Fredric Brown - The Shaggy Dog and Other Murders

Then, of course, it came to him that he was dreaming.

One damn thing after another. The cat was on the roof. It came down the chimney and mewed in the grate, and pointed a rifle at him and said, in Doc Millard's voice, "Now this isn't going to hurt much," and pulled the trigger and the gun seemed to shoot backward and shot the cat back up the chimney.

And Bill Owen was there, and saying, "Carl, Tommy Pryor tells me the bank is out of money and can't give you your five million dollars, and so Roger Keefe and I have decided to give you the agency free. All yours, Carl, and I'll work for you if you want me to, and there are new orders coming in like wildfire and you'll be able to sell out for a billion in a year."

And then Bill Owen's friendly smile seemed gradually to freeze into a gargoyle grimace, and he pulled a rifle out of his pocket, a toy rifle, and said, "Twenty-three, skiddoo," and it was Keefe who had the rifle, grinning like a fiend, and he told Carl he was going to use it for a mashie to make a hole in one, and wanted Carl to guess in one what. And then he wasn't there any more.

It was all very strange and confusing. Elsie was there, too, and she said, "Why do you drink so much, Carl?" and he looked at her owlishly and wanted to say that he was sorry, but that she just didn't understand, and that he loved her and was sorry. And she told him that she loved him, anyway, and she danced around the room.

And sat down at his typewriter and wrote something on it, with the keys going clickety-click like a twenty-two but faster. Just like when she'd been a stenographer at the agency so long ago, and he couldn't move out of the chair and take her in his arms and tell her what an awful fool he was. And she said, "Good-by, Carl, and don't forget your eye-opener when you wake up."

And then there was Doc Millard again, pointing to the fireplace and explaining that "eternal" was an overworked word and that the Eternity Burial Vault Company was now making their vaults disguised as fireplaces, so the worms wouldn't know--and would he change the copy to explain that, but to be very careful not to let it out to the worms.

"It's just a scratch," he added... But then it was different. It seemed later, a long time later, because there was a two-o'clock feeling in the air, and the door was opening, and a man was walking into the room, and this was real.

The man was standing there, and Carl Harlow opened his eyes and looked at him without having to look through his eyelids this time, and it was Tom Pryor. His friend. Really there, with a pistol in his hand.

Carl said thickly, "T-Tom! What--?"

Yes, the man with the revolver was really there, really Tom Pryor. Tom said, "Damn!" And then, "Why didn't you stay asleep? God, I hate to--"

Carl said, "The golf course? You?" and Tom nodded. He said, "I ... I had to. I mean have to. I was six thousand short, and when you tore up the wrong check and didn't notice--"

"When I--what?"

Tom's face was whiter than paper, his voice strange. "Carl, it wasn't planned. I picked up the wrong check, one of my own. You took it and tore it up and didn't look, and you walked out and left me your own check for ten thousand dollars. And with the examiners nearly due--I put it through.

"With you dead, Carl, nobody'll ever know you didn't take the money today. I'm sorry, Carl, but ...it's me or you."

"My friend," said Carl Harlow, surprised that he was grinning just a little. Because he was still more than a little drunk, and all of this was still less than completely real.

The gun muzzle lifted. It shook. Tom was saying, al-most plaintively, "You want to ... to pray or anything, Carl? I... there isn't any hurry--"

It was like a scene in a play. Any minute the audience would start applauding. It wasn't really happening, Carl knew. Murder happens to John Smith, and you read about it in the paper. Nemesis is a gal who follows somebody else--

But he stared owlishly at Tom Pryor. Tom was waiting there to see if he was going to say something. Had to say something.

He grinned a little again. He said, "Give Elsie my love, Tom. Tell her I'm sorry I--"

Tom said, "Your wife? She wants you out of the way---dead--as much as I do! We're going away together with the balance of this money! I thought you knew! Oh, hell, why am I telling you now? Here goes. Good luck!"

What a damn silly thing to say!--that last part. But the first part of what Tom had said was sinking in slowly and Harlow was going rigid with anger, only he couldn't move.

Now he wanted to kill Tom Pryor, and the gun muzzle yawned in his face, but out of reach. Tom's hand held the gun, and his pudgy fingers were white at the knuckles.

The trigger hadn't pulled yet, and there was sweat beaded on Tom's forehead. Tom said, "Hell, I--" and his free hand reached out for the glass of whiskey on the little table near the Morris chair. Dutch courage.

He tossed it down neat.

Or started to. The whiskey spilled, and Tom made a horrible strangling sound and the gun went off wild--with a roar in the confined space of the room that sounded like the end of the world.

A cannonlike roar that brought Carl Harlow to his feet out of the Morris chair. Watching Tom on the carpet. Standing there looking down at Tom, and wishing in that awful moment that Tom had killed him.

For Carl Harlow was cold sober now. And going cold, cold, all over--as the hideous pieces fell into place. As he bent over dead Tom Pryor and caught the strong scent of bitter almonds. And then, like a man hypnotized, turned and saw the white sheet of paper in the typewriter, and knew before he read it what it was.

The typewriter that had gone clickety-click while he had slept and had typed out a farewell note from Carl Harlow to the world. The typewriter that had gone clickety-click while he had slept, and while Elsie had really been here and had typed that note and put the prussic acid in the waiting pick-me-up shot of whiskey!

The Shaggy Dog Murders: Copyright, ©, 1944 by Popular Publications, Inc., published as To Slay a Man about a Dog.

Life and Fire: Copyright, ©, 1941 by Frank A. Munsey Co.

Teacup Trouble: Copyright, ©, 1940 by Frank A. Munsey Co., published as Trouble in a Teacup.

Good Night, Good Knight: Copyright, ©, 1949 by New Publications, Inc., published as Last Curtain.

Beware of the Dog: Copyright, ©, 1943 by Ace Magazines, Inc., published as Hound of Hell.

Little Boy Lost: Copyright, ©, 1941 by Frank A. Munsey Co.

Whistler's Murder: Copyright, ©, 1940 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc.

Satan One-and-a-Half Copyright, ©, 1942 by Popular Publications, Inc.

Tell 'Em, Pagliaccio!: Copyright, ©, 1943 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc.

Nothing Sinister: Copyright, ©, 1942 by Street and Smith Publications, Inc. Published simultaneously in Canada by Clarke, Irwin & Company Limited, Toronto and Vancouver.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 63-9856