The Collection

by Fredric Brown

  Peter Kidd lengthened his stride until he reached the edge of the crowd. By that time he could see that the building was numbered 633. By that time the stretcher was coming out of the door. The body on the stretcher — and the fact that the blanket was pulled over the face showed that it was a dead body — was that of a short, pudgy person.

  The beginning of a shiver started down the back of Peter Kidd's neck. But it was a coincidence, of course. It had to be, he told himself, even if the dead man was Robert Asbury.

  A dapper man with a baby face and cold eyes was running down the steps and pushing his way out through the crowd. Kidd recognized him as Wesley Powell of the Tribune.

  He reached for Powell's arm, asked, “What happened in there?”

  Powell didn't stop. He said, “Hi, Kidd. Drugstore —phone!”

  He hurried off, but Peter Kidd turned and fell in step with him. He repeated his question. “Guy named Asbury, shot. Dead.”

  “Who was it?”

  “Dunno. Cops got description from landlady, though, the guy was waiting for him in his room when he came home less'n hour ago. Musta burned him down, lammed quick.

  Landlady found corpse. Heard other guy leave and went up to ask Asbury about job — guy was supposed to see him about a job. Asbury an actor, Robert Asbury. Know him?”

  “Met him once,” Kidd said. “Anything about a dog?”

  Powell walked faster. “What you mean,” he demanded, “anything about a dog?”

  “Uh — did Asbury have a dog?”

  “Hello, no. You can't keep a dog in a rooming house.

  Nothing was said about a dog. Damn it, where's a store or a tavern or any place with a phone in it?”

  Kidd said, “I believe I remember a tavern being around the next corner.”

  “Good.” Powell looked back, before turning the corner, to see if the police cars were still there, and then walked even faster. He dived into the tavern and Kidd followed him.

  Powell said, “Two beers,” and hurried to the telephone on the wall.

  Peter Kidd listened closely while the reporter gave the story to a rewrite man. He learned nothing new of any importance. The landlady's name was Mrs. Belle Drake. The place was a theatrical boardinghouse. Asbury had been “at liberty” for several months.

  Powell came back to the bar. He said, “What was that about a dog?” He wasn't looking at Kidd, he was looking out into the street, over the low curtains in the window of the tavern.

  Peter Kidd said, “Dog? Oh, this Asbury used to have a dog when I knew him. Just wondered if he still had it.”

  Powell shook his head. He said, “That guy across the street — is he following you or me?”

  Peter Kidd looked out the window. A tall, thin man stood well back in a doorway. He didn't appear to be watching the tavern. Kidd said, “He's no acquaintance of mine. What makes you think he's following either of us?”

  “He was standing in a doorway across the street from the house where the murder was. Noticed him when I came out of the door. Now he's in a doorway over there. Maybe he's just sight-seeing. Where'd you get the pooch?”

  Peter Kidd glanced down at the shaggy dog. “Man gave him to me,” he said. “Rover, Mr. Powell. Powell, Rover.”

  “I don't believe it,” Powell said. “No dog is actually named Rover any more.”

  “I know,” Peter Kidd agreed solemnly, “but the man who named him didn't know. What about the fellow across the street?”

  “We'll find out. We go out and head in opposite directions. I head downtown, you head for the river. We'll see which one of us he follows.”

  When they left, Peter Kidd didn't look around behind him for two blocks. Then he stopped, cupping his hands to light a cigarette and half turning as though to shield it from the wind.

  The man wasn't across the street. Kidd turned a little farther and saw why the tall man wasn't across the street. He was directly behind, only a dozen steps away. He hadn't stopped when Kidd stopped. He kept coming.

  As the match burned his fingers, Peter Kidd remembered that these two blocks had been between warehouses. There was no traffic, pedestrian or otherwise. He saw that the man had already unbuttoned his coat — which had a stain down one side of it. He was pulling a pistol out of his belt.

  The pistol had a long silencer on it, obviously the reason why he'd carried it that way instead of in a holster or in a pocket. The pistol was already half out of the belt.

  Kidd did the only thing that occurred to him. He let go the leash and said, “Sic him, Rover!”

