It was a fine bright morning. I didn’t take Meegan’s raincoat, because I didn’t need any pretext and I doubted if the program would offer a likely occasion for the exchange.
The law was there in front, waiting for me. The one who knew dogs was a stocky middle-aged guy who wore rimless glasses. Before he touched the dog he asked me the name, and I told him Bootsy.
“A hell of a name,” he observed. “Also that’s a hell of a leash you’ve got.”
“I agree. His was on the corpse, so I suppose it’s in the lab.” I handed him my end of the heavy cord. “If he bites you it’s not on me.”
“He won’t bite me. Would you, Bootsy?” He squatted before the dog and started to get acquainted. Sergeant Purley Stebbins growled, a foot from my ear, “He should have bit you when you kidnapped him.”
I turned. Purley was half an inch taller than me and two inches broader. “You’ve got it twisted,” I told him. “It’s women that bite me. I’ve often wondered what would bite you.”
We continued exchanging pleasantries while the dog man, whose name was Loftus, made friends with Bootsy. It wasn’t long before he announced that he was ready to proceed. He was frowning. “In a way,” he said, “it would be better to keep him on leash after I go in, because Kampf probably did. Or did he? Maybe you ought to brief me a little more. How much do we know?”
“To swear to,” Purley told him, “damn little. But putting it all together from what we’ve collected, this is how it looks, and I’ll have to be shown different. When Kampf and the dog entered it was raining and the dog was wet. Kampf left the dog in the ground-floor hall. He removed the leash and had it in his hand when he went to the door of one of the apartments. The tenant of the apartment let him in, and they talked. The tenant socked him, probably from behind without warning, and used the leash to finish him. He stuffed the leash in the pocket of the raincoat. It took nerve and muscle both to carry the body out and down the stairs to the lower hall, but he damn well had to get it out of his place and away from his door, and any of those four could have done it in a pinch, and it sure was a pinch. Of course the dog was already outside, out on the sidewalk. While Kampf was in one of the apartments getting killed, Talento had come into the lower hall and seen the dog and chased it out.”
“Then,” Loftus objected, “Talento’s clean.”
“No. Nobody’s clean. If it was Talento, after he killed Kampf he went out to the hall and put the dog out in the vestibule, went back in his apartment and carried the body out and dumped it at the foot of the stairs, and then left the house, chasing the dog on out to the sidewalk. You’re the dog expert. Is there anything wrong with that?”
“Not necessarily. It depends on the dog and how close he was to Kampf. There wasn’t any blood.”
“Then that’s how I’m buying it. If you want it filled in you can spend the rest of the day with the reports of the other experts and the statements of the tenants.”
“Some other day. That’ll do for now. You’re going in first?”
“Yeah. Come on, Goodwin.”
Purley started for the door, but I objected. “I’m staying with the dog.”
“For God’s sake. Then keep behind Loftus.”
I changed my mind. It would be interesting to watch the experiment, and from behind Loftus the view wouldn’t be good. So I went into the vestibule with Purley. The inner door was opened by a Homicide colleague, and we crossed the threshold and moved to the far side of the small lobby, which was fairly clean but not ornate. The colleague closed the door and stayed there. In a minute he pulled it open again, and Loftus and the dog entered. Two steps in, Loftus stopped, and so did the dog. No one spoke. The leash hung limp. Bootsy looked around at Loftus. Loftus bent over and untied the cord from the collar, and held it up to show Bootsy he was free. Bootsy came over to me and stood, his head up, wagging his tail.
“Nuts,” Purley said, disgusted.
“You know what I really expected,” Loftus said. “I never thought he’d show us where Kampf took him when they entered yesterday, but I did think he’d go to the foot of the stairs, where the body was found, and I thought he might go on to where the body came from — Talento’s door, or upstairs. Take him by the collar, Goodwin, and ease him over to the foot of the stairs.”
I obliged. He came without urging, but gave no sign that the spot held any special interest for him. We all stood and watched him. He opened his mouth wide to yawn.
“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.
There was no police car at 29 Arbor, and no gathering. That was satisfactory. Entering the vestibule, I pushed the button under Meegan and put my hand on the knob. No click. Pushing twice more and still getting no response, I tried Aland’s button, and that worked. After a short wait the click came, and I shoved the door open, entered, mounted two flights, went to the door, and knocked with authority.
The squeaky voice came through. “Who is it?”
“Goodwin. I was just here with the others. I haven’t got the dog. Open up.”
The door swung slowly to a crack, and then wider. Jerome Aland was still in his gaudy pajamas. “For God’s sake,” he squeaked, “what do you want now? I need some sleep!”
I didn’t apologize. “I was going to ask you some questions when I was here before,” I told him, “but the dog complicated it. It won’t take long.” Since he wasn’t polite enough to move aside, I had to brush him, skinny as he was, as I went in. “Which way?”
He slid past me, and I followed him across to chairs. They were the kind of chairs that made Jewel Jones hate furnished apartments, and the rest of the furniture didn’t help any. He sat on the edge of one and demanded, “All right, what?”
