The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  Score shrugged. “He'll land on his feet, wherever he went. He's --- --- --- Ever see a picture of him?”

  He got up and went to the file cabinet. “We got some stills here.” He opened a drawer, hunted for and took out a file folder, handed me half a dozen eight-by-ten glossies, portrait shots. “Top one's straight, others made up for roles he played. One of 'em's as King Lear; that's the best role he ever played.”

  Albee was a good-looking young man all right, but what struck me was his resemblance to his father. It was really strong, one case where neither of them or anybody else could ever have denied the relationship. The second shot showed him as a mustachioed pirate with a black eye patch, as villainous a character as ever stormed a poop deck, whatever a poop deck is. The third --- --- ---

  The photographs shook a little in my hand. Albee as King Lear, with lines of age in his face and wild gray hair and a wild gray beard. He didn't look like his father in that shot; he was his father. Trim that beard. Instead of that gray wig, dye his own short hair. Let him talk like a Wisconsin farmer as, having known his father and being an actor, he certainly could do. . . .

  I made the motions of looking at the rest of the glossies and handed them back. I thanked Jerry Score and made my get-away.

  I walked south and walked blindly except when I had to cross a street without getting run over. Of course Floyd Nielson hadn't given away eight hundred dollars. Discount everything that Albee, as Floyd Nielson, had told us. Albee hadn't expected to get the loan and hadn't. But he'd learned his father had just sold the farm. Probably had all his money including the proceeds of the sale on hand, in cash. A fortune for a killing, whether it had been in cold blood or during a fight after a violent quarrel.

  And then the fright and the planning. Establish that Albee had taken a powder, that his father was still alive and had gone west, where he'd gradually be lost track of. And if Albee showed up alive someday, somewhere, even came back to Chicago someday, so what? His father had been alive and looking for him long after Albee had gone. If his father's body were never found, there'd never have been a murder, never be an investigation.

  And Uncle Am, even without having seen the photographs I'd just seen, had guessed it before I had. Or at least had seen it as a possibility. Right now he was on the Nielson farm, looking to see if there was a place where a body could have been put where it would never be found. Not a grave; a grave gives itself away by sinking unless there's someone around to keep it leveled off. But somewhere. . . .

  If I'd had any sense I'd have gone to the office to wait for Uncle Am. Even if he hadn't found a body---and Albee could have disposed of it elsewhere than at the truck farm---we could prove a case, or let the cops prove it, just by pulling off Albee's beard; it was two inches long and he couldn't possibly have grown a real one in nine days.

  But I didn't have any sense because I was walking into the lobby of the Ideal Hotel. A medium priced hotel, the kind the real Floyd Nielson would have chosen. Albee was staying in character and---suddenly I saw the reason why Albee Nielson had used first Missing Persons and then us as cats'-paws; he himself had had to stay away from even pretending to hunt for Albee on his own; Honey, Score, probably even his landlady, would have recognized him, gray beard or no. Which was why, too, he'd taken a hotel south of the Loop instead of on the Near North Side. In person, he'd avoided the area completely, except for his brief visit to our office.

  I asked the clerk if Mr. Nielson was in. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “I guess so; his key's not in the box. Room two-fourteen.”

  There was an elevator, but I didn't wait for it; I walked up the stairs. I found 214 door and knocked on it. He opened it and said, “Oh, Mr. Hunter. Come in.” I went in and he closed the door and looked at me. “Well, find out anything about Albee?”

  And I realized then, too late, that I hadn't figured out what I was going to say or do. Give a tug on his beard? But I'd look, feel, and be too damn foolish if I was wrong, and I could be wrong.

  I decided to toss out a feeler and see how he reacted to it.

  I said, “The case isn't closed yet, Mr. Nielson. Something new has come up. There's a suspicion of murder.”

  And as suddenly as I'd been hit in the gut last night, I was being strangled. His hands were around my throat. There are people who fight by lashing out with their fists and there are stranglers. He was a strangler. And his hands were strong. Like a steel vise.

