Let Loose the Dogs

by Maureen Jennings

  Harry studied the drawing. “I wish I could say I remember, but I don’t any more than I just said. We might have been moving and shoving each other, but I don’t know.”

  “There are some other things I’d like to clarify. You accused Delaney of distracting your dog during the match by whistling at him. But he didn’t have a whistle on him. He emptied his pockets.”

  “Ah, that one I am clear about. There are special dog whistles called mouth whistles. They use them for sheepdogs in Scotland. They’re made of bone, triangular shaped, quite small. Real easy to conceal. I know he distracted Havoc.”

  “Could it have been one of the others?”

  “Not likely. Flash was the one to beat. One more rat and we would have won the match. That’s when he did it.”

  “All right. We’ll let that go for now. Did you let Havoc out of his box when you went into the ravine?”

  “What?”

  “Newcombe says you put the dog in a box and left the tavern. But Mr. Pugh said Havoc was on the loose and barking at him, which was how he discovered you.”

  “I have no recollection. Sometimes Havoc has got out. He’s a cunning little fellow. Is it important?”

  “Probably not. Just another loose end I’m trying to tie up.”

  Harry actually glanced with admiration at his son. “You’re thorough, Will. I thought you would be. You take after me in that regard. Did you locate the dog, by the way?”

  “Yes, Newcombe was looking after him. He’s currently with somebody I know. A dog fancier.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.”

  Harry looked as if he was about to discuss the dog’s future. Murdoch didn’t want to get into what might possibly happen to Havoc, and he moved on quickly.

  “The money that was gone from Delaney’s pouch. Any more vague recollections about that you haven’t mentioned?”

  “None.”

  “You’re sure you didn’t take back what you considered your rightful money?”

  “If I did, where is it?” Harry gave a wry smile. “Even full to the gills, I can’t see myself taking money then letting it blow away in the wind.”

  “You could have hidden it.”

  “I don’t believe I was capable of that much effort. But I was thinking about that, too. What’s to say Delaney didn’t hand over some of his bills before he met up with me?”

  “Nobody came forward.”

  “They wouldn’t, would they, if they was the one who killed him?”

  “In which case the encounter would have occurred after yours.”

  Harry rubbed his head again. “Right. I’m not thinking straight. But say this unknown somebody felt cheated like I did. He confronts Delaney and demands money. Delaney hands over something but not enough. More argument and this person clobbers him, then rolls his body into the creek.”

  “Any candidates? You were the one at the match. Who was the sore loser? Other than you?”

  “Nobody lost too much, except me and Pugh. He coughed up the most. He wasn’t complaining, mind, but he could have been hiding it.”

  “He has a solid alibi. He was with Newcombe the entire time.”

  Harry sighed. “We’re going round in circles.”

  “I have put somebody on the man White’s track. As you know, he too has an alibi. He went with the Craigs.”

  “I heard that, but what’s to say he didn’t double back and follow Delaney?”

  “Why would he? He didn’t lose money.”

  “He didn’t win either. Maybe he had grand expectations. I wasn’t the only one tossing back brew. If he was all hotted up, he could have gone after Delaney. Especially if he believed me that Delaney was a cheat.”

  “We’ll know better when we find him. If we do.”

  Harry reached for the bag of tobacco and began to stuff the bowl of his pipe. Murdoch waited while he lit up and drew. When he spoke his voice was neutral, but Murdoch knew that was an effort.

  “You sound as if you’ve given up.”

  “That implies I ever started. I don’t know if that is the case.”

  Harry put his pipe on the table and pushed back his chair. “I can’t just sit here while you gloat over me, Will. If you want to come back, I’d be glad. If you don’t …” He didn’t finish, but he stood up ready to go to the door.

  Murdoch could feel his face going hot. It was true what his father said. He’d been relishing this strange experience of power over the man who had created so much terror around him. But he was also ashamed of himself. It was like fighting a cripple. Harry could not retaliate. His only hope lay with his son.

  “Wait!”

  Harry turned around.

  “I apologise. I realise you have been relying on me.”

  “Indeed I have.”

