Murphy, the doorman, walked in. I’ve never seen a guy look so altered. His face was pale and lined and he carried himself as if he’d got a ton weight on his back.
“What do you want?” Maddox snapped, “get out, I’m busy.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Maddox, sir,” Murphy said in a low voice, “but, I’m leaving. I’ve just come to say good- bye.”
“What do you mean… you’re leaving? You’ve been with me twenty years,” Maddox said, startled.
“I know that, sir,” Murphy replied, shaking his bead sadly, “it’ll be a blow to the wife when she hears about it, but I’ve got to go. I’m conscientious, sir, and I don’t think I’m fit any more for the job.”
Maddox got to his feet. “What are you drivelling about?” he roared. “What is this? I warn you, Murphy, if this is a gag, I’ll make you sorry. I won’t have people wasting my time. Now, go downstairs and look after the doors. If you’ve been drinking, sleep it off. You’re an old trusted servant and I’ll overlook this, if you’ll get out.”
Murphy approached him. “It’s not that, sir,” he said mournfully, “my brain’s given way.” Maddox took a hasty step back, “Your brain?” he repeated uneasily.
Murphy nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, “it was all right this morning, but it’s gone now. I’ve got to go. I might do something I’d be sorry for.”
“How do you know your brain’s given way?” Maddox asked, behind his desk by now.
“I’m hearing things, sir,” Murphy said. “Voices in my head.”
Maddox appealed to Harriet. “Do people hear voices in their heads when their brains give way?”
Harriet lifted her square shoulders. “It’s not an encouraging sign, Mr. Maddox,” she said softly.
Maddox wiped his face with his handkerchief. “I suppose not,” he said. “But what kind of voices?”
Murphy shivered. “There’s a big dog downstairs,” he said. “I thought he spoke to me. That’s why I say I’m heating voices.’
“Spoke to you… a dog? What did he say?” Maddox demanded.
“He wanted to know if I changed socks every day.”
I jumped to my feet, “What?” I shouted, “a dog?”
Murphy shrank back, “Yes, Mr. Millan, a big dog I shouldn’t ought to bother you with this…”
“Where is he?” I shouted. “It’s Whisky” I turned on Maddox. “Now, I’ll show you something. Get that dog up here! Where did you leave him?”
“I don’t want him up here,” Murphy wailed. “I couldn’t bear to have him up here.”
I rushed to the door and jerked it open. Half the office staff, who had been listening at the keyhole, fell into the room, but I didn’t stop. I trod over them, shoving the others out of the way and rushed for the elevator.
Downstairs, I found a group of people standing round the door, but there was no sign of