Fredric Brown - The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

He replaced the glasses and looked at the house again. This time his gaze went higher. The house had a flat roof surmounted by a three-foot parapet. Standing on the roof behind the parapet, looking down at Mr. Smith, was a big man in a blue serge suit. A gust of wind blew back the big man's coat and Mr. Smith saw that he wore a re-volver in a shoulder holster. The big man pulled his coat together, buttoned it shut, and stepped back out of sight. This time, quite unmistakably, Mr. Smith said, "Dear me!"

He squared his gray derby hat, went up onto the porch, and rang the doorbell. After about a minute, the door opened. The big man who had been on the roof opened it, and frowned clown at Mr. Smith. He was well over six feet tall, and Mr. Smith was a scant five-six.

"Yeah?" said the big man.

"My name is Henry Smith," answered Mr. Smith. "I would like to see Mr. Walter Perry. Is he home?"

"No."

"Is he expected back soon?" asked Mr. Smith. "I ... ah ...have an appointment with him. That is, not exactly an appointment. I mean, not for a specific hour. But I talked to him on the telephone yesterday and he suggested that I call sometime this afternoon." Mr. Smith's eyes flickered to the funeral wreath on the open door. "He isn't...ah--"

"No," said the big man. "His uncle's dead, not him."

"Ah, murdered?"

The big man's eyes opened a little more widely. "How did you know that? The papers haven't--"

"It was just a guess," Mr. Smith said. "Your coat blew back when you were on the roof and I saw you were wear-ing a gun. From that and your ... ah ... general appear-ance, I surmise that you are an officer of the law, possibly the sheriff of this county. At least, if my guess of murder is correct, I hope that you are an officer of the law and not.. . ah--"

The big man chuckled. "I'm Sheriff Osburne, not the murderer." He pushed his hat back farther on his head. "And what was your business with Walter Perry, Mr... uh-?"

"Smith," said Mr. Smith. "Henry Smith, of the Phalanx Insurance Company. My business with Walter Perry con-cerned life insurance. My company, however, also handles fire, theft, and casualty insurance. We're one of the oldest and strongest companies in the country."

"Yeah, I've heard of the Phalanx. Just what did Walter Perry want to see you about? Wait, come on in. No use talking in the doorway. There's nobody here."

He led the way across the hall, into a large, luxuriously furnished room in one corner of which stood a mahogany Steinway grand. He waved Mr. Smith to an overstaffed sofa and perched himself on the bench of the piano.

Mr. Smith sat down on the plush sofa and placed his gray derby carefully beside him. "The crime," he said, "I take it, would have occurred last night. And you suspect Walter Perry, are holding him?"

The sheriffs head tilted slightly to one side. "And from what," he wanted to know, "do you take all that?"

"Obviously," said Mr. Smith, "it had not occurred when I talked to Walter Perry late yesterday, or he would certainly have mentioned it. Then, if the crime had oc-curred today, I would expect more activity about, coroners, undertakers, deputies, photographers. The discovery must have occurred no later than early this morning for all that to be over with, and the ... ah ... remains taken away. I take it that they are, because of the wreath. That would indicate that a mortician has been here. Did you say we had the house to ourselves? Wouldn't an estate of this size require servants?"

"Yeah," answered the sheriff. "There's a gardener some-where around and a groom who takes care of the horses --Carlos Perry's hobby was raising and breeding horses. But they aren't in the house--the gardener and the groom, I mean. There were two inside servants, a housekeeper and a cook. The housekeeper quit two days ago and they hadn't hired a new one yet, and the cook-- Say, who's questioning who? How did you know we were holding Walter on suspicion?"

"A not illogical inference, Sheriff," said Mr. Smith. "His absence, your manner, and your interest in what he wanted to see me about. How and when was Mr. Carlos Perry killed?"

"A little after two o'clock, or a little before, the coroner says. With a knife, while he was in bed asleep. And no-body in the house."

"Except Mr. Walter Perry?"

The sheriff frowned. "Not even him, unless I can figure out how-- Say, who's questioning who, Mr. Smith? Just what was your business with Walter?"

"I sold him a policy--not a large one, it was for three thousand dollars--a few years ago while he was attend-ing college in the city. Yesterday, I received a notice from the main office that his current premium had not been paid and that the grace period had expired. That would mean loss of the policy, except for a cash surrender value, very small, considering that the policy was less than three years old. However, the policy can be reinstated within twenty-four hours after expiration of the grace period, if I can collect his premium and have him sign a statement that he is in good health and has had no serious illness since the policy date. Also, I hoped to get him to increase the amount... ah-- Sheriff, how can you possibly be certain that there was no one else in the house at the time Mr. Perry was killed?"

"Because," said the big man, "there were two men on the house."

"On the house? You mean, on the roof?"

The sheriff nodded glumly. "Yeah," he answered. "Two private detectives from the city, and they not only alibi each other--they alibi everybody else, including Mr. Addison Simms of Seattle." He grunted. "Well, I hoped your reason for seeing Walter would tie in somewhere, but I guess it doesn't. If anything comes up, I can reach you through your company, can't I?"

"Of course," said Mr. Smith. He made no move to go. The sheriff had turned around to the keyboard of the Steinway grand. With a morose finger, he picked out the notes of "Peter, Peter, Pumpkin Eater."

Mr. Smith waited patiently until the concert was fin-ished.

Then he asked, "Why were two detectives on the roof, Sheriff? Had there been a warning message or a threat of some sort?"

Sheriff Osburne turned around on the piano bench and regarded the little insurance agent glumly.

Mr. Smith smiled deprecatingly. He said, "I hope you don't think I'm interfering, but can't you see that it's part of my job, part of my duty to my company, to solve this crime, if I can?"

"Huh? You didn't have insurance on the old guy, did you?"

"No, just on young Walter. But the question arises--is Walter Perry guilty of murder? If he is, I would be doing my employer a disservice to go out of my way to renew his policy. If he is innocent, and I do not remind him that his policy is about to lapse, I am doing a disservice to a client. So I hope you see that my curiosity is not merely ... ah ... curiosity."

The sheriff grunted.

"There was a threat, a warning?" Mr. Smith asked.

The sheriff sighed deeply. "Yeah," he said. "Came in the mail three days ago. Letter saying he'd be murdered unless he made restitution to all the people he'd gypped out of money on songs he'd stolen--pirated, I think they call it in that game--from them. He was a song publisher, you know."

"I recall his nephew having mentioned it. Whistler and Company, isn't it? Who is Mr. Whistler?"

"There ain't any," replied the sheriff. "It's a long-- All right, I might as well tell you. Carlos Perry used to be in vaudeville, a solo act, whistling. Way back when, when there was vaudeville. When he took on a girl assistant, he billed himself as Whistler and Company, instead of using his name. See?"

"And then he got into song publishing, and used the same name for a company name. I see. And did he really cheat his clients?"

The sheriff said, "I guess he did, all right. He wrote a couple songs himself that went fairly well, and used the money he got from 'em to set himself up in publishing. And I guess his methods were crooked, all right. He was sued about a dozen times, but usually came out on top and kept right on making hay. He had plenty. I wouldn't say he was a millionaire, but he must have been half of one, anyway.