Fredric Brown - The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

"He didn't intend to kill Lasky; he had no reason to. He just wanted to follow him when he left, and find out where he was and under what identity, so he could resume the blackmail. But Lasky saw him there when you turned on the flashlight. Lasky went for a gun. Haskins had brought one because he knew he was dealing with a dangerous man. He beat Lasky, I mean Burke, to the draw. That's all."

That explained everything--except one thing. I said, "Haskins was too far away to have rung my doorbell. Burke wasn't there. Who rang it?"

"The cat," said Lieutenant Becker simply.

"Huh? How? The button was too high for it to--"

The lieutenant grinned. He said, "I told you Lasky was crazy about that cat. It had a doorbell of its own, down low on one side of the door frame, so when he let it out it wouldn't have to yowl to get back in. It could just ring the bell with its paw. He'd taught it to do that when it wanted in."

"I'll be damned," I said. "If I'd thought to look--"

"Black cats look pretty much alike," said the lieutenant, "but that was how Haskins knew this was Lasky's cat. From across the street he saw it ring that trick doorbell."

I looked at the cat and said, "Satan," and he opened his eyes. "Why didn't you explain that, damn you?" He blinked once, and then went back to sleep. I said, "The laziest animal I ever saw. Say, Lieutenant, I take it nobody's going to claim him."

"Guess not. You and your wife can buy a license for him if you want to keep him."

I looked at Ruth to see how she liked being mistaken for my wife. There was a slight flush in her cheeks that wasn't rouge.

But she smiled and said, "Lieutenant, I'm not--"

I said, "Can't we get two licenses while we're at it?" I wasn't kidding at all; I meant it. And Ruth looked at me and I read something besides surprise in her face--and then remembered the lieutenant was still around.

I turned to him. "Thanks for starting this, Lieutenant, but I don't need a policeman to help me the rest of the way--if you know what I mean."

He grinned, and left.

Pop Williams rolled them out and they came snake-eyes again. He spoke eloquently and bitterly about the matter while he watched Whitey Harper pick up the two quarters and the jig next to him pick up the two dimes.

Pop reached for the dice, and then looked into his left hand to see how much of his capital remained. A dime and a quarter were there.

He tossed down the two-bit piece and Whitey covered it.

Pop rolled a five-three. "Eighter from Decatur," he said. "Shoot the works." He dropped the other coin in his hand, and the jig covered. Pop whispered softly to the cubes and let them travel.

Four and a trey for seven.

He grunted and stood up.

Valenti, the daredevil, had been leaning against a quarter-pole, watching the crap game with bland amuse-ment. He said, "Pop, you ought to know better than to buck those dice of Whitey's."

Whitey, the dice in his hand, looked up angrily, and his mouth opened, then went shut again at the sight of those shoulders on Valenti. Shoulders whose muscles bulged through the thin polo shirt he wore. Valenti would have made two of Whitey Harper, who ran the penny-pitch, and he'd have made three of Pop Williams.

But Valenti said, "I was just kidding, Whitey."

"Don't like that kind of kidding," said Whitey. He looked for a moment as though he were going to say something more, and then he turned back to the game.

Pop Williams went on out of the tent and leaned against the freak-show picket fence, looking down the midway. Most of the fronts were dark, and all the rides had closed down. Up near the front gate, a few of the ball games and wheels were still running to a few late suckers.

Valenti was standing beside him. "Drop much, Pop?"

Pop shook his head. "A few bucks."

"That's a lot," said Valenti, "if it's all you had. That's the only time it's fun to gamble. I used to be dice-nutty. Now I got a few G's ahead and a few tied up in that stuff--" he waved a hand toward the apparatus for the free show in the center of the midway-- "and so there's no kick in shooting two bits."

Pop grunted. "You can't say you don't gamble, though, when you high-dive off a thing like that, into practically a goldfish bowl."

"Oh, that kind of gambling, sure. How's the old girl?"

"Lil? Swell. Blast old man Tepperman--" He broke off into grumbling.

"Boss been riding you again about her?"

"Yeah," said Pop. "Just because she's been cantankerous for a few days. Sure, she gets cantankerous once in a while. Elephants are only human, and when Tepperman gets seventy-five years old, he's not going to be as easygoing as old Lil is, drat him."

Valenti chuckled.

" 'Tain't funny," said Pop. "Not this time. He's talking about selling her off."

"He's talked like that before, Pop. I can see his point of view. A tractor--"

"He's got tractors," said Pop bitterly. "And none of 'em can shove a wagon outta mud like Lil can. And a tractor can't draw crowds like a bull can, neither. You don't see people standing around watching a tractor. And a tractor ain't got flash for parades, not like a bull has."

To circus and carney, all elephants are bulls, regard-less of sex.

Valenti nodded. "There's that. But look what happened in the last parade. She gets out of line, and goes up on a parking lot and--"

"That damn Shorty Martin. He don't know how to handle a bull, but just because he's dark and you put a turban on him and he looks like a mahout, the boss puts him on Lil for the parade. Lil can't stand him. She told me-- Aw, nuts."

"You need a drink," said Valenti. "Here." He held out a silver-plated flask. Pop drank. "Smooth," he said. "But kind of weak, ain't it?"

Valenti laughed. "Hundred-proof Scotch. You must be drinking that stuff they sell two bits a pint at the jig show." Pop nodded. "This ain't got enough fusel oil, or some-thing. But thanks. Guess I'll go see if Lil's okay."

He went around back of the Dip-a-Whirl to where he'd staked the bull. Lil was there, and she was peacefully asleep.

She opened little piggy eyes, though, as Pop walked up to her.

He said, "Hiya, girlie. G'wan back to shuteye. We got to tear-down tomorra night. You won't get much then." His hand groped in his pocket and came out with the two lumps of sugar he'd swiped from the cookhouse.

The soft, questing tip of her trunk nuzzled his palm and took the sugar.

"Damn ya," Pop said affectionately.

He stared at the huge dim bulk of the bull. Her eyes had closed again.

"Trouble with you," he said, "you got temperament. But listen, old girl, you can't have temperament no more. That's for prima donnas, that is, and you're a working bull."

He pretended she'd said something. "Yeah, I know. You didn't used to be-- But then me, I wasn't always a bull man, either. Me, I was a clown once. Remember, baby?

"And now you're just an ol' hay-burner for shoving wagons; and me, I ain't so young myself. I'm fifty-eight, Lil. Yeah, I know you got fifteen years on me, and maybe more'n that if the truth was known, but you don't get drunk like I do, and that makes us even."

He patted her trunk and the big ears flapped once, in lazy appreciation.

"That there Shorty Martin," said Pop. "Baby, does he tease you, or anything? Wish I could ride you in the parade, drat it. You'd be all right then, wouldn't you, baby?"

He grinned. "Then that there Shorty would be mahout of a job!"

But Lil didn't appreciate puns, he realized. And jokes didn't change the fact that pretty soon he was going to be out of a job because Tepperman Shows was going to sell Lil. If they could find a place to sell her. If they couldn't-- Well, he didn't want to think about that.