The Case of the Howling Dog

"Foley will tell you the story on the way out," Dorcas said. "Foley represents one side of the controversy, and Perry represents the folks on the other side. It started out with a complaint over a howling dog, and now it's gone into a question of espionage, homicidal mania, and whatnot. Go on out and find out what it's all about. Talk with witnesses and then make a report to me. I'll take action, depending on what's disclosed by your report."

"Who are the witnesses?" Pemberton asked.

Foley held up his fingers and checked them off.

"To begin with," he said, "there's Cartright, who claims the dog howls, and Cartright's housekeeper. She may claim that she heard the dog howl, but if you'll talk with her, you'll find she's deaf as a post, and couldn't hear it thunder. Then there's my wife, who's been quite ill with influenza, but is getting better now. She's in bed, but she can talk with you. She knows the dog didn't howl. There's Ah Wong, my Chinese manservant, and Thelma Benton, my housekeeper. They can all tell you that the dog didn't howl. Then there's the dog himself."

"The dog going to tell me he didn't howl?" asked Pemberton, grinning.

"The dog can show you that he's quite contented, and that there isn't a howl in his system," smiled Foley, reaching in his pocket and taking out a leather cigar case. "How about a cigar?"

"Thanks," said Pemberton, taking a cigar.

"You?" asked Foley, extending the case to Mason.

"Thanks," said Mason, "I'll stick with my cigarettes."

"I've given this case a lot of time," said Dorcas, suggestively, "and…"

"Okay, Pete," Bill Pemberton boomed goodnaturedly, "we're on our way right now. Come on, fellows."

Chapter 4

As the sheriff's car swung into the curb, Bill Pemberton said: "Is that the house?"

"That's it," Foley answered, "but don't park here. Go on in the driveway. I'm putting an addition onto my garage, and the contractors have got things littered up here. They're finishing up this afternoon, and then I won't be troubled with them. It's been a nuisance."

"Whom do we talk with first?" asked Pemberton.

"You can suit yourself," Foley said with dignity, "but I think that after you have talked with my wife, you won't need to bother with any more witnesses."

"No," Pemberton said, "we're going to see them all. How about the Chinese cook? Is he home?"

"Certainly," Foley answered. "Keep right on the driveway if you want to, and we'll have him come out to his room. You'll probably want to see where he sleeps. It's over the garage."

"You're building an addition on that?"

"On the garage, not on the room," Foley said. "It's only the one story. The cook has his apartments on top of the garage."

"How about a chauffeur?" asked Pemberton.

"I presume the place was originally intended as a chauffeur's apartment," Foley admitted, "but I don't keep a chauffeur. What driving I do, I do personally."

"Well, then," Pemberton said, "let's talk with the Chink. That suit you, Mason?"

"Anything suits me," said Mason. "Only I want to have you talk with my client before you go."

"Oh, sure. That his place over there, Foley?"

"That's it; the one on the north."

The car slid along the driveway and came to a stop in front of the building where men were laboring with a sudden zeal which indicated a desire to impress the owner of the property, and, perhaps, forestall any complaint as to the manner in which the work had dragged along.

"Just go up here," said Foley, "and I'll get Ah Wong."

Pemberton started up a flight of stairs which hugged the concrete side of the building, then paused as there was the sound of a door banging and a woman's voice said: "Oh, Mr. Foley, I must see you at once. We've had trouble…"

The words became inaudible as the woman lowered her voice, on seeing the officer's car.

Bill Pemberton hesitated, then turned and walked to ward the back of the residence.

"Something about the dog, Foley?" he asked.

"I don't know," Clinton Foley said.

A young woman, attired in a housedress and apron, with her right hand and arm bandaged, walked rapidly toward Foley.

She was, perhaps, twentyseven or twentyeight. Her hair was slicked back on her head. Her face was without makeup, and she gave the impression of homely efficiency, yet it would have needed but a few deft touches of makeup, a change of clothes, and a fingerwave, to have made her quite beautiful.

Bill Pemberton looked at her with narrowing eyes.

"My housekeeper," Foley explained.

"Oh," said Pemberton significantly.

Foley whirled, started to say something, then paused and waited until the woman came to him.

"What happened?" he asked.

"Prince bit me," she said. "He was sick."

"How did it happen?"

"I don't know, but I think he'd been poisoned. He was acting queerly. I remembered what you'd said about putting salt on the back of his tongue if he ever gave any sign of sudden illness, so I took a handful of salt and put it on the back of his tongue. He closed his teeth and bit me."

Foley looked at the bandaged hand.

"Bad?" he asked.

"No," she said, "I don't think so."

"Where is he now?"