  The shaggy dog bounded forward and jumped up just as the tall man pulled the trigger. The gun pinged dully but the shot went wild. Peter Kidd had himself set by then, jumped forward after the dog. A silenced gun, he knew, fires only one shot. Between him and the dog, they should be able . . .

  Only it didn't work that way. The shaggy dog had bounded up indeed, but was now trying to lick the tall man's face. The tall man, his nerve apparently having departed with the single cartridge in his gun, gave the dog a push and took to his heels. Peter Kidd fell over the dog. That was that. By the time Kidd untangled himself from dog and leash, the tall man was down an alley and out of sight.

  Peter Kidd stood up. The dog was running in circles around him, barking joyously. It wanted to play some more.

  Peter Kidd recovered the loop end of the leash and spoke bitterly. The shaggy dog wagged its tail.

  They'd walked several blocks before it occurred to Kidd that he didn't know where he was going. For that matter, he told himself, he didn't really know where he'd been. It had been such a beautifully simple matter, before he'd left his office.

  Except that if the shaggy dog hadn't been the dog of a murdered man, it was one now. Except for that bullet having gone wild, his present custodian, one Peter Kidd, might be in a position to ask Mr. Aloysius Smith Robert Asbury just exactly what the devil it was all about.

  It had been so beautifully simple, as a hoax. For a moment he tried to think that— But no, that was silly. The police department didn't go in for hoaxes. Asbury had really been murdered.

  “I am the dog of a murdered man. . . . Escape his fate, Sir, if you can....”

  Had Asbury actually found such a note and then been murdered? Had the man with the silenced gun been following Kidd because he'd recognized the dog? A nut, maybe, out to kill each successive possessor of the shaggy dog?

  Had Asbury's entire story been true — except for the phony name he'd given — and had he given a wrong name and address only because he'd been afraid?

  But how to—? Of course. Ask Sid Wheeler. If Sid had originated the hoax and hired Asbury, then the murder was a coincidence — one hell of a whopping coincidence. Yes, they were bound for Sid Wheeler's office. He knew that now, but they'd been walking in the wrong direction. He turned and started back, gradually lengthening his strides. A block later, it occurred to him it would be quicker to phone. At least to make certain Sid was in, not out collecting rents or something.

  He stopped in the nearest drugstore and: “Mr. Wheeler,” said the feminine voice, “is not here. He was taken to the hospital an hour ago. This is his secretary speaking. If there is anything I can—”

  “What's the matter with Sid?” he demanded. There was a slight hesitation and he went on: “This is Peter Kidd, Miss Ames. You know me. What's wrong?”

  “He — he was shot. The police just left. They told me not to g-give out the story, but you're a detective and a friend of his, so I guess it's all ri—”

  “How badly was he hurt?”

  “They — they say he'll get better, Mr. Kidd. The bullet went through his chest, but on the right side and didn't touch his heart. He's at Bethesda Hospital. You can find out more there than I can tell you. Except that he's still unconscious —you won't be able to see him yet.”

  “How did it happen, Miss Ames?”

  “A man I'd never seen before said he wanted to see Mr. Wheeler on business and I sent him into the inner office. Mr. Wheeler
was talking on the phone to someone who'd just called— What was that, Mr. Kidd?”

  Peter Kidd didn't care to repeat it. He said, “Never mind.

  Go on.”

  “He was in there only a few seconds and came out and left, fast. I couldn't figure out why he'd changed his mind so quick, and after he left I looked in and— Well, I thought Mr. Wheeler was dead. I guess the man thought so too, that is, if he meant to kill Mr. Wheeler, he could have easily — uh—”

  “A silenced gun?”

  “The police say it must have been, when I told them I hadn't heard the shot.”

  “What did the man look like?”

  “Tall and thin, with a kind of sharp face. He had a light suit on. There was a slight stain of some kind on the front of the coat.”

  “Miss Ames,” said Peter Kidd, “did Sid Wheeler buy or find a dog recently?”

  “Why, yes, this morning. A big white shaggy one. He came in at eight o'clock and had the dog with him on a leash.

