The Collection (136 page)

“Thinks he
owes
you?”

“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 intramural activities and selling advertising in them. He
talked me into investing a hundred dollars with the understanding 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 advertisement with those of the dog
he has found and immediately takes the next boat to England. Arrived in London,
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 downstairs 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 committed 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 landlady— 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, turning several corners, and then
went into a drugstore which had an enclosed phone booth. He dialed a number.

He recognized the voice that answered. He said, “This is—
me. I 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 nerving
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
suppose. 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
antecedents? 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 interview,
but you told me that afterward. I didn't write it down.”

“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 ordering 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 policeman 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 running 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 happened 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 directions.
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.