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THE WOUNDED SCOTTIE

(Thursday, October 11; 10.30 a. m.)

The butler’s attitude was one of amazement rather than fear; and we all regarded him with misgivings.

“Well, what’s in the hall?” barked Markham. Vance’s recapitulation had produced an irritating effect on him.

“A dog, sir!” Gamble announced.

Markham gave a start of exasperation.

“What of it?”

“A wounded dog, sir,” the butler explained.

Before Markham could answer, Vance had leaped to his feet.

“That’s the thing I’ve been waiting for!” There was a suppressed note of excitement in his voice. “A wounded dog! My word! ...” He went swiftly to the door. “Come along, Gamble,” he called, as he passed quickly down the stairs.

We all followed in silent amazement. The situation up to this point had been topsy-turvy enough, but this new element seemed to shunt the case still further off the track of rationality.

“Where is it?” Vance demanded when he had reached the lower hallway.

Gamble stepped to the heavy portières at the right of the entrance door, and drew one of them aside.

“I heard a strange sound just now,” he explained. “Like a whine, sir. It startled me terribly. When I looked back of this curtain, there I saw the dog.”

“Does it belong to any one in the house?” Markham asked.

“Oh, no, sir!” the man assured him. “That’s why I was so startled. There’s never been a dog in this house since I’ve been here—and that’s going on ten years.”

As he held back the portière, we could see the small, prone shape of a slightly brindled Scottish terrier, lying on its side with its four short legs stretched out. Over the left eye was a clotted wound; and on the floor was a black stain of dried blood. The eye beneath the wound was swollen shut, but the other eye, dark hazel and oval, looked up at us with an expression of tragic appeal.

Vance was already on his knees beside the dog.

“It’s all right, lassie,” he was murmuring. “Everything’s all right.”

He took the dog tenderly in his arms, and stood up.

“What street’s this?” he asked of no one in particular. “Seventy-first? ... Good! ... Open that door, Gamble.”

The butler, apparently as much surprised as any of the rest of us, hurried to obey.

Vance stepped into the vestibule, the dog held gently against his breast.

“I’m going to Doctor Blamey,”^[6] he announced. “He’s just up the street. I’ll be back presently.” And he hurried down the stone steps.

This new development left us all even more puzzled than before. Vance’s animated response to Gamble’s announcement regarding the dog, and his cryptic remark as he hurried downstairs, added another element of almost outlandish mystery to a situation already incredibly complicated.

When Vance had disappeared with the wounded Scottie in his arms, Heath, frowning perplexedly, turned to Markham and crammed his hands into his trousers’ pockets.

“This case is beginning to get to me, sir,” he complained. “Now, what do you suppose is the meaning of this dog business? And why was Mr. Vance so excited? And anyhow, what could a dog have to do with the stabbing?”

Markham did not answer. He was staring at the front door through which Vance had just passed, chewing his cigar nervously. Presently he fixed Gamble with an angry look.

“You never saw that dog before?”

“No, sir.” The butler had become oily again. “Never, sir. No dog at all has ever been in this house——”

“No one here was interested in dogs?”

“No one, sir.... It’s most mysterious. I can’t imagine how it got in the house.”

Wrede and Grassi had come to the drawing-room door, and stood looking out curiously into the hall.

Markham, seeing them, addressed himself to Wrede.

“Do you, Mr. Wrede, know anything about a small black shaggy dog that might have found access to this house?”

Wrede looked puzzled.

“Why, no,” he answered, after a slight hesitation. “No one here cared for dogs. I happen to know that both Archer and Brisbane detested pets.”

“What about Miss Lake?”

“She has no use for dogs. She likes cats. She had a blue Persian at one time, but Archer made her get rid of it. That was years ago.”

Markham frowned.

“Well, a dog has just been found here in the hall—back of those curtains.”

“That’s most remarkable.” Wrede seemed genuinely astonished. “I can’t imagine where it came from. It must have followed some one in, without being seen.”

Markham did not answer, and Heath, taking his cigar from his mouth, stepped forward belligerently, and thrust out his jaw.

“But you like dogs, don’t you?” he shot forth, in his best third-degree manner.

Wrede was taken aback by the Sergeant’s sudden aggressiveness.

“Why, yes,” he said. “I’m very fond of them. I’ve always kept one till I moved into the apartment next door....”

“What kind of a dog?” demanded Heath, without relaxing his bellicose manner.

“A Doberman Pinscher,” Wrede told him, and turned to Markham. “I don’t exactly understand this man’s questions.”

“We’re all a little on edge,” Markham apologized. “Some very peculiar things went on in this house last night. Coe did not commit suicide—he was murdered.”

Wrede did not appear surprised.

“Ah!” he murmured. “I was afraid of that.”

Grassi now gave a guttural exclamation, and stepped into the hall.

“Murdered?” he repeated. “Mr. Coe was murdered?” His face was abnormally pale, and his dark eyes stared at Markham in frightened wonderment. “I understood he had taken his own life with a revolver.”

