Cornell Woolrich - The Dog with the Wooden Leg

“Gramp, what’s troubling you? You’re not eating anything.”

“Nothing. Just musing, that’s all.”

Dick, the lucky dog, didn’t have his worries, although they’d shared the creepy experience together. He could hear the dog’s jaws busily grinding away on a bone on the floor. Then suddenly the crunching stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Marty asked the girl. “What’d he stop for?”

“Listening to something outside, I guess,” she answered evenly. “Probably hears somebody on the stairs, going to one of the other flats.”

Marty reached down and felt the dog’s ears, those infallible indicators of danger. They were perked alertly, its head was turned toward the door, bone forgotten; but there wasn’t a sound to be heard out there. Not even Marty’s keen ears could distinguish anything. The dog must have been conscious of some vibration that the humans in the room were not attuned to.

Marty put down his fork, clenched his hand at his side, out of his granddaughter’s sight. This was it again. It had caught up with him anyway, in spite of his strategy. A low preliminary rumbling sound started up from the dog’s throat. Marty fingered its muzzle; it was wrinkled back, baring sharp teeth for impending action. It wasn’t because of the bone, either; Dick’s head was steadfastly facing the door.

“Sh!” Marty silenced the full-bodied bark that was forming by clamping his hand about the dog’s jaws. He signaled the girl to come around closer to where he was, so that he could whisper it to her without being overheard. “There’s somebody standing out there. Dick hears him.”

A faint creak sounded just outside their threshold, in confirmation. Again Marty had to restrain Dick from giving challenge.

“Get over there and push home the bolt, quick!”

“But who?” her frightened whisper came back.

“I don’t know. I didn’t tell you before, but footsteps followed me all the way home from the park.”

They had no telephone in the place, the windows looked out on a shaft, without even a fire escape leading down from them; they were trapped, sealed in.

“But we have no reason to be afraid of anyone,” Celia protested. “I’m going to open the door and see who it is. It may simply be somebody trying to find their way to one of the other flats, who stopped off at the wrong floor.”

“Then they’d come up openly like honest people do, not creep up like a spook out of a cemetery!” He half rose from his chair. “If you won’t do as I say and lock it, I’m going to, before—”

But it was already too late. Without any further warning the door swung inward, around on its hinges, and struck the wall behind it with a shattering crash. Marty heard his granddaughter’s scream of alarm, and he could sense someone standing there in the opening looking in at them, without being able to see him. Marty could feel Dick’s powerful shoulder muscles tense under his hand for a spring at the intruder.

Then a man’s voice barked authoritatively: “Hold him back, pop! I’ve got a gun here, and I don’t want to have to use it on him!”

“Be careful of Dick, gramp; he has!” the girl corroborated.

Marty gripped Dick restrainingly by the collar, but warned:

“Stay out of here now, or I’ll let him at you! What do you want, breaking in here at the point of a gun? I’ll get the police—”

“I am the police,” was the grim answer.

Marty heard the door swing closed again with a slam, as though given a backward kick, but the voice reained on the inside of it.

“Narcotic squad,” it added quietly.

He must have shown the girl some credential or other. Marty heard her say in a dazed voice:

“Burkhardt, narcotic division—” Then she went on: “But what do you want here? We haven’t done anything.”

“You haven’t,” said the voice, coming forward into the room; “I can tell that by what I overheard you say about opening the door when the dog first scented me.”

“But gramp hasn’t either!” she protested.

“I’m sorry, miss, but he has. He’s been peddling cocaine in the park.”

Marty just sat there turned to stone, stunned, unable to believe his ears for a minute. It was as though he heard himself being accused of murder. He could hear Celia sobbing:

“Oh, no! No! I’m sure you’re mistaken! Not my gramp—”

“I watched him with my own eyes,” was the devastating answer.

Marty reared up, brought his fist down on the table so that the crockery sang out. “You’re a liar!” he bellowed.

The detective’s voice was flinty. “We purposely turned one of the hop-heads loose a week ago. I saw him come up to you on that bench this afternoon, take something out of the little leather cup fastened to the stump of your dog’s leg. I caught up with him as soon as he left you, and I’ve got the evidence in my pocket right now!”

Marty slumped down again, ran a despairing hand through the part in his silvery hair he was so proud of. “But... but they all stop and fiddle with Dick’s wooden leg, look it over. Nearly every time I go out. Just because one of them happened to have that stuff on him, is no proof he got it from me.”

“I followed him every step of the way from his room, and he didn’t go within arm’s length of another human being. It’s a cinch he didn’t bring that stuff out with him, to carry around on the streets, knowing the risk he ran of being stopped on sight by one of us. No, pop, you can’t pass the buck this time. I’m sorry to see an old man like you mixed up in such a filthy business.” The detective’s voice softened momentarily. “Especially with a sweet granddaughter like you have, doing everything she can to look after you. Another thing, if you weren’t guilty, why did you try to shake me off on the way home like you did? You gave me the slip all right, you’re smart; but you forgot that you’re too well known in the neighborhood on account of your affliction and the dog. All I had to do was ask around and I found out where you lived.”

“I was scared,” Marty tried to explain forlornly, “that’s why I tried to dodge you getting home. I heard somebody tailing me, and I didn’t know who it was or what he wanted, that’s all. You’ve got to believe me, you’ve got to!”

“I wish I could. I saw what happened. What’d you do with the money you’ve been getting for it? Don’t try to tell me you’ve been giving it away for free samples.”

“I never got a penny from doing such a thing. I wouldn’t touch that kind of money!”

“Yeah? Well, we’re going to take a look around. Sit there now, don’t try to get away; one of my teammates is down at the street door.”

Celia’s voice sounded, with an edge of pride in it. “He’s innocent, why should he try to get away? I wouldn’t want him to, until this has been cleared up.”

The detective’s tread went into the next room. Marty heard the mattress of his cot being lifted up bodily over the foot of it, thumped here and there. Drawers were thrown open, the window casings rapped, the floor boards tested for looseness under the weight of the detective’s foot. Marty just sat huddled there, meanwhile, staring sightlessly at the floor, wondering how this horrible predicament could have come about. The next thing he knew, the detective was back in the room with them again, continuing his rummaging, and Celia was saying impatiently:

“You won’t find any money; all he’s ever had to his name are the few pennies I’ve spared him each day.” There was a clash of metal on the shelf as something was shifted.

The humidor!

Marty lifted his head in terror, thrust out his hand inadvertently, as if to stop the detective from taking it down. Then he quickly withdrew it again, but they must have both seen the telltale gesture. There was a moment of horrible silence, and he could feel them both looking at him, the detective probably with a grin of satisfaction, the girl in dismay.