Rex Stout - Three Witnesses

“Fine,” Purley rumbled. “Just fine. You might as well go on with it.”

Loftus came and fastened the leash to the collar, led Bootsy across the lobby to a door, and knocked. In a moment the door opened, and there was Victor Talento in a fancy rainbow dressing gown.

“Hello, Bootsy,” he said, and reached down to pat.

“Goddamit!” Purley barked. “I told you not to speak!”

Talento straightened up. “So you did.” He was apologetic. “I’m sorry, I forgot. Do you want to try it again?”

“No. That’s all.”

Talento backed in and closed the door.

“You must realize,” Loftus told Purley, “that a Labrador can’t be expected to go for a man’s throat. They’re not that kind of dog. The most you could expect would be an attitude, or possibly a growl.”

“You can have ‘em,” Purley growled. “Is it worth going on?”

“By all means. You’d better go first.”

Purley headed for me, and I gave him room and then followed him up the stairs. The upper hall was narrow and not very light, with a door at the rear end and another toward the front. We backed up against the wall opposite the front door to leave enough space for Loftus and Bootsy. They came, Bootsy tagging, and Loftus knocked. Ten seconds passed before footsteps sounded, and then the door was opened by the specimen who had dashed out of Wolfe’s place the day before and taken my coat with him. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he hadn’t combed his hair.

“This is Sergeant Loftus, Mr. Meegan,” Purley said. “Take a look at the dog. Have you ever seen it before? Pat it.”

Meegan snorted. “Pat it yourself. Go to hell.”

“Have you ever seen it before?”

“No.”

“Okay, thanks. Come on, Loftus.”

As we started up the next flight the door slammed behind us, good and loud. Purley asked over his shoulder, “Well?”

“He didn’t like him,” Loftus replied from the rear, “but there are lots of people lots of dogs don’t like.”

The third-floor hall was a duplicate of the one below. Again Purley and I posted ourselves opposite the door, and Loftus came with Bootsy and knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder, and pretty soon the door opened to a two-inch crack, and a squeaky voice came through.

“You’ve got the dog.”

“Right here,” Loftus told him.

“Are you there, Sergeant?”

“Right here,” Purley answered.

“I told you that dog don’t like me. Once at a party at Phil Kampf’s-I told you. I didn’t mean to hurt it, but it thought I did. What are you trying to do, frame me?”

“Open the door. The dog’s on a leash.”

“I won’t! I told you I wouldn’t!”

Purley moved. His arm, out stiff, went over Loftus’s shoulder, and his palm met the door and kept going. The door hesitated an instant and then swung open. Standing there, holding to its edge, was a skinny individual in red-and-green-striped pajamas. The dog let out a low growl and backed up a little.

“We’re making the rounds, Mr. Aland,” Purley said, “and we couldn’t leave you out. Now you can go back to sleep. As for trying to frame you-”

He stopped because the door shut.

“You didn’t tell me,” Loftus complained, “that Aland had already fixed it for a reaction.”

“No, I thought I’d wait and see. One to go.” He headed for the stairs.

The top-floor hall had had someone’s personal attention. It was no bigger than the others, but it had a nice clean tan-colored runner, and the walls were painted the same shade and sported a few small pictures. Purley went to the rear door instead of the front, and we made room for Loftus and Bootsy by flattening against the wall. When Loftus knocked footsteps responded at once, approaching the door, and it swung wide open. This was the painter, Ross Chaffee, and he was dressed for it, in an old brown smock. He was by far the handsomest of the tenants, tall, erect, with artistic wavy dark hair and features he must have enjoyed looking at.

I had ample time to enjoy them too as he stood smiling at us, completely at ease, obeying Purley’s prior instructions not to speak. Bootsy was also at ease. When it became quite clear that no blood was going to be shed, Purley asked, “You know the dog, don’t you, Mr. Chaffee?”

“Certainly. He’s a beautiful animal.”

“Pat him.”

“With pleasure.” He bent gracefully. “Bootsy, do you know your master’s gone?” He scratched behind the black ears. “Gone forever, Bootsy, and that’s too bad.” He straightened. “Anything else? I’m working. I like the morning light.”

“That’s all, thanks.” Purley turned to go, and I let Loftus and Bootsy by before following. On the way down the three flights no one had any remarks.

As we hit the level of the lower hall Victor Talento’s door opened, and he emerged and spoke. “The District Attorney’s office phoned. Are you through with me? They want me down there.”

“We’re through,” Purley rumbled. “We can run you down.”

Talento said that would be fine and he would be ready in a minute. Purley told Loftus to give me Bootsy, and he handed me the leash.

“I am willing,” I said helpfully, “to give you a detailed analysis of the dog’s conduct. It will take about a week.”

“Go to hell,” Purley growled, “and take the goddam dog along.”

I departed. Outside the morning was still fine. The presence of two PD cars in front of the scene of a murder had attracted a small gathering, and Bootsy and I were objects of interest as we appeared and started off. We both ignored the stares. We moseyed along, in no hurry, stopping now and then to give Bootsy a chance to inspect something if he felt inclined. At the fourth or fifth stop, more than a block away, I saw the quartet leaving number 29. Stebbins and Talento took one car and Loftus and the colleague the other, and they rolled off.

I shortened up on Bootsy a little, walked him west until an empty taxi appeared, stopped it and got in, took a five-dollar bill from my wallet, and handed it to the hackie.

“Thanks,” he said with feeling. “For what, down payment on the cab?”

“You’ll earn it, brother,” I assured him. “Is there somewhere within a block or so of Arbor and Court where you can park for anywhere from thirty minutes to three hours?”

“Not three hours for a finif.”

“Of course not.” I got another five and gave it to him. “I doubt if it will be that long.”

“There’s a parking lot not too far. On the street without a passenger I’ll be solicited.”

“You’ll have a passenger-the dog. I prefer the street. He’s a nice dog. When I return I’ll be reasonable. Let’s see what we can find.”

He pulled the lever and we moved. There are darned few legal parking spaces in all Manhattan at that time of day, and we cruised around several corners before we found one, on Court Street two blocks from Arbor. He backed into it and I got out, leaving the windows down three inches. I told him I’d be back when he saw me, and headed south, turning right at the second corner.