“He was stabbed in the back,” Markham informed him. “The bullet did not enter his head till after death.”

Again the Italian gave a curious guttural exclamation and leaned heavily against the casing of the drawing-room door. So white was his face that for a moment I thought he was going to faint. Heath was watching him like a tiger, and at this point he moved deliberately forward until his face was within six inches of Grassi’s.

“Stabbed with a dagger!” he spat out. “In the back. Wop stuff. What d’ye know about it?”

As quickly as he had gone pale, the Italian drew himself together, and stood erect with great dignity, looking Heath steadily in the eyes. A slow sneering smile curled the corners of his heavy lips.

“I know nothing about it, sir,” he said with quiet suavity. “I am not of the police. Perhaps you know a great deal about it.” His tone, though on the surface polite, was an insult.

Heath was piqued.

“We know plenty,” he boasted truculently. “And when we get going, it won’t be so damn pleasant for you.”

Markham stepped forward and placed his hand on Heath’s shoulder.

“This can wait, Sergeant,” he said placatingly. “We’ve considerable preliminary investigating to do before we question Mr. Grassi.”

Heath snorted and walked reluctantly toward the stairs.

“You gentlemen will have to wait in the drawing-room for a while,” Markham said to Grassi and Wrede. “And please be so good as to keep the door closed until we want you.”

At these words, Hennessey waved the two men back into the drawing-room and drew the sliding doors shut.

“Come, Sergeant,” Markham said. “We’d better make a once-over of Coe’s room before the boys get here.”

Heath sullenly led the way upstairs.

During the next five minutes or so, Markham and the Sergeant walked about Coe’s quarters giving them a cursory inspection. As I have said, the room was at the rear with windows in the east and south walls. Heath went to each window and raised the shades. When he had completed his rounds he went up to Markham, who was standing before the clothes-closet door, looking inside.

“Here’s a funny one, sir. The windows are all shut tight—but that ain’t all. Every one of ’em is locked. And this room is on the second story, so that no one could get in from the outside. Why all the precaution?”

“Archer Coe was a peculiar man, Sergeant,” Markham replied. “He was always afraid burglars would break in and steal his treasures.”

The answer did not satisfy Heath.

“Who’d want this junk?” he grumbled sceptically, and moved to the desk.

Markham, after casually inspecting the closet, walked across the room to the teak-wood chest beneath one of the east windows. I then remembered that Vance had regarded this chest curiously during his conversation with Doctor Doremus about Coe’s broken rib.

Heath was now standing in the middle of the room, gazing about him disgustedly.

“It’s a cinch,” he said, “that nobody could get in or out of this joss-house except by the door. It beats me.”

The fact was that the only door in the room other than the main door which we had found bolted on the inside, was the one leading into the small clothes-closet. There was no private bathroom: the house had been built in an era when one common bathroom on the second floor was considered the height of sanitary luxury. We learned later, however, that Miss Lake had installed another bathroom on the third floor. Archer Coe, and his brother Brisbane, whose bedroom was at the front of the house on the same floor as Archer’s, had shared the main bathroom which led off the hall between their quarters.

“I’ve seen nothing of the weapon that killed Coe,” Markham remarked.

“It’s not here,” Heath asserted dogmatically. “It was withdrawn from Coe’s body, and I’ll bet the guy cached it where it wouldn’t be found.”

“That’s possible,” Markham agreed. “Anyway, I think you’d better open the windows—it’s close in here. And you might turn off the electric lights.”

“Nothing doing.” The Sergeant was indignant. “You see, sir,” he hastened to explain apologetically, “somebody pressed those window catches and also pushed the light switch. And I want to know who it was. I’m going to have Cap Dubois^[7] get me the finger-prints.”

A few minutes later Vance returned to the house. As he entered the room his face was troubled, and anger smouldered in his gray eyes.

“There’s a good chance she’ll live,” he reported; “but that was a vicious blow some one dealt her. A blunt instrument of some kind. Doctor Blamey is fixing her up, and I’ll know more about her condition tonight.” (I had rarely seen Vance so upset.)

“What does it all mean?” Markham asked him. “Where does that dog fit in?”

“I don’t know yet.” Vance sank into a chair and took out his case of Régies. “But I have a feelin’ it’s our opening wedge. That little dog is the one totally irrelevant item in this whole bloody affair—she’s our one contact with the world outside. She doesn’t belong here, and therefore will have something important to say to us. Furthermore, she was wounded in this house.”

Markham’s eyes suddenly narrowed.

“And the wound was similar to the one on Coe’s head, and in the same place.”

Vance nodded dubiously.

“But that may be merely a coincidence,” he returned after a moment. “In any event, no one in this house cared for dogs. There’s never been one here, and I’ve often heard both Coe and his brother express themselves on the subject. I once had to sit for half an hour listening to Brisbane read aloud Ambrose Bierce’s libelous attack on dogs.^[8] No member of this household brought that dog in, Markham. But had the dog got in by mistake, no member of the family would have hesitated to strike it.”

“You think an outsider brought it in?”