It was a little tricky. Since he was assuming I was one of the Homicide personnel, it wouldn’t do for me to know either too much or too little. It would be risky to mention Jewel Jones, because the cops might not have got around to her at all.
“I’m checking some points,” I told him. “How long has Richard Meegan occupied the apartment below you?”
“Hell, I’ve told you that a dozen times.”
“Not me. I said I’m checking. How long?”
“Nine days. He took it a week ago Tuesday.”
“Who was the previous tenant? Just before him.”
“There wasn’t any. It was empty.”
“Empty ever since you’ve been here?”
“No, I’ve told you, a girl had it, but she moved out about three months ago. Her name is Jewel Jones, and she’s a fine artist, and she got me my job at the night club where I work now.” His mouth worked. “I know what you’re doing, you’re trying to make it nasty, and you’re trying to catch me getting my facts twisted. Bringing that dog here to growl at me — can I help it if I don’t like dogs?”
He ran his fingers, both hands, through his hair. When the hair was messed good he gestured like a night-club performer. “Die like a dog,” he said. “That’s what Phil did, died like a dog. Poor Phil, I wouldn’t want to see that again.”
“You said,” I ventured, “that you and he were good friends.”
His head jerked up. “I did not. Did I say that?”
“More or less. Maybe not in those words. Why, weren’t you?”
“We were not. I haven’t got any good friends.”
“You just said that the girl that used to live here got you a job. That sounds like a good friend. Or did she owe you something?”
“Not a damn thing. Why do you keep bringing her up?”
“I didn’t bring her up, you did. I only asked who was the former tenant in the apartment below you. Why, would you rather keep her out of it?”
“I don’t have to keep her out. She’s not in it.”
“Perhaps not. Did she know Philip Kampf?”
“I guess so. Sure she did.”
“How well did she know him?”
He shook his head. “Now you’re getting personal, and I’m the wrong person. If Phil was alive you could ask him, and he might tell you. Me, I don’t know.”
I smiled at him. “All that does, Mr. Aland, is make me curious. Somebody in this house murdered Kampf. So we ask you questions, and when we come to one you shy at, naturally we wonder why. If you don’t like talking about Kampf and that girl, think what it could mean. For instance, it could mean that the girl was yours, and Kampf took her away from you, and that was why you killed him when he came here yesterday. Or it could—”
“She wasn’t mine!”
“Uh-huh. Or it could mean that although she wasn’t yours, you were under a deep obligation to her, and Kampf had given her a dirty deal, or he was threatening her with something, and she wanted him disposed of, and you obliged. Or of course it could be merely that Kampf had something on you.”
He had his head tilted back so he could look down on me. “You’re in the wrong racket,” he asserted. “You ought to be writing TV scripts.”
I stuck with him only a few more minutes, having got all I could hope for under the circumstances. Since I was letting him assume that I was a city employee, I couldn’t very well try to pry him loose for a trip to Wolfe’s place. Also I had two more calls to make, and there was no telling when I might be interrupted by a phone call or a courier to one of them from downtown. The only further item I gathered from Jerome Aland was that he wasn’t trying to get from under by slipping in any insinuations about his co-tenants. He had no opinions or ideas about who had killed poor Phil. When I left he stood up, but he let me go and open the door for myself.
I went down a flight, to Meegan’s door, and knocked and waited. Just as I was raising a fist to make it louder and better there were footsteps inside, and the door opened. Meegan was still in his shirt sleeves and still uncombed.
“Well?” he demanded.
“Back again,” I said firmly but not offensively. “With a few questions. If you don’t mind?”
“You know damn well I mind.”
“Naturally. Mr. Talento has been called down to the District Attorney’s office. This might possibly save you another trip there.”
He sidestepped, and I went in. The room was the same size and shape as Aland’s, above, and the furniture, though different, was no more desirable. The table against a wall was lopsided — probably the one that Jewel Jones hoped they had fixed for him. I took a chair at its end, and he took another and sat frowning at me.
“Haven’t I seen you before?” he wanted to know.
“Sure, we were here with the dog.”
“I mean before that. Wasn’t it you in Nero Wolfe’s office yesterday?”
“That’s right.”
“How come?”
I raised my brows. “Haven’t you got the lines crossed, Mr. Meegan? I’m here to ask questions, not to answer them. I was in Wolfe’s office on business. I often am. Now—”
“He’s a fat, arrogant halfwit!”
“You may be right. He’s certainly arrogant. Now, I’m here on business.” I got out my notebook and pencil. “You moved into this place nine days ago. Please tell me exactly how you came to take this apartment.”
He glared. “I’ve told it at least three times.”
“I know. This is the way it’s done. I’m not trying to catch you in some little discrepancy, but you could have omitted something important. Just assume I haven’t heard it before. Go ahead.”
“Oh, my God.” His head dropped and his lips tightened. Normally he might not have been a bad-looking guy, with blond hair and gray eyes and a long bony face, but now, having spent the night, or most of it, with Homicide and the DA, he looked it, especially his eyes, which were red and puffy.