  He said he'd bought it. He said it was to play a joke on somebody.”

  “What happened next — about the dog?”

  “He turned it over to a man who had an appointment with him at eight-thirty. A fat, funny-looking little man. He didn't give his name. But he must have been in on the joke, whatever it was, because they were chuckling together when Mr. Wheeler walked to the door with him.”

  “You know where he bought the dog? Anything more about it?”

  “No, Mr. Kidd. He just said he bought it. And that it was for a joke.”

  Looking dazed, Peter Kidd hung up the receiver.

  Outside the booth, the shaggy dog stood on its hind legs and pawed at the glass. Kidd stared at it. Sid Wheeler had bought a dog. Sid Wheeler had been shot with intent to kill.

  Sid had given the dog to actor Asbury. Asbury had been murdered. Asbury had given the dog to him, Peter Kidd. And less than half an hour ago, an attempt had been made on his life.

  Well, there wasn't any question now of telling the police.

  Sid might have started this as a hoax, but a wheel had come off somewhere, and suddenly.

  He'd phone the police right here and now. He dropped the dime and then — on a sudden hunch — dialed his own office number instead of that of headquarters. When the blonde's voice answered, he started talking fast: “Peter Kidd, Miss Latham. I want you to close the office at once and go home. Right away, but be sure you're not followed before you go there. If anyone seems to be following you, go to the police. Stay on busy streets meanwhile. Watch out particularly for a tall, thin man who has a stain on the front of his coat. Got that?”

  “Yes, but — but the police are here, Mr. Kidd. There's a Lieutenant West of Homicide here now, just came into the office asking for you. Do you still want me to—?”

  Kidd sighed with relief. “No, it's all right then. Tell him to wait. I'm only a few blocks away and will come there at once.”

  He dropped another coin and called Bethesda Hospital.

  Sid Wheeler was in serious, but not critical, condition. He was still unconscious and wouldn't be able to have visitors for at least twenty-four hours.

  He walked back to the Wheeler Building, slowly. The first faint glimmering of an idea was coming. But there were still a great many things that didn't make any sense at all.

  “Lieutenant West, Mr. Kidd,” said the blonde.

  The big man nodded. “About a Robert Asbury, who was killed this morning. You knew him?”

  “Not before this morning,” Kidd told him. “He came here — ostensibly — to offer me a case. The circumstances were very peculiar.”

  “We found your name and the address of this office on a slip of paper in his pocket,” said West. “It wasn't in his handwriting. Was it yours?”

  “Probably it's Sidney Wheeler's handwriting, Lieutenant.

  Sid sent him here, I have cause to believe. And you know that an attempt was made to kill Wheeler this morning?”

  “The devil! Had a report on that, but we hadn't connected it with the Asbury murder as yet.”

  “And there was another murder attempt,” said Kidd.

  “Upon me. That was why I phoned. Perhaps I'd better tell you the whole story from the beginning.”

  The lieutenant's eyes widened as he listened. From time to time he turned to look at the dog.

  “And you say,” he said, when Kidd had finished, “that you have the money in an envelope in your pocket? May I see it?”

  Peter Kidd handed over the envelope. West glanced inside it and then put it in his pocket. “Better take this along,” he said. “Give you a receipt if you want, but you've got a witness.” He glanced at the blonde.

  “Give it to Wheeler,” Kidd told him. “Unless — maybe you've got the same idea I have. You must have, or you wouldn't have wanted the money.”

  “What idea's that?”

  “The dog,” said Peter Kidd, “might not have anything to do with all this at all. Today the dog was in the hands of three persons — Wheeler, Asbury, and myself. An attempt was made — successfully, I am glad to say, in only one case out of the three — to kill each of us. But the dog was merely the —ah — deus ex machina of a hoax that didn't come off, or else came off too well. There's something else involved — the money.”

  “How do you mean, Mr. Kidd?”

  “That the money was the object of the crimes, not the dog. That money was in the hands of Wheeler, Asbury, and myself, just as was the dog. The killer's been trying to get that money back.”

  “Back? How do you mean, back? I don't get what you're driving at, Mr. Kidd.”