“No, that wouldn’t be reasonable either.” Vance frowned meditatively. “That’s the strange thing about the dog’s presence here. It was probably a terrible accident—a fatal miscalculation. That’s why I’m so deuced interested. And then there’s this point to be considered: the person who found the dog here was afraid to let her out. Instead—for his own safety—he tried to kill her and then hid her behind the portières downstairs. And he almost succeeded in killing her.”

“Could the doctor tell at what time she was hurt?”

“Not exactly. But from the condition of the swelling about the eye and the dried blood in the wound, he said it might have been as long as twelve hours ago.”

“That coincides.”

“Oh, yes—quite. The dog either witnessed the stabbing or was present in the house shortly afterward.”

“It’s a curious situation,” Markham murmured.

“Yes, it’s curious,” Vance agreed. “And damnable. But once we trace the dog’s ownership, we may know something pertinent.”

Markham looked doubtful.

“How, in Heaven’s name, are we going to trace a stray dog?” he asked dispiritedly. “The city is full of them. And if it belonged to the person who entered here last night, the owner is certainly not going to advertise for it or even answer a ‘found’ advertisement.”

“True.” Vance nodded. “But the matter isn’t as obscure and difficult as that. That little Scottie is no mere pet-shop companion. Far from it. She’d make trouble in the ring for some of our leading winners. I went over her as carefully as I could when she lay on Blamey’s operating table. She has a short back, a fine spring of ribs, and a perfect tail; and she’s low to the ground, with well bent stifles and sturdy hind-quarters. Also she has amazin’ bone and substance. I know a little about Scotties, Markham, and I have an idea she’s got both Laurieston and Ornsay blood in her. Her sturdiness and substance, coupled with her somewhat bold and slightly light eye, indicates the Laurieston strain—a great strain, by the by, but not sufficiently sensitive for my taste. On the other hand, she has certain very definite refinements—a lean, clean head and a sensitive muzzle, small ears, and a slightly receding occiput—all of which spells Ornsay.”

“That’s all very well”—Markham was annoyed by Vance’s technicalities—“but what do those things mean to any one but a breeder? I can’t see that they get us anywhere.”

“Oh, but they do,” smiled Vance. “They get us much forrader. The breeding of certain blood-lines in this country is known to every serious dog fancier. And a bitch like this one is the result of years of intensive breeding. There are such things as pedigrees and stud books and A. K. C. records and professional handlers and licensed judges; and it is not altogether impossible to trace a blue-blooded dog once you have a few clues as to its blood-lines and cross-strains. Furthermore, she’s in perfect show condition now; and the chances are that a dog as good as this one has been shown. And whenever a dog is shown, another set of facts is put on record.”

Heath had been listening to Vance with bored scepticism. Now he asked a question.

“Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Vance, that you can find the owner of any good dog you run across?”

“Oh, no, Sergeant,” Vance hastened to assure him. “I only say that, provided a dog has been put on record and shown, and also provided one has a definite idea of the dog’s progenitors, there is a good chance that, with patience, the owner may be found.”

“Huh!” Heath was unimpressed. “But even if you did find the owner of this mut, where would you be? The owner might simply say, ‘Oh, thank you, kind sir. The little devil ran away last Thursday.’”

Vance smiled.

“So he might, Sergeant. But well-bred dogs don’t follow strangers into unknown houses. Moreover, dogs as good as this one are not generally permitted to roam the streets unattended.” He lay back in his chair and partly closed his eyes. “There’s something particularly strange about that dog’s presence in this house last night. If I had the explanation, I’d know infinitely more about the murderer.”

Heath gave Vance a shrewd look.

“Maybe the murderer was somebody who was fond of dogs,” he suggested through his teeth. (It was obvious that he had Wrede in mind.)

“Oh, quite the contr’ry, Sergeant.” Vance looked at Heath quizzically. “Until we have further data, we must assume that the murderer viciously injured the Scottie—probably to keep her quiet——”

What Vance was going to say further was interrupted by a noise of footsteps and voices in the lower front hall. A moment later, three plain-clothes men and two uniformed officers from the local precinct station clattered into the room. On seeing the District Attorney they hesitated.

“I have taken charge of the case,” Markham told them. “We’re handling it from Headquarters, but we’ll want two men to guard the house.”

“Certainly, sir.” A heavy-set, gray-haired man saluted, and turned to the uniformed officers. “You, Hanlon and Riordan, stay here. Mr. Markham’ll give you orders.” He turned back to the District Attorney. “If there’s anything else, Chief, let me know. I’m Lieutenant Smith.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant.”

[6]	Edwin Reginald Blamey, M.R.C.V.S., the official veterinarian of the American Kennel Club, whose offices and surgery are at 17 West 71st Street.

[7]	Captain Dubois was the finger-print expert of the New York Police Department; and Heath had asked especially that he be sent to the house.

[8]	Vance was referring to “Concerning Dogs” in “The Shadow on the Dial,” a collection of Bierce’s essays published posthumously by Robertson in San Francisco.