Dog in the Manger: An Eli Paxton Mystery

by Mike Resnick

  “Nothing. I just need some information.”

  “Call our office,” he said, going back to his stack of papers.

  “I may have a little something you need in exchange for this particular piece of information,” I said, pulling out a twenty and snapping it a couple of times to get his attention.

  “Yeah?” he said, shooting me a big smile that exposed some unhealthy gums and a couple of missing teeth. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “The flight to Casa Grande,” I said. “What’s its number?”

  “Flight Number 308,” he replied, reaching for the twenty.

  I pulled it back out of his reach. “I need a little more than that,” I said with a smile. “Does it fly on Sundays?”

  “It flies every day of the year.”

  “Did you ship a dog last Sunday?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he asked, looking a little more insolent each time he reached for the bill and I indicated he hadn’t earned it yet. “I’m off on weekends.”

  “You must have a cargo manifest,” I said. “Hunt it up.”

  “That’s a lot of work, buddy,” he said.

  I ripped a small piece off the twenty and handed it to him.

  “Have a copy of the manifest for me in half an hour and I’ll give you the rest of it,” I told him.

  I returned to my car, drove up to the passenger terminal, picked up a Cincinnati Enquirer, and stopped at a coffee shop. They had found Alice Dent too late to make the morning edition, so I settled for reading about what Rijo and Larkin had done to the Dodgers. I checked my watch from time to time, and when forty minutes had passed I paid the tab, got back into the LeBaron, and drove over to the Federated office.

  “No dog,” said the kid, tossing a copy of the manifest on the counter.

  I checked the flight number and date, then turned the rest of the bill over to him and studied the manifest: television sets, computer parts, vaccine for a hospital, hardware tools—and no dog.

  “See if you shipped out a dog on any other flight last weekend,” I said.

  “That’ll cost you another twenty,” he said.

  “Like hell it will,” I said with a grin. “Unless you want your boss to know you take bribes for revealing confidential information, that is.”

  He muttered something under his breath and walked to a file cabinet. I decided to wait. He straightened up a few minutes later and slammed the drawer shut.

  “We haven’t shipped any dogs anywhere for the past week.”

  “Thanks a lot, sonny,” I said, and left.

  Much as I hated to agree with Lantz’s conclusion, it sure as hell looked like the dog hadn’t been in the car when Alice Dent had gone off the road. Not if the tow-truck driver was telling the truth, and he certainly had no reason to lie.

  I found a self-park lot across from the building that housed the Striker Agency, left the car there, and went inside, wondering as I rode the elevator to the fifth floor what I was going to do in lieu of a receipt for the twenty dollars.

  Bill Striker was an ex-cop who’d struck it rich. He had started, like all of us do, by spying on husbands and wives, then branched out into security services. He had employees guarding half a hundred homes and stores and offices around town, and he was the first guy rock musicians contacted when they came to town for a concert.

  His office reflected his affluence. It was everything that mine wasn’t—elegant, luxurious, tasteful, and populated. He had two secretaries working the phone, a couple of assistants hustling and bustling through the outer office and vanishing into the deeper recesses of his suite, and a few well-heeled potential clients sitting on tufted, upholstered chairs.

  “Hello, Mr. Paxton,” said Vicki, the receptionist who’d been with him ever since he left the force. She was not only an exceptionally pretty girl, but had the impeccable manners his operation needed and a mind like a steel trap. As long as he had her he would never need a computer or a billing service, though of course he had the best of both.

  “Hi,” I said pleasantly. “Is Bill in?”

  “He’s running a little behind today,” she said apologetically.

  “I just need to see him for about five minutes,” I said. Then I put on my most sincere face. “It’s kind of important.”

  “I’ll see what I can arrange,” she said. She got on the phone and started whispering, then turned back to me a moment later.

  “Wait in Conference Room B,” she said. “He’ll be there as soon as he can.”