  “Not because it's a hundred dollars. Because it isn't.”

  “You mean counterfeit? We can check that easy enough, but what makes you think so?”

  “The fact,” said Peter Kidd, “that I can think of no other motive at all. No reasonable one, I mean. But postulate, for the sake of argument, that the money is counterfeit. That would, or could, explain everything. Suppose one of Sid Wheeler's tenants is a counterfeiter.”

  West frowned. “All right, suppose it.”

  “Sid could have picked up the rent on his way to his office this morning. That's how he makes most of his collections. Say the rent is a hundred dollars. Might have been slightly more or less — but by mistake, sheer mistake, he gets paid in counterfeit money instead of genuine.

  “No counterfeiter — it is obvious — would ever dare give out his own product in such a manner that it would directly trace back to him. It's — uh—”

  “Shoved,” said West. “I know how they work.”

  “But as it happened, Sid wasn't banking the money. He needed a hundred to give to Asbury along with the dog.

  And—”

  He broke off abruptly and his eyes got wider. “Lord,” he said, “it's obvious!”

  “What's obvious?” West growled.

  “Everything. It all spells Henderson.”

  “Huh?”

  “Henderson, the job printer on the floor below this. He's the only printer-engraver among Wheeler's tenants, to begin with. And Asbury stopped in there this morning, on his way here. Asbury paid him for some cards out of a ten-dollar bill he got from Wheeler! Henderson saw the other tens in Asbury's wallet when he opened it, knew that Asbury had the money he'd given Wheeler for the rent.

  “So he sent his torpedo — the tall thin man — to see Asbury, and the torpedo kills Asbury and then finds the money is gone — he's given it to me. So he goes and kills Sid Wheeler — or thinks he does — so the money can't be traced back to him from wherever Asbury spent it.

  “And then—” Peter Kidd grinned wryly — “I put myself on the spot by dropping into Henderson's office to get Asbury's address, and explaining to him what it's all about, letting him know I have the money and know Asbury got it from Wheeler. I even tell him where I'm going — to Asbury's.

  So the torpedo waits for me there. It fits like a gl— Wait, I've got something that proves even better. This—”

&nb
sp; As he spoke he was bending over and opening the second drawer of his desk. His hand went into it and came out with a short-barreled Police Positive.

  “You will please raise your hands,” he said, hardly changing his voice. “And, Miss Latham, you will please phone for the police.”

  “But how,” demanded the blonde, when the police had left, “did you guess that he wasn't a real detective?”

  “I didn't,” said Peter Kidd, “until I was explaining things to him, and to myself at the same time. Then it occurred to me that the counterfeiting gang wouldn't simply drop the whole thing because they'd missed me once, and — well, as it happens, I was right. If he'd been a real detective, I'd have been making a fool out of myself, of course, but if he wasn't, I'd have been making a corpse out of myself, and that would be worse.”

  “And me, too,” said the blonde. She shivered a little.

  “He'd have had to kill both of us!”

  Peter Kidd nodded gravely. “I think the police will find that Henderson is just the printer for the gang and the tall thin fellow is just a minion. The man who came here, I'd judge, was the real entrepreneur.”

  “The what?”

  “The manager of the business. From the Old French entreprendre, to undertake, which comes from the Latin inter plus pren—”

  “You mean the bigshot,” said the blonde. She was opening a brand-new ledger. “Our first case. Credit entry —one hundred dollars counterfeit. Debit — given to police — one hundred dollars counterfeit. And — oh, yes, one shaggy dog. Is that a debit or a credit entry?”

  “Debit,” said Peter Kidd.

  The blonde wrote and then looked up. “How about the credit entry to balance it off? What'll I put in the credit column?”

  Peter Kidd looked at the dog and grinned. He said, “Just write in 'Not so damn shaggy!' ”

  LIFE AND FIRE

  Mr. Henry Smith rang the doorbell. Then he stood looking at his reflection in the glass pane of the front door. A green shade was drawn down behind the glass and the reflection was quite clear.

  It showed him a little man with gold-rimmed spectacles of the pince-nez variety, wearing a conservatively cut suit of banker's gray.