The trouble was, I knew the man, which is an understatement. I do not begin to tremble at the sight of Sergeant Purley Stebbins of Manhattan Homicide West, which is also an understatement, but his presence and manner made it a cinch that there was a corpse in that house, and if I demanded entry on the ground that I wanted to swap raincoats with a guy who had walked off with mine, there was no question what would happen. My prompt appearance at the scene of a homicide would arouse all of Purley’s worst instincts, backed up by reference to various precedents, and I might not get home in time for dinner, which was going to be featured by grilled squab with a brown sauce which Fritz calls Vénitienne and is one of his best.
Purley had disappeared within without spotting me. The cop was a complete stranger. As I slowed down to detour past him on the narrow sidewalk he gave me an eye and demanded, “That your dog?”
The dog was nuzzling my knee, and I stooped to give him a pat on his wet black head. Then, telling the cop he wasn’t mine, I went on by. At the next corner I turned right, heading back uptown. I kept my eye peeled for a taxi the first couple of blocks, saw none, and decided to finish the walk. A wind had started in from the west, but everything was still damp from the rain.
Marching along, I was well on my way before I saw the dog. Stopping for a light on Ninth Avenue in the Twenties, I felt something at my knee, and there he was. My hand started for his head in reflex, but I pulled it back. I was in a fix. Apparently he had picked me for a pal, and if I just went on he would follow, and you can’t chase a dog on Ninth Avenue by throwing rocks. I could have ditched him by taking a taxi the rest of the way, but that would have been pretty rude after the appreciation he had shown of my charm. He had a collar on with a tag, and could be identified, and the station house was only a few blocks away, so the simplest and cheapest way was to convoy him there. I moved to the curb to look for a taxi coming downtown, and as I did so a cyclone sailed around the corner and took my hat with it into the middle of the avenue.
I didn’t dash out into the traffic, but you should have seen that dog. He sprang across the bow of a big truck, wiping its left front fender with his tail, braked landing to let a car by, sprang again, and was under another car—or I thought he was—and then I saw him on the opposite sidewalk. He snatched the hat from under the feet of a pedestrian, turned on a dime, and started back. This time his crossing wasn’t so spectacular, but he didn’t dally. He came to me and stood, lifting his head and wagging his tail. I took the hat. It had skimmed a puddle of water on its trip, but I thought he would be disappointed if I didn’t put it on, so I did. Naturally that settled it. I flagged a cab, took the dog in with me, and gave the driver the address of Wolfe’s house.
My idea was to take my hat hound upstairs to my room, give him some refreshment, and phone the ASPCA to send for him. But there was no sense in passing up such an opportunity for a little buzz at Wolfe, so after letting us in and leaving my hat and the raincoat on the rack in the hall, I proceeded to the door to the office and entered.
“Where the devil have you been?” Wolfe asked grumpily. “We were going over some lists at six o’clock, and it’s a quarter to seven.”
He was in his oversized chair behind his desk with a book, and his eyes hadn’t left the page to spare me a glance. I answered him. “Taking that damn raincoat. Only I didn’t deliver it, because—”
“What’s that?” he snapped. He was glaring at my companion.
“A dog.”
“I see it is. I’m in no temper for buffoonery. Get it out of here.”
“Yes, sir, right away. I can keep him in my room most of the time, but of course he’ll have to come downstairs and through the hall when I take him out. He’s a hat hound. There is a sort of a problem. His name is Nero, which, as you know, means ‘black,’ and of course I’ll have to change it. Ebony would do, or Jet, or Inky, or—”
“Bah. Flummery!”
“No, sir. I get pretty darned lonesome around here, especially during the four hours a day you’re up in the plant rooms. You have your orchids, and Fritz has his turtle, and Theodore has his parakeets up in the potting room, and why shouldn’t I have a dog? I admit I’ll have to change his name, though he is registered as Champion Nero Charcoal of Bantyscoot. I have suggested …”
I went on talking only because I had to. It was a fizzle. I had expected to induce a major outburst, even possibly something as frantic as Wolfe leaving his chair to evict the beast himself, and there he was gazing at Nero with an expression I had never seen him aim at any human, including me. I went on talking, forcing it.