  I nodded, waited for her to step on the buzzer that unlocked the heavy door on the back wall of the office, and stepped through it. The wallpaper in the corridor was sedate and tasteful, and I followed it for about forty feet until I came to the conference room. I opened the mahogany door and went inside. The floor was covered with a plush beige carpet, long enough to need mowing every other week, and there was a huge table that would probably have seated King Arthur and half his knights. I sat down, lit up a cigarette, and watched the door.

  Striker came in about five minutes later, a tall, lean man with Grecian Formula black hair, steel gray eyes, and a store-bought tan. He wore a three-piece navy blue pinstripe with a button-down collar and a thin tie. I was sure that even his shorts were color-coordinated.

  “Eli!” he said, walking over and shaking my hand. “Good to see you.”

  “Likewise,” I said, feeling tongue-tied as always. Most people didn’t make me feel awkward; Bill Striker did. I suppose it was because I knew, deep down in my heart, that even if I’d had his breaks I’d never have wound up with his operation. I couldn’t even decide if I’d look good in a pinstripe suit and vest; I simply couldn’t imagine myself wearing them under any circumstance.

  “Has Hubert Lantz been in touch with you yet?” he asked, pulling up a chair.

  “Yeah. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  “Happy to,” he said, pushing a buzzer beneath the table. “Care for a drink?”

  A secretary entered the room just as I was shaking my head.

  “A brandy for me,” he told her. Then he turned to me. “You’re sure, Eli?”

  “What the hell,” I said with a shrug. “I’ll take a Scotch on the rocks.”

  She smiled and left, and Striker lit a Royal Jamaican cigar that probably wasn’t quite a foot long. “What can I do for you, Eli?”

  “I need a little help,” I answered, wishing he would offer me one of his cigars but bound and determined not to ask for it.

  “I don’t know what I can tell you about detecting, but I’ll be happy to try,” he said with a winning smile that was so good-natured I couldn’t even resent it.

  “I’ve come here to ask you a couple of background questions about another area of your expertise,” I said. “Lantz tells me he handles one of your dogs.”

  “Three of them actually, “ said Striker. “I love getting into the ring myself, but weekends are our busiest time these days.” He withdrew his wallet and opened it to a photograph of a Miniature Schnauzer that was stuck in there right between the baby pictures. “Champion Striker’s Hit Man,” he said like a proud father. “He’s our biggie. Eighteen Best of Breeds so far this year, and a couple of Group wins.”

  “Whatever they may be,” I said dryly. “Tell me, Bill, how much is this Weimaraner really worth?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said, leaning back and staring at the chandelier that hung down from the ceiling. “Twelve or fifteen thousand.”

  “Lantz says twenty-five.”

  “Not a chance,” said Striker. “She’s already had two washout litters.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “This is a bitch we’re talking about, not a stud dog,” he replied. “A male can service two or three bitches a week, year around, with a stud fee of perhaps five or six hundred dollars. But this bitch has only got a couple of litters left in her, and her first two were pretty disappointing. I think she got one champion from something like fifteen puppies. She�
�ll produce maybe a dozen more pups if she stays healthy, and you can figure half of them are going to be pet quality. So that leaves five or six show pups. No matter how much Baroness has won, the record says that she’s not going to reproduce herself, which means that Nettles isn’t going to be able to gouge more than a thousand apiece for them. Twelve hundred tops.”

  “That’s all?”

  He nodded. “You look surprised.”

  “I am,” I admitted. “I guess I was influenced by those million-dollar yearlings that keep getting auctioned off at Keeneland.”

  “Apples and oranges. Do you know what Baroness won for going Best in Show at Westminster?” He paused for effect. “A ten-cent piece of satin ribbon and a trophy that couldn’t be melted down for two hundred dollars.”

  “Then why does anyone pay Lantz thousands of dollars to show their dogs?” I said. “At least a Derby winner brings home a six-digit check.”