  I tried to pull them away with my own hands and couldn't. Then, just in time, I remembered the trick for breaking a strangle hold taken from the front. You bring up your forearms inside his arms and jerk them apart. I tried it. It worked.

  I took a step back quick while I had the chance, before he could grab me again. He didn't know boxing. He put up his guard too high and I swung a right in under it that got him in the gut just like the goon's swing last night got me. Maybe not as hard, but hard enough to bring his guard down. I feinted a left to keep them down and then put my right into his chin with all the weight of my body behind it, and he went down, out cold.

  So cold that my first thought was to kneel beside him and make sure that his heart was still beating.

  My second was the beard. It did not come off. And I bent down to study his face closely and saw that the age lines in it were etched and not drawn.

  I sat down on the edge of the bed and stayed sitting there for about nine hours. Anyway, it seemed that long. I gently massaged my neck where those strong hands had gripped it, and then I looked down at those strong hands and wondered how I could have been so blind as not to notice them the first time we'd talked to him. They were, even aside from their own indications of age, the muscled, hard, callused hands of a farmer, not the hands of a book-store clerk. Uncle Am had always told me to look at people's hands as well as their faces when I was sizing them up. I hadn't even noticed Floyd Nielson's hands.

  He began to stir, and his eyes opened.

  And there were footsteps in the hallway outside and a heavy knock on the door, a cop's kind of knock. I called out, “Come in!”

  The first one through was a cop I knew slightly, Lieutenant Guthrie of Homicide. The second man I didn't know; I later learned he was a Kenosha County Sheriffs deputy. The third man in was Uncle Am.

  Nielson sat up.

  Guthrie said, “Floyd Nielson, you are under arrest for suspicion of the murder of Albee Nielson. Anything-you-say-may-be-used-against-you.” He produced a pair of handcuffs.

  Uncle Am winked at me. “Come on, kid. They won't need us, not now anyway. We may have to testify later.”

  I went with him. Outside he said, “You beat me to him, Ed, but damn it, you shouldn't have tackled him alone.”

  I said, “Yeah.”

  “There's a likely looking bar across the street. I think we've earned a drink. How's about it?”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  We ordered drinks. Uncle Am said, “You gave me the idea, kid, when you said, last thing last night, that what puzzled you was that he wouldn't just accept that Albee had taken it on the lam, go on to California and wait to hear from Albee if Albee ever chose to write. What he did was out of character, spending a full week in Chicago heckling first Missing Persons and then us. He just wanted it firmly established that Albee had taken a powder.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “With the hypothetical money. It would have been out of character for him to give Albee that money to begin with, and he didn't. So they got into a fight over it and he killed Albee. That's my guess, and if it was that, he could probably have got away with self-defense if he'd called the sheriff right away. But he wanted to play it cute.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “So I guessed he'd have disposed of the body on the farm rather than risk moving it, so I went there. I looked around with the idea of where I'd put a body where it never would be found unless someone looked for it. A grave in the open was out. But there was a brand new cement floor in the tool shed. The new owner was surprised
Nielson had gone to that trouble after he'd already sold the farm. So I called the sheriff and he brought men with picks.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “One thing puzzles me. How he got Albee to take Jerry's car back to him and then return to the farm to be killed. That part doesn't make sense.”

  I said, “He brought the car back to Chicago himself Saturday evening, left it in front of Jerry's and left the keys in Jerry's mail box. He had the address on the car registration.”

  “And then went back to Kenosha by bus or however, got his pickup truck and came to Chicago again to use Albee's keys to raid his pad in the middle of the night. Sure. There were two suitcases and a portable phonograph under that cement, besides Albee. Well, kid, however you figured it out, you beat me to the answer.”

  I said, “Uncle Am, I cannot tell a lie.”

  “What the hell do you mean?”

  “I mean it's four o'clock. Let's knock off as of now and have a night on the town. We're due for one anyway.”

  “Sure, kid, we're overdue. But what's that got to do with your not being able to tell a lie?”