He broke in. “It’s not a hound. It’s a Labrador retriever.”
That didn’t faze me. I’m never surprised at a display of knowledge by a bird who reads as many books as Wolfe does. “Yes, sir,” I agreed. “I only said hound because it would be natural for a private detective to have a hound.”
“Labradors,” he said, “have a wider skull than any other dog, for brain room. A dog I had when I was a boy, in Montenegro, a small brown mongrel, had a rather narrow skull, but I did not regard it as a defect. I do not remember that I considered that dog to have a defect. Today I suppose I would be more critical. When you smuggled that creature in here did you take into account the disruption it would cause in this household?”
It had backfired on me. I had learned something new about the big fat genius: he would enjoy having a dog around, provided he could blame it on me and so be free to beef when he felt like it. As for me, when I retire to the country I’ll have a dog, and maybe two, but not in town.
I snapped into reverse. “I guess I didn’t,” I confessed. “I do feel the need for a personal pet, but what the hell, I can try a canary or a chameleon. Okay, I’ll get rid of him. After all, it’s your house.”
“I do not want to feel responsible,” he said stiffly, “for your privation. I would almost rather put up with its presence than with your reproaches.”
“Forget it.” I waved a hand. “I’ll try to. I promise not to rub it in.”
“Another thing,” he persisted. “I refuse to interfere with any commitment you have made.”
“I have made no commitment.”
“Then where did you get it?”
“Well, I’ll tell you.”
I went and sat at my desk and did so. Nero, the four-legged one, came and lay at my feet with his nose just not touching the toe of my shoe. I reported the whole event, with as much detail as if I had been reporting a vital operation in a major case, and, when I had finished, Wolfe was of course quite aware that my presentation of Nero as a permanent addition to the staff had been a plant. Ordinarily he would have made his opinion of my performance clear, but this time he skipped it, and it was easy to see why. The idea of having a dog that he could blame on me had got in and stuck.
When I came to the end and stopped there was a moment’s silence, and then he said, “Jet would be an acceptable name for that dog.”
“Yeah.” I swiveled and reached for the phone. “I’ll call the ASPCA to come for him.”
“No.” He was emphatic.
“Why not?”
“Because there is a better alternative. Call someone you know in the Police Department—anyone. Give him the number on the dog’s tag, and ask him to find out who the owner is. Then you can inform the owner directly.”
He was playing for time. It could happen that the owner was dead or in jail or didn’t want the dog back, and if so Wolfe could take the position that I had committed myself by bringing the dog home in a taxi and that it would be dishonorable to renege. However, I didn’t want to argue, so I phoned a precinct sergeant who I knew was disposed to do me small favors. He took Nero’s number and said it might take a while at that time of day, and he would call me back. As I hung up, Fritz entered to announce dinner.
The squabs with that sauce were absolutely edible, as they always are, but other phenomena in the next couple of hours were not so pleasing. The table talk in the dining room was mostly one-sid
ed and mostly about dogs. Wolfe kept it on a high level—no maudlin sentiment. He maintained that the basenji was the oldest breed on earth, having originated in Central Africa around 5000 B.C., whereas there was no trace of the Afghan hound earlier than around 4000 B.C. To me all it proved was that he had read a book I hadn’t noticed him with.
Nero ate in the kitchen with Fritz and made a hit. Wolfe had told Fritz to call him Jet. When Fritz brought in the salad he announced that Jet had wonderful manners and was very smart.
“Nevertheless,” Wolfe asked, “wouldn’t you think him an insufferable nuisance as a cohabitant?”
On the contrary, Fritz declared, he would be most welcome.
After dinner, feeling that the newly formed Canine Canonizing League needed slowing down, I first took Nero out for a brief tour and, returning, escorted him up the two flights to my room and left him there. I had to admit he was well behaved. If I had wanted to take on a dog in town it could have been him. In my room I told him to lie down, and he did, and when I went to the door to leave, his eyes, which were the color of caramel, made it plain that he would love to come along, but he didn’t get up.