  “Pride. Competition. Vanity. Take your choice. But believe me, Eli, there’s no money in it for an exhibitor unless he’s got a top stud, and there aren’t more than half a dozen males in each breed that can pay their own way. Next question?”

  “It’s starting to look like the dog was never shipped and wasn’t with the girl when she died,” I said. “Based on your experience as a dog fancier rather than a detective, could Lantz have any reason for lying to me?”

  “What do you mean?” asked Striker. He looked up, saw the secretary standing in the doorway with our drinks on an ornate silver tray, and motioned her in. “Hit Man won the tray and some matching coasters at a Tennessee show last month,” he said with a touch of pride. “What do you think?”

  “Very pretty,” I answered without much enthusiasm.

  “As to your question . . .”

  “What I meant was, could Lantz have some financial motive for pretending the dog is lost?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “Could he give her to some unethical client, say she was a different dog, and cash in by showing her for the new owner?”

  Striker laughed out loud at that.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  “Eli,” he said, “they may all look alike to you, but you’ll simply have to take my word that Baroness is currently the most easily identifiable Weimaraner in the country. There probably isn’t a Weimaraner judge or breeder in the Eastern half of the United States who wouldn’t know her in a minute, to say nothing of the breeders around the Arizona area.”

  “And if she’s only worth twelve or fifteen Gs, and is insured for it, there wouldn’t be much sense murdering Alice Dent for her,” I concluded.

  “You think she was murdered?” he asked sharply.

  I shook my head. “No. Probably not. Certainly not for a dog. I mean, hell, they’d have made more money by stealing the car.”

  I downed my drink and waited for the burning sensation, but it didn’t come; Striker’s Pinch was a lot smoother than the stuff I drank.

  Striker waited until he had my attention, then looked long and hard at his jewel-studded digital watch. “Is there anything else I can do for you, Eli?” he asked. “I’d like to stay and shoot the breeze, but . . .”

  “No, I think that’s everything,” I said, getting to my feet. “Thanks for your time, Bill. And thanks for sending the business my way.”

  “Happy to do it,” he said. He almost kept the pity out of his eyes; I admired him for trying.

  I left his office, picked up the car, and drove home. Then I got Maurice Nettles on the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Mr. Nettles?” I said. “My name is Elias Paxton. I’m a private detective in the employ of Hubert Lantz, and—”

  “That bastard will need more than a detective!” said Nettles hotly. “He’s going to need one hell of a top-notch lawyer before I’m done with him!”

  “I’m sure he will,” I said sincerely. “But in the meantime, I’m trying to find your dog, and I’d like to ask you a couple of questions.”

  “Look in his basement or his garage!” raged Nettles. “I know what that bastard is trying to pull, and he won’t get away with it! And after this latest stunt, I’m not dropping the suit even if he returns Baroness tomorrow!”

  “What stunt are you talking about?”

  “That son of a bitch had the gall to bill me for a shipping crate!”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, thoroughly confused.

  “You heard me! I just got the bill in the mail this morning.”

  “Can you explain that, sir?”

  “He kept Baroness and shipped some other dog home to its owner, and then he had the unmitigated gall to stiff me with a bill for the crate! Ninety-six dollars! Talk about adding insult to injury!”

  “Do you have the bill handy?”

  “I sure as hell do.”

  “Is it a bill from Lantz himself?”

  “No. It’s the paid receipt the airline gave him for the crate, plus a note from his kennel girl asking me to recompense him.”

  “Could you tell me what airline the crate was purchased from and who signed it?”

  “Federated,” he said. “Signed by Alice Dent. Don’t take my word for it—ask her.”

  “I can’t. She just died in an auto accident.”

  “Probably popping pills, just like all the other kids these days,” commented Nettles.

  “Was there anything on the bill saying what flight the crate was supposed to be on?” I asked.

  “Of course there was: Federated 308 for last Sunday, just like it was supposed to be. Only he didn’t ship the damned dog!”

