's wife might still be there, but there was something Pop had to do and had to do quick, be-fore he went to the bull. And in order to do it, he had to gamble that the boss's trailer would be empty.

  It was. And it took him only a minute to find the high-powered rifle he was after. Holding it tight against his body, he got it under the Hawaiian show top without being seen. And hid it under the bally cloth of the platform.

  It wasn't a very good hiding place. Someone would find it by tomorrow noon, but then again by tomorrow noon it wouldn't matter. They'd be able to get another gun by then. But this one was the only one available tonight that was big enough.

  And then a minute later, Pop was pushing his way through the ring of people around old Lil. A ring that held a very respectful distance from the elephant.

  Pop's first glance was for Lil, and she was all right. What-ever flare of temper or cantankerousness she'd had, it was gone now. Her red eyes were unconcerned and her trunk swung gently.

  Doc Berg was bending over something that lay on the ground a dozen feet from the bull. Tepperman was stand-ing looking on. Someone called out something to Pop, and Tepperman whirled.

  His voice was shrill, almost hysterical. "I told you that damn bull—" He broke off and stood there glaring.

  "What happened?" Pop asked mildly.

  "Can't you see what happened?" He looked back down at Doc Berg, and Berg's glasses caught and reflected the beam of somebody's flashlight as he nodded.

  "Three ribs," he said. "Neck dislocated, and the skull crushed where it hit against that stake. Any one of those things could've killed him."

  Pop shook his head, whether in grief or negation he didn't know himself.

  He asked again, "What happened? Was Shorty tormentin' her?"

  "Nobody saw it," Tepperman snapped.

  "Hm-m-m," said Pop. "That where you found him? Don't seem likely Lil'd have throwed him that far if she did it."

  "What do you mean, if she did it?" Tepperman asked coldly. "No, he was lying with his head against the stake, if you got to know."