Down in the office Wolfe and I got at the lists. They were special offerings from orchid growers and collectors from all over the world, and it was quite a job to check the thousands of items and pick the few that Wolfe might want to give a try. I sat at his desk, across from him, with trays of cards from our files, and we were in the middle of it, around ten-thirty, when the doorbell rang. I went to the hall and flipped a light switch and saw out on the stoop, through the one-way glass panel in the door, a familiar figure—Inspector Cramer of Homicide.
I went to the door, opened it six inches, and asked politely, “Now what?”
“I want to see Wolfe.”
“It’s pretty late. What about?”
“About a dog.”
It is understood that no visitor, and especially no officer of the law, is to be conducted to the office until Wolfe has been consulted, but this seemed to rate an exception. Wolfe had been known to refuse an audience to people who topped inspectors, and, told that Cramer had come to see him about a dog, there was no telling how he might react in the situation as it had developed.
I considered the matter for about two seconds and then swung the door open and invited cordially, “Step right in.”
II
“Properly speaking,” Cramer declared as one who wanted above all to be perfectly fair and square, “it’s Goodwin I want information from.”
He was in the red leather chair at the end of Wolfe’s desk, just about filling it. His big round face was no redder than usual, his gray eyes no colder, his voice no gruffer. Merely normal.
Wolfe came at me. “Then why did you bring him in here without even asking?”
Cramer interfered for me. “I asked for you. Of course you’re in it. I want to know where the dog fits in. Where is it, Goodwin?”
That set the tone—again normal. He does sometimes call me Archie, after all the years, but it’s exceptional. I inquired, “Dog?”
His lips tightened. “All right, I’ll spell it. You phoned the precinct and gave them a tag number and wanted to know who owns the dog. When the sergeant learned that the owner was a man named Philip Kampf, who was murdered this afternoon in a house at twenty-nine Arbor Street, he notified Homicide. The officer who had been on post in front of that house had told us that the dog had gone off with a man who had said it wasn’t his dog. After we learned of your inquiry about the owner, the officer was shown a picture of you and said it was you who enticed the dog. He’s outside in my car. Do you want to bring him in?”
“No, thanks. I didn’t entice.”
“The dog followed you.”
I gestured modestly. “Girls follow me, dogs follow me, sometimes even your own dicks follow me. I can’t help—”
“Skip the comedy. The dog belonged to a murder victim, and you removed it from the scene of the murder. Where is it?”
Wolfe butted in. “You persist,” he objected, “in imputing an action to Mr. Goodwin without warrant. He did not ‘remove’ the dog. I advise you to shift your ground if you expect us to listen.”
His tone was firm but not hostile. I cocked an eye at him. He was probably being indulgent because he had learned that Jet’s owner was dead.
“I’ve got another ground,” Cramer asserted. “A man who lives in that house, named Richard Meegan, and who was in it at the time Kampf was murdered, has stated that he came here to see you this morning and asked you to do a job for him. He says you refused the job. That’s what he says.” Cramer jutted his chin. “Now. A man at the scene of a murder admits he consulted you this morning. Goodwin shows up at the scene half an hour after the murder was committed, and he entices—okay, put it that the dog goes away with him, the dog that belonged to the victim and had gone to that house with him. How does that look?” He pulled his chin in. “You know damn well the last thing I want in a homicide is to find you or Goodwin anywhere within ten miles of it, because I know from experience what to expect. But when you’re there, there you are, and I want to know how and why and what, and by God I intend to. Where’s the dog?”
Wolfe sighed and shook his head. “In this instance,” he said, almost genial, “you’re wasting your time. As for Mr. Meegan, he phoned this morning to make an appointment and came at eleven. Our conversation was brief. He wanted a man shadowed, but divulged no name or any other specific detail because in his first breath he mentioned his wife—he was overwrought— and I gathered that his difficulty was marital. As you know, I don’t touch that kind of work, and I stopped him. My vanity bristles even at an offer of that sort of job. My bluntness enraged him, and he dashed out. On his way he took his hat from the rack in the hall, and he took Mr. Goodwin’s raincoat instead of his own. Archie. Proceed.”