He lifted his head. “I’m a commercial photographer — in Pittsburgh. Two years ago I married a girl named Margaret Ryan. Seven months later she left me. I didn’t know whether she went alone or with somebody. She just left. She left Pittsburgh too, or anyway I couldn’t find her there, and her family never saw her or heard from her. About five months later, about a year ago, a man I know, a businessman I do work for, came back from a trip to New York and said he’d seen her in a theater here with a man. He went and spoke to her, but she claimed he was mistaken. He was sure it was her. I came to New York and spent a week looking around but didn’t find her. I didn’t go to the police because I didn’t want to. You want a better reason, but that’s mine.”
“I’ll skip that.” I was writing in the notebook. “Go ahead.”
“Two weeks ago I went to look at a show of pictures at the Institute in Pittsburgh. There was a painting there, an oil, a big one. It was called ‘Three Young Mares at Pasture,’ and it was an interior, a room, with three women in it. One of them was on a couch, and two of them were on a rug on the floor. They were eating apples. The one on the couch was my wife. I was sure of it the minute I saw her, and after I stood and studied it I was even surer. There was absolutely no doubt of it.”
“We’re not challenging that,” I assured him. “What did you do?”
“The artist’s signature looked like Chapple, but of course the catalogue settled that. It was Ross Chaffee. I went to the Institute office and asked about him. They thought he lived in New York but weren’t sure. I had some work on hand I had to finish, and it took a couple of days, and then I came to New York. I had no trouble finding Ross Chaffee; he was in the phone book. I went to see him at his studio — here in this house. First I told him I was interested in that figure in his painting, that I thought she would be just right to model for some photographs I wanted to do, but he said that his opinion of photography as a medium was such that he wouldn’t care to supply models for it, and he was bowing me out, so I told him how it was. I told him the whole thing. Then he was different. He sympathized with me and said he would be glad to help me if he could, but he had painted that picture more than a year ago, and he used so many different models for his pictures that it was impossible to remember which was which.”
Meegan stopped, and I looked up from the notebook. He said aggressively, “I’m repeating that that sounded phony to me.”
“Go right ahead. You’re telling it.”
“I say it was phony. A photographer might use hundreds of models in a year, and he might forget, but not a painter. Not a picture like that. I got a little tactless with him, and then I apologized. He said he might be able to refresh his memory and asked me to phone him the next day. Instead of phoning I went back the next day to see him, but he said he simply couldn’t remember and doubted if he ever could. I didn’t get tactless again. Coming in the house, I had noticed a sign that there was a furnished apartment to let, and when I left Chaffee I found the janitor and rented it, and went to my hotel for my bags and moved in. I knew damn well my wife had modeled for that picture, and I knew I could find her. I wanted to be as close as I could to Chaffee and the people who came to see him.”
I wanted something too. I wanted to say that he must have had a photograph of his wife along and that I would like to see it, but of course I didn’t dare, since it was a cinch that he had already either given it to the cops, or refused to, or claimed he didn’t have one. So I merely asked, “What progress did you make?”
“Not much. I tried to get friendly with Chaffee but didn’t get very far. I met the other two tenants, Talento and Aland, but that didn’t get me anywhere. Finally I decided I would have to get some expert help, and that was why I went to see Nero Wolfe. You were there, you know how that came out — that big blob.”
I nodded. “He has dropsy of the ego. What did you want him to do?”
“I’ve told you.”
“Tell it again.”
“I was going to have him tap Chaffee’s phone.”
“That’s illegal,” I said severely.
“All right, I didn’t do it.”
I flipped a page of the notebook. “Go back a little. During that week, besides the tenants here, how many of Chaffee’s friends and acquaintances did you meet?”
“Just two, as I’ve told you. A young woman, a model, in his studio one day, and I don’t remember her name, and a man that was there another day, a man that Chaffee said buys his pictures. His name was Braunstein.”
“You’re leaving out Philip Kampf.”
Meegan leaned forward and put a fist on the table. “Yes, and I’m going to leave him out. I never saw him or heard of him.”
“What would you say if I said you were seen with him?”
“I’d say you were a dirty liar!” The red eyes looked redder. “As if I wasn’t already having enough trouble, now you set on me about a murder of a man I never heard of! You bring a dog here and tell me to pat it, for God’s sake!”
I nodded. “That’s your hard luck, Mr. Meegan. You’re not the first man that’s had a murder for company without inviting it.” I closed the notebook and put it in my pocket. “You’d better find some way of handling your troubles without having people’s phones tapped.” I arose. “Stick around, please. You may be wanted downtown anyhow.”
He went to open the door for me. I would have liked to get more details of his progress with Ross Chaffee, or lack of it, and his contacts with the other two tenants, but it seemed more important to have some words with Chaffee before I got interrupted. As I mounted the two flights to the top floor my wristwatch said twenty-eight minutes past ten.