  “How did you get the bill?”

  “I told you—it came in the mail.”

  “I mean, was it on Lantz’s stationery?”

  “No. The girl mailed it from the airport in a Federated envelope.”

  “Is that standard procedure?”

  “How the hell do I know? I always shipped her in her own crate before.”

  “Why didn’t you do so this time?”

  “Because Lantz stopped by my place on his way home from a California show circuit and put her right in his motor home. He’s got a bunch of built-in wire crates.”

  “I see.”

  “Now what about those questions you wanted to ask me?”

  “I’ve really only got one, sir. If I have to fly out to Casa Grande, will you let me inspect your premises willingly, or am I going to need a search warrant?”

  “Don’t tell me he’s claiming that Baroness actually arrived?”

  I didn’t know for a fact that Lantz didn’t have the dog, but I knew that I was no four-hundred-buck-a-day decoy. After all, he had gone to Striker first, and Striker would cost him more than the dog was worth in less than a week.

  It didn’t add up. This wasn’t some eighty-million-dollar stallion like Seattle Slew or Mr. Prospector that could at least be held for a substantial ransom. Why would anyone go to all this fuss and trouble to steal a twelve-thousand-dollar dog that wasn’t worth much as a brood-bitch and would be spotted in two seconds if they tried to show or breed it?

  Something was very wrong here. There had to be more involved than a show dog, a neurotic handler, and an enraged owner.

  And there was more involved, I reminded myself.

  There was a very young, very pretty, very dead girl lying on a slab in the Clermont County Morgue. Lantz thought she was irresponsible. Nettles thought she was popping pills. The cops thought she hit a slick spot and accidentally skidded off the road.

  I began to get very nervous, because suddenly I knew what I thought, and it didn’t agree with any of them.

  3.

  Back when I was a member of the Chicago Police Department, I didn’t like most of the cops I knew. Early training, I suppose—but whatever the reason, it took me a hell of a long time to realize that most cops are pretty decent people and that most police forces don’t really have an adversary relationship with private eyes.

  Even at t
his late date I half-expected Jim Simmons down at Cincinnati Police Headquarters to hang up on me when I called him early in the morning and told him that I might be needing a favor. He asked a couple of general questions, accepted my vague answers with good grace, and wound up agreeing without any fuss at all.

  My next call was to Felix Davies, who owned Davies Office Temporaries and had three kids that kept running away. I kept finding them and Felix kept paying me in trade, which made me fear for the day when all of them were over eighteen and I had to shell out coin of the realm for occasional office help. I got him at five after nine and told him I needed a girl to work my phone for a few hours. What he sent was a graying, pudgy, thirty-six-year-old woman named Rose who talked nonstop about her children and was thrilled to death to be working for a detective until I told her that all I was doing was trying to find a lost dog. It didn’t fit with her fantasies about Sam Spade and Phillip Marlowe, and after sulking for a few minutes she went back to extolling the virtues of her family.

  Still, I couldn’t gripe about the price, so I told Rose to call Delta, American, and TWA and get the names and phone numbers of everyone who had shipped or received a dog on Sunday. I wrote down Jim Simmons’s phone number and instructed Rose to have the airlines check with him if there was any problem in releasing the information we needed. Then she was to call every last shipper and find out if anyone had seen Alice Dent at the airport, with or without the Weimaraner.

  I went over it a couple of times to make sure she understood what was required, then drove back to the Federated office. A large, overweight, redheaded man of about forty was sitting at the desk, his sleeves rolled up high enough to reveal a couple of near-pornographic tattoos on each arm.

  “What happened to the kid who was here yesterday?” I asked him.

  “Transferred,” came the reply. “Oklahoma, I think, or maybe Texas. Can I help you?”

  “Isn’t that a little unusual?” I persisted. “Getting transferred a thousand miles away on the spur of the moment?”

  “I just work here, Mac,” he said. “For all I know, they gave him the word three months ago.”