Cramer’s eyes came to me, and I obeyed. “I didn’t find out about the switch in coats until the middle of the afternoon. His was the same color as mine, but mine’s newer. When he phoned for an appointment this morning he gave me his name and address, and I wanted to phone him to tell him to bring my coat back, but he wasn’t listed, and Information said she didn’t have him, so I decided to go get it. I walked, wearing Meegan’s coat. There was a cop and a crowd and a PD car in front of twenty-nine Arbor Street, and, as I approached, another PD car came, and Purley Stebbins got out and went in, so I decided to skip it, not wanting to go through the torture. There was a dog present, and he nuzzled me, and I patted him. I will admit, if pressed, that I should not have patted him. The cop asked me if the dog was mine, and I said no and went on, and headed for home. I was—”
“Did you call the dog or signal it?”
“No. I was at Twenty-eighth and Ninth Avenue before I knew he was tailing me. I did not entice or remove. If I did, if there’s some kind of a dodge about the dog, please tell me why I phoned the precinct to get the name of his owner.”
“I don’t know. With Wolfe and you I never know. Where is it?”
I blurted it out before Wolfe could stop me. “Upstairs in my room.”
“Bring it down here.”
“Right.”
I was up and going, but Wolfe called me sharply. “Archie!”
I turned. “Yes, sir.”
“There’s no frantic urgency.” He went to Cramer. “The animal seems intelligent, but I doubt if it’s up to answering questions. I don’t want it capering around my office.”
“Neither do I.”
“Then why bring it down?”
“I’m taking it downtown. We want to try something with it.”
Wolfe pursed his lips. “I doubt if that’s feasible. Sit down, Archie. Mr. Goodwin has assumed an obligation and will have to honor it. The creature has no master, and so, presumably, no home. It will have to be tolerated here until Mr. Goodwin gets satisfactory assurance of its future welfare. Archie?”
If we had been alone I would have made my position clear, but with Cramer there
I was stuck. “Absolutely,” I agreed.
“You see,” he told Cramer. “I’m afraid we can’t permit the dog’s removal.”
“Nuts. I’m taking it.”
“Indeed? What writ have you? Replevin? Warrant for arrest as a material witness?”
Cramer opened his mouth and shut it again. He put his elbows on the chair arms, interlaced his fingers, and leaned forward. “Look. You and Meegan check, either because you’re both telling it straight, or because you’ve framed it, I don’t know which, and we’ll see. But I’m taking the dog. Kampf, the man who was killed, lived on Perry Street, a few blocks away from Arbor Street. He arrived at twenty-nine Arbor Street, with the dog on a leash, about five-twenty this afternoon. The janitor of the house, named Olsen, lives in the basement, and he was sitting at his front window, and he saw Kampf arrive with the dog and turn in at the entrance. About ten minutes later he saw the dog come out, with no leash, and right after the dog a man came out. The man was Victor Talento, a lawyer, the tenant of the ground-floor apartment. Talento says he left his apartment to go to an appointment, saw the dog in the hall, thought it was a stray, and chased it out, and that’s all he knows. Anyhow, Olsen says Talento walked off, and the dog stayed there on the sidewalk.”
Cramer unlaced his fingers and sat back. “About twenty minutes later, around ten minutes to six, Olsen heard someone yelling his name and went to the rear and up one flight to the ground-floor hall. Two men were there, a live one and a dead one. The live one was Ross Chaffee, a painter, the tenant of the top-floor studio—that’s the fourth floor. The dead one was the man that had arrived with the dog. He had been strangled with the dog’s leash, and the body was at the bottom of the stairs leading up. Chaffee says he found it when he came down to go to an appointment, and that’s all he knows. He stayed there while Olsen went downstairs to phone. A squad car arrived at five-fifty-eight. Sergeant Stebbins arrived at six-ten. Goodwin arrived at six-ten. Excellent timing.”
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