Fredric Brown: The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

"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:

"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:

The little man nodded. "I'd never heard it, but-- Yes, it would be a parody all right. The original's clever. 'Whose dog are you?" He chuckled, then sobered abruptly. "I thought my verse was funny, too, but last night--"

"Yes?"

"Somebody tried to kill me, twice. At least, I think so. I took a walk downtown, leaving the dog home, incidentally, and when I was crossing the street only a few blocks from home, an auto tried to hit me."

"Sure it wasn't accidental?"

"Well, the car actually swerved out of its way to get me, when I was only a step off the curb. I was able to jump back, by a split second and the car's tires actually scraped the curb where I'd been standing. There was no other traffic, no reason for the car to swerve, except--"

"Could you identify the car? Did you get the number?"

"I was too startled. It was going too fast. By the time I got a look at it, it was almost a block away. All I know is that it was a sedan, dark blue or black. I don't even know how many people were in it, if there was more than one. Of course, it might have been just a drunken driver. I thought so until, on my way home, somebody took a shot at me.

"I was walking past the mouth of a dark alley. I heard a noise and turned just in time to see the flash of the gun, about twenty or thirty yards down the alley. I don't know by how much the bullet missed me--but it did. I ran the rest of the way home."

"Couldn't have been a backfire?"

"Absolutely not. The flash was at shoulder level above the ground, for one thing. Besides-- No, I'm sure it was a shot."

"There have never been any other attempts on your life, before this? You have no enemies?"

"No, to both questions, Mr. Kidd."

Peter Kidd interlocked his long fingers and looked at him. "And just what do you want me to do?"

"Find out where the dog came from and take him back there. To--uh--take the dog off my hands meanwhile. To find what it's all about."

Peter Kidd nodded. "Very well, Mr. Smith. You gave my secretary your address and phone number?"

"My address, yes. But please don't call me or write me. I don't want my wife to know anything about this. She is very nervous, you know. I'd rather drop in after a few days lo see you for a report. If you find it impossible to keep the dog, you can board it with a veterinary for some length of time."

When the pudgy man had left, the blonde asked, "Shall I transcribe these notes I took, right away?"

Peter Kidd snapped his fingers at the shaggy dog. He said, "Never mind, Miss Latham. Won't need them."

"Aren't yon going to work on the case?"

"I have worked on the case," said Peter. "It's finished."

The blonde's eyes were big as saucers. "You mean--"

"Exactly." said Peter Kidd. He rubbed the backs of the shaggy dog's ears and the dog seemed to love it. "Our client's right name is Robert Asbury, of six-thirty-three Kenmore Street, telephone Beacon three, three-four-three-four. He's an actor by profession, and out of work. He did not find the dog, for the dog was given to him by one Sidney Wheeler who |purchased the dog for that very purpose undoubtedly--who also provided the hundred-dollar fee. There's no question of murder."

Peter Kidd tried to look modest, but succeeded only in looking smug. After all, he'd solved his first case--such as it was--without leaving his office.

He was dead right, too, on all counts except one: The shaggy dog murders had hardly started.

The little man with the bulbous nose went home--not to the address he had given Peter Kidd, but to the one he had given the printer to put on the cards he'd had en-graved.

His name, of course, was Robert Asbury and not Aloysius Smith. For all practical purposes, that is, his name was Robert Asbury. He had been born under the name of Herman Gilg. But a long time ago he'd changed it in the interests of euphony the first time he had trodden the boards; 633 Kenmore Street was a theatrical boardinghouse.

Robert Asbury entered, whistling. A little pile of mail on the hall table yielded two bills and a theatrical trade paper for him. He pocketed the bills unopened and was looking at the want ads in the trade paper when the door at the back of the hall opened.

Mr. Asbury closed the magazine hastily, smiled his most winning smile. He said, "Ah, Mrs. Drake."

It was Hatchet-face herself, but she wasn't frowning. Must be in a good mood. Swell! The five dollar bill he could give her on account would really tide him over. He took it from his wallet with a flourish.

"Permit me," he said, "to make a slight payment on last week's room and board, Mrs. Drake. Within a few days I shall-"

"Yes, yes," she interrupted. "Same old story, Mr. Asbury, but maybe this time it's true even if you don't know it yet. Gentleman here to see you, and says it's about a role."

"Here? You mean he's waiting in the--?"

"No, I had the parlor all tore up, cleaning. I told him he could wait in your room."

He bowed. "Thank you, Mrs. Drake." He managed to walk, not run, to the stairway, and start the ascent with dignity. But who the devil would call to see him about a role? There were dozens of producers any one of whom might phone him, but it couldn't be a producer calling in person. More likely some friend telling him where there was a spot he could try out for.

Even that would be a break. He'd felt it in his bones that having all that money in his wallet this morning had meant luck. A hundred and ten dollars! True, only ten of it was his own, and Lord, how it had hurt to hand out that hundred! But the ten meant five for his landlady and two and a half for the cards he absolutely had to have--you can't send in your card to producers and agents unless you have cards to send in--and cigarette money for the balance. Funny job that was. The length some people will go to play a practical joke. But it was just a joke and nothing crooked, because this Sidney Wheeler was supposed to be a right guy, and after all, he owned that office building and a couple of others; probably a hundred bucks was like a dime to him. Maybe he'd want a follow-up on the hoax, another call at this Kidd's office. That would be another easy ten bucks.

Funny guy, that Peter Kidd. Sure didn't look like a detective; looked more like a college professor. But a good detective ought to be part actor and not look like a shamus. This Kidd sure talked the part, too. Circum--am-- Circumambulate, and--uh--succinctly. "Perhaps you had better circumambulate me succinctly." Goofy! And that "from the Latin" stuff!

The door of his room was an inch ajar, and Mr. Asbury pushed it open, started through the doorway. Then he tried to stop and back out again.

There was a man sitting in the chair facing the doorway and only a few feet from it--the opening door had just cleared the man's knees. Mr. Asbury didn't know the man, didn't want to know him. He disliked the man's face at sight and disliked still more the fact that the man held a pistol with a long silencer on the barrel. The muzzle was aimed toward Mr. Asbury's third vest button.