  “Frankly, I don’t know what the truth is, but I promise you I will do what I can to find out.”

  Harry returned to the table, reached over, and squeezed Murdoch’s shoulder.

  “I’m grateful, Will. I don’t know anybody I’d trust more than you.”

  Briefly, Murdoch patted his father’s hand. He felt almost unbearably awkward with this new softness.

  The guard entered. “We’ve got to go to the yard, Harry.”

  “I’ll come back as soon as I can,” said Murdoch.

  Barker took Harry’s arm and led him out of the room. Murdoch remained where he was.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  MURDOCH MADE HIS WAY HOME in what could only be described as a trance. He was half aware that the wind was cutting and there weren’t many people abroad, but as he was turning onto Ontario Street he realised he had no recollection of getting there. He was like an old horse who follows the same route back to the stable without need of guidance.

  “Mr. Murdoch! Mr. Murdoch, wait up a minute!”

  The voice was behind him, and he turned to see Samuel Quinn hurrying down the street. He had two dogs on leashes trotting beside him. Havoc gave no sign of recognition, but Princess was flamboyantly happy to see him, letting out her high-pitched yips. Murdoch stopped to allow them to catch up to him and held out his hand to the hound who was straining at her leash in her eagerness.

  “Hello, Princess, hello.”

  She showered soppy kisses on his face.

  “Enough, old girl. I’m going to drown.” He pushed her away and managed to reach Havoc. He was able to give him a quick scratch on the head before the dog ducked away. There was the lifting of the lip and a growl, but to Murdoch it looked more perfunctory than before.

  “How’s he doing?” he asked Quinn.

  “Good. The abscess is healing nicely. Princess is teaching him some manners, and he’s the better for it. Aren’t you, boyo?”

  He bent down and playfully tapped the dog on the nose. Havoc wagged his tail with pleasure.

  “Hey. He doesn’t do that with me,” said Murdoch.

  “He will. He just has to get to know you. He likes to play.”

  Quinn pulled out the remnants of a leather glove from his pocket and dangled it in front of Havoc’s face. The dog pounced on it, and they had a little tugging match.

  “Out!” said Quinn, and Havoc dropped his end of the glove at once. His eyes were bright, and his tail wagged wildly. Princess, in the meantime, had seized the opportunity to give Murdoch’s boots and trouser bottoms a minute inspection. Quinn put the glove back in his pocket. “I’m glad to have caught you, Mr. Murdoch. I have some interesting information for you.”

  In spite of himself, Murdoch felt a surge of excitement.

  “Come on in then.”

  Dogs in tow, Quinn followed him into the house. Mrs. Kitchen came bustling out of the kitchen to greet them.

  “My, my, what sweet dogs.”

  “Mrs. Kitchen, this is Mr. Quinn. You’ve heard me mention him.”

  “How do you do, ma’am,” said Quinn, with an old-fashioned bow that obviously won Beatrice over immediately.

  “This wicked hound is the famous Princess, and the piece o
f hearth rug is Havoc,” Murdoch continued.

  “Say hello,” said Quinn to his dog, and Princess sat obediently and held out her paw. Mrs. Kitchen laughed and shook it.

  “Could I impose on you for a pot of tea, Mrs. K.? And some biscuits, if you have any.”

  It might have been his imagination, but Samuel looked peckish. His pockmarked face was reddened by the cold, giving him a rather ferocious expression that was quite at odds with his cheerful nature.

  “You can go into the parlour,” said Mrs. Kitchen. “You both look perished, if you don’t mind my saying so. Why don’t I take the dogs to the kitchen and give them a biscuit.”

  “Thank you, ma’am, but I do warn you, Princess here is a bottomless pit.”

  The hound wagged her tail on hearing her name but seemed to recognise a benefactor when she saw one and trotted after Mrs. K. down the hall. Havoc went with her.

  “Give me your coat and hat, Mr. Quinn,” said Murdoch.

  Quinn unwrapped his long muffler and unthinkingly wiped his nose on his jacket sleeve.

  “Cold out there.”

  Murdoch ushered him into the parlour, which was cheery with the fire and lit lamps. Quinn perched on the nearest chair and launched into his report.