  I said, “I mean I need two more drinks before I can tell you the truth.”

  “Then let's have them right here and get it over with. Okay?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  And we ordered our second round, and then our third.

  THE SHAGGY DOG MURDERS

  Peter Kidd should have suspected the shaggy dog of something, right away. He got into trouble the first time he saw the animal. It was the first hour of the first day of Peter Kidd's debut as a private investigator. Specifically, ten minutes after nine in the morning.

  It had taken will power on the part of Peter Kidd to make himself show up a dignified ten minutes late at his own office that morning instead of displaying an unprofessional overenthusiasm by getting there an hour early. By now, he knew, the decorative secretary he had engaged would have the office open. He could make his entrance with quiet and decorum.

  The meeting with the dog occurred in the downstairs hallway of the Wheeler Building, halfway between the street door and the elevator. It was entirely the fault of the shaggy dog, who tried to pass to Peter Kidd's right, while the man who held the dog's leash — a chubby little man with a bulbous red nose — tried to walk to the left. It didn't work.

  “Sorry,” said the man with the leash, as Peter Kidd stood still, then tried to step over the leash. That didn't work, either, because the dog jumped up to try to lick Peter Kidd's ear, raising the leash too high to be straddled, even by Peter's long legs.

  Peter raised a hand to rescue his shell-rimmed glasses, in imminent danger of being knocked off by the shaggy dog's display of affection.

  “Perhaps,” he said to the man with the leash, “you had better circumambulate me.”

  “Huh?”

  “Walk around me, I mean,” said Peter. “From the Latin, you know. Circum, around — ambulare, to walk. Parallel to circumnavigate, which means to sail around. From ambulare also comes the word ambulance — although an ambulance has nothing to do with walking. But that is because it came through the French hôpital ambulant, which actually means—”

  “Sorry,” said the man with the leash. He had already circumambulated Peter Kidd, having started the procedure even before the meaning of the word had been explained to him.

  “Quite all right,” said Peter.

  “Down, Rover,” said the man with the leash. Regretfully, the shaggy dog desisted in its efforts to reach Peter's ear and permitted him to move on to the elevator.

  “Morning, Mr. Kidd,” said the elevator operator, with the deference due a new tenant who has been introduced as a personal friend of the owner of the building.

  “Good morning,” said Peter. The elevator took him to the fifth, and top floor. The door clanged shut behind him and he walked with firm stride to the office door whereupon — with chaste circumspection — golden letters spelled out:

  PETER KIDD

  PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

  He opened the door and went in. Everything in the office looked shiny new, including the blonde stenographer behind the typewriter desk. She said, “Good morning, Mr. Kidd. Did you forget the letterheads you were going to pick up on the floor below?”

  He shook his head. “Thought I'd look in first to see if there were any — ah—”

  “Clients? Yes, there were two. But they didn't wait.

  They'll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes.”

  Peter Kidd's eyebrows lifted above the rims of his glasses. “Two? Already?”

  “Yes. One was a pudgy-looking little man. Wouldn't leave his name.”

  “And the other?” asked Peter.

  “A big shaggy dog,” said the blonde. “I got his name, though. It's Rover. The man called him that. He tried to kiss me.”

  “Eh?” said Peter Kidd.

  “The dog, not the man. The man said 'Down, Rover,' so that's how I know his name. The dog's, not the man's.”

  Peter looked at her reprovingly. He said, “I'll be back in five minutes,” and went down the stairs to the floor below.

  The door of the Henderson Printery was open, and he walked in and stopped in surprise just inside the doorway. The pudgy man and the shaggy dog were standing at the counter. The man was talking to Mr. Henderson, the proprietor.

  “—will be all right,” he was saying. “I'll pick them up Wednesday afternoon, then. And the price is two-fifty?” He took a wallet from his pocket and opened it. There seemed to be about a dozen bills in it. He put one on the counter. “Afraid I have nothing smaller than a ten.”

