Miss Shumway Waves A Wand

I signalled a passing taxi and gave him my address. “Keep near the sidewalk,” I said, “I’m looking for a pal of mine.”

The driver, a wizen little punk with suspicious rat-like eyes, touched his cap. “I’m ready to stop when you are,” he said, and drove along the street, hugging the curb.

I was nearly home, when I spotted Whisky trotting along. He looked in better shape. Someone must have cleaned him up, but he still had a nasty wound on his head.

“Stop!” I bawled to the taxi driver and bundled out of the cab. “Whisky, old boy!” I called, running towards him, “Gee! Whisky, it’s nice to see you.”

Whisky turned quickly, “Well,” he said, “I’ve been looking all over for you.”

“Come back in the cab, Whisky,” I said, patting him gently. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.” We crowded back into the cab. “Just drive around, will you?” I said to the driver. “I’ve got a lot to say to my dog.”

The driver eyed Whisky. “He’s a nice dog, ain’t he?” he said, “you ain’t been beating that dog, have you, mister?”

“Now listen,” I said, pushing Whisky in a corner so I had room to sit down, “I just want to talk to my dog. I don’t want to get tied up in a conversation with you. I haven’t got the time for it.”

“I don’t like guys who beat dogs,” the taxi driver said, turning in his seat. “I got plenty tough with the last guy I saw beating his dog.”

“Yeah?” Whisky said, pushing his face into the taxi driver’s, “then he must have been a midget.”

“Well, he was, but that don’t change the idea of the thing,” returned the driver and started up his engine.

Whisky and I settled back and we regarded each other affectionately. “Well, pal,” I said, “you’ve certainly had a bad time. What did they do to you?”

Before he could reply, we were both thrown in a heap on the floor as the driver trod on his brakes.

“What’s the idea?” I said, angrily. “What do you think you’re doing?”

The driver turned in his seat. His face was the colour of a fish’s underbelly. “Hey!” he said in a trembling voice, “didn’t that dog speak?”

“What are you talking about?” I said. “Get on with your driving, can’t you?”

“Now, wait a minute,” the rat-like eyes glared at me. “I’ve got to get this straight. Did that dog speak to me?”

“Well, what if he did? That’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. But dogs don’t talk. They bark, see?”

“Oh, I get it. Well, there’s nothing to worry about. He’s just that kind of a dog.”

“Well, if that’s all it is,” the driver said, relieved, and be began driving again.

“I thought you’d lost your voice,” I said to Whisky.

“So I did,” he growled, “and damned inconvenient it was too. I hope I never go back to barking again; you just don’t get anywhere like that. But, we’re wasting time, I know where Myra is.”

“So do I,” I said gloomily, “with Peppi.”

Whisky shook his head. “She’s in a top front room in Waxey’s dive,” he said.

I stared at him. “She’s with Peppi,” I said, “let me get you up to date,” and I told him about Ansell and Peppi and the whole set-up.

He sat looking at me with alert eyes and when I’d finished, he said, “Don’t bother about those photos. I tell you she’s at Waxey’s dive. We can get her out of there and then turn Peppi over to the cops. Tell the driver to turn around.”

“You’re sure?” I said, half convinced. “What has Waxey to do with Peppi?”

“Will you stop yapping,” Whisky said fiercely, “and tell the driver.”

“Okay,” I said, and leaning forward I said, “take us to Mulberry Park, will you?”

“Sure,” the driver said, “and listen, I’ve been thinking. I don’t believe that dog talked, see? And nothing you say’ll convince me,” and he swung the cab off the main street.

Chapter SIXTEEN

WHILE we were driving to Mulberry Park, Whisky explained what had been happening to him. He had seen Myra kidnapped when she left our apartment and he had followed the car. He had seen her taken to Good-time Waxey’s dive and he went after her.

But Waxey and Lew had been too much for him. He only managed to get away by the skin of his teeth and not before Lew bad nearly brained him with his rubber club.

I listened grimly to all this. “I’ll settle that heel,” I said. “He’s nor going to knock you around and get away with it.”

“Better be careful,” Whisky said mournfully, “he’s a mighty big guy.”

“I’ll be careful,” I said. “If I get a chance to slug him when he’s not looking, I’ll take the chance.”

As the cab slowed down, Whisky said, “Well, here we are.”

“Yeah,” I said, getting out and paying the driver. He didn’t look at me when he took the money, but he eyed Whisky suspiciously, then he drove away fast. “I don’t think that guy liked us,” I said. “Now, listen. We’ll get nowhere if they see you, Whisky. You watch the building. If I don’t come out in half an hour, you’d better get the cops.”

“No good doing that, unless the two girls are there,” Whisky said. “If the cops get Myra and not the other one what sort of jam will we be in?”

“You’ve got something there,” I said, “but, what if something happens to me? What’ll you do?”