  “I asked around like you said, Mr. Murdoch, and I hit gold, wood, and you might say, tin.”

  “Hold on a minute, let me write this down.” Murdoch took out his notebook and fountain pen. “Go on, if you please.”

  “Wood first. That is to say, the plain unvarnished.” He ticked off on his fingers as he spoke. “First, the grey pugs belong to an English gentleman and his son. They haven’t been here too long, but they play when they can. Good dogs, nothing special. Sometimes they win; sometimes they don’t. Owners never wager too high. Steady is the word. No whispers about them so far. The Manchesters, Flash and Tripper, are high dogs. Everybody who’s in the know wants a whelp from them. Newcombe is well known in the Fancy, and is trusted by them that don’t trust many.”

  “What’s the tittle-tattle on John Delaney? Was he likely to cheat? Distract a dog that was about to win the match?”

  Quinn considered the question carefully, an important one in the gaming circuit.

  “His feist was so damn good, he never needed to duck. Then sometimes that brings its own trouble; no man likes to be knocked off his perch. Mr. Murdoch, your, er, your father, was recent here, too. Good dog but …”

  He hesitated.

  “Go on, you won’t offend me. What did he say about Harry?”

  “Bad loser. Wagered too high a lot of the time, but his dog is a game feist and he did get money back often enough.”

  Mrs. Kitchen entered at that moment with a tea tray, and he waited while she busied herself putting out the cups and saucers and tea paraphernalia.

  “The scones just came out of the oven. Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, and left them alone.

  Quinn bit into one of the hot cakes that she had brought. Murdoch had been right, he was hungry, but first he tasted the cake with professional interest.

  “A little heavy on the baking soda,” he said, but nevertheless crammed the cake into his mouth. Murdoch waited until he had room to continue and sipped at his own cup of tea, welcoming the strong, sweet brew. He felt as if a chunk of ice was sitting in his stomach.

  “Good, Sam. Please go on.”

  “Tin next then. A little disappointing, I’m afraid. This Mr. White. My chum knew of him at once. Game little feist, he runs. He’s a swell for sure, from the city, and my friend says he’d lay odds of two to one he’s in the law profession. Odds of four to one, he’s a physician, and odds of ten to one, he’s a banker. He uses various names, White, Green, Brown.” Quinn grinned. “Not too imaginative, is he? According to my pal, he’s a gambling man bar none. He’d wager on anything, horses, dogs, fleas, if they were running.” Quinn flicked crumbs off his moustache and reached for another cake. “He’s not canny though and loses a lot of money. Doesn’t seem to stop him, so he must be born in the silver. Unfortunately, my chum didn’t know what his real name is or where he can be found.”

  “Nothing more than that?”

  “’Fraid not.” Quinn frowned, trying to come up with something else, but there wasn’t anything. “Sorry.”

  “That’s all right. It gives me something to go on. I can check registries. So what was the gold?”

  Quinn leaned forward, his hands on his knees.

  “My chum has a brother who is a breeder. Not big, just two bitches and one male. Bulldogs. According to brother, in the summer this cull approached him. Said that he was a writer for a newspaper in America, and he was writing an article about bulldogs. He wanted to see how they reacted to rats, for instance, and could he hire his dog. ‘Oh no,’ says brother, ‘you’re not having my prize dog to get all bit up and infected by no rats.’ ‘Oh no,’ says the man. ‘First, he’s no prize.’ Too true, Mr. Murdoch. ‘Second, I’ll pay for any damages that might be incurred, plus a good sum for taking him for the day.’ And it was a good sum; brother couldn’t turn it down. So off they go and the dog – Gargoyle is his name, ugly beast – is returned safe and sound to brother, but the next day not as promised. ‘Got delayed,’ says the cove, and coughed up more dosh. ‘Did you get what you wanted?’ asks brother. ‘Unfortunately, I did not,’ says the cove. ‘Well, I told you right off he wasn’t a fighter,’ says brother. ‘Give him a bear and he’ll go to the death, but he ain’t interested in rodents.’ The cove didn’t answer to that. ‘Won’t you be writing your article now?’ asked brother. ‘No, I won’t’ is the reply, ‘but here’s an extra dollar for your troubles and one more if you keep all this under your hat. Pride, don’t you know.’ Brother didn’t see what was shameful about taking in a dog that wouldn’t do his stuff, but it takes all sorts to make a stew, as we say.”

  “Did this man give a name?”

  “He did and he didn’t. Brother has found it wiser to forget any information given out to him in certain circumstances.”

  “In other words, he wouldn’t say what the man’s name was.”

  “That’s it.”

  Murdoch tapped the tips of his fingers together. “When did all this hiring and returning take place?”

  “Last summer. Early August. Don’t know which day exactly, but I did go and speak to brother myself and near as he could remember it was the first Sunday in the month.”

  “Could he describe this man? Or is that also something he won’t do?”

  “He didn’t mind that. Said he was a nondescript sort of fellow. Not too tall, quite stout, maybe just past thirty. Said it was hard to tell if he was a workingman or not. Softish hands but his clothes were quite decent.”

  “He didn’t mention a streak of white hair in front?”

  “No. As I said, he was hard put to describe the man at all. ‘Bland as blancmange’ was the very words he used. Except for one thing … he had the tip of his middle finger missing. Left hand. Said he’d got it caught in a rat trap.”

  Murdoch frowned. “Did Pugh get somebody to negotiate for him, I wonder? He definitely told Newcombe the dog was his. He said he’d had him two weeks.”

  “Well, that’s a nailer. Brother would never part with that cur. Not for any price. Hire him out, yes; sell, no.” Quinn gulped down his tea. “I’ll tell you what I think, Mr. Murdoch. If you would like my opinion, that is.”

  “I would indeed.”

  “There’s always some silly culls who want to be one of the Fancy no matter what, but they don’t really care to do the work: the breeding and the training. It’s not just instinct, you know. You have to get the dogs moving faster than they would normally, and they have to ignore the rats they’ve killed. That’s not natural to a terrier. Fellows like this one, they’re the kind who’d enter a donkey in the Queen’s Plate with the Thoroughbreds just so they could say they’ve done it. Anyway, that’s my view.”

  “You’re probably right. He certainly didn’t seem to mind that he
lost every round. I suppose his story to your friend could also be true.”

  “Actually, brother didn’t believe that at all. He said he’d lay even money that was just thrown out to give the whore a hat.”

  “Beg pardon?”

  “Sorry, Mr. Murdoch. I meant, to make things look more respectable than they are.” He wiped his lips with his fingers and replaced the cup and saucer on the trolley. “I’ve got to get going. I’m due in at noontime.”

  “Thank you very much, Sam. I much appreciate your help.”

  “Nothing to it. A raisin, we might say, in the cake. I owe you my life, don’t forget. What do you think you’ll do now?”

  “I’m not a gambling man, but I’m going to go with the best odds. If your friend thinks Mr. White is in the legal profession, I’ll start there. And I assume the best place to find a lawyer is in a court of law.”

  Quinn slapped himself on the leg. “The Rossin is not too far from the courthouse. Come by and see me. If you want to splurge and have a meal, make sure you ask for Joseph for your waiter. I’ll tip him off. He owes me a few favours. He’ll keep the cost down.”

  “Thank you, Sam. I think what I’ll do is ask Vince Newcombe of the Manchester if he’ll accompany me. He knows what White looks like.”

  “That is savvy thinking.” Quinn got to his feet. “Time waits for no man, least of all a baker. No, stay where you are. I’ll let myself out. I’ll just collect the dogs. Don’t worry about Havoc. You’ve got enough on your plate, and it’s not cakes, if you don’t mind my joke. I’ll bring him back when he’s better. You can call on me at any time for consultation if you need to.”

  He shook hands heartily and left. Murdoch sat for a moment staring into the fire, watching the flames dip and dance around the coals. He felt as if he was not making progress at all. The information about Pugh and the hired dog didn’t seem relevant. On the other hand, he knew that in any investigation, one of the best ways to proceed was to follow the lies, the way a hound follows spoor. You were bound to end up with some kind of prize.