  “Quite all right, Mr. Asbury,” said Henderson, taking change from the register. “Your cards will be ready for you.”

  Meanwhile, Peter walked to the counter also, a safe distance from the shaggy dog. From the opposite side of the barrier Peter was approached by a female employee of Mr.

  Henderson. She smiled at him and said, “Your order is ready.

  I'll get it for you.”

  She went to the back room and Peter edged along the counter, read, upside down, the name and address written on the order blank lying there: Robert Asbury, 633 Kenmore Street. The telephone number was BEacon 3-3434. The man and the dog, without noticing Peter Kidd this time, went on their way out of the door.

  Henderson said, “Hullo, Mr. Kidd. The girl taking care of you?”

  Peter nodded, and the girl came from the back room with his package. A sample letterhead was pasted on the outside.

  He looked at it and said, “Nice work. Thanks.”

  Back upstairs, Peter found the pudgy man sitting in the waiting room, still holding the shaggy dog's leash.

  The blonde said, “Mr. Kidd, this is Mr. Smith, the gentleman who wishes to see you. And Rover.”

  The shaggy dog ran to the end of the leash, and Peter Kidd patted its head and allowed it to lick his hand. He said,

  “Glad to know you, Mr. — ah — Smith?”

  “Aloysius Smith,” said the little man. “I have a case I'd like you to handle for me.”

  “Come into my private office, then, please, Mr. Smith.

  Ah — you don t mind if my secretary takes notes of our conversation?”

  “Not at all,” said Mr. Smith, trolling along at the end of the leash after the dog, which was following Peter Kidd into the inner office. Everyone but the shaggy dog took chairs.

  The shaggy dog tried to climb up onto the desk, but was dissuaded.

  “I understand,” said Mr. Smith, “that private detectives always ask a retainer. I—” He took the wallet from his pocket and began to take ten-dollar bills out of it. He took out ten of them and put them on the desk. “I — I hope a hundred dollars will be sufficient.”

  “Ample,” said Peter Kidd. “What is it you wish me to do?”

  The little man smiled deprecatingly. He said, “I'm not exactly sure. But I'm scared. Somebody has tried to kill me —twice. I want you to find the owner of this dog. I can't just let it go
, because it follows me now. I suppose I could — ah —take it to the pound or something, but maybe these people would keep on trying to kill me. And anyway, I'm curious.”

  Peter Kidd took a deep breath. He said, “So am I. Can you put it a bit more succinctly?”

  “Huh?”

  “Succinctly,” said Peter Kidd patiently, “comes from the Latin word, succinctus, which is the past participle of succingere, the literal meaning of which is to gird up — but in this sense, it—”

  “I knew I'd seen you before,” said the pudgy man.

  “You're the circumabulate guy. I didn't get a good look at you then, but—”

  “Circumambulate,” corrected Peter Kidd.

  The blonde quit drawing pothooks and looked from one to another of them. “What was that word?” she asked.

  Peter Kidd grinned. “Never mind, Miss Latham. I'll explain later. Ah — Mr. Smith, I take it you are referring to the dog which is now with you. When and where did you acquire it — and how?”

  “Yesterday, early afternoon. I found it on Vine Street near Eighth. It looked and acted lost and hungry. I took it home with me. Or rather, it followed me home once I'd spoken to it. It wasn't until I'd fed it at home that I found the note tied to its collar.”

  “You have that note with you?”

  Mr. Smith grimaced. “Unfortunately, I threw it into the stove. It sounded so utterly silly, but I was afraid my wife would find it and get some ridiculous notion. You know how women are. It was just a little poem, and I remember every word of it. It was — uh — kind of silly, but—”

  “What was it?”

  The pudgy man cleared his throat. “It went like this: I am the dog

  “Alexander Pope,” said Peter Kidd.

  “Eh? Oh, you mean Pope, the poet. You mean that's something of his?”

  “A parody on a bit of doggerel Alexander Pope wrote about two hundred years ago, to be engraved on the collar of the King's favorite dog. Ah — if I recall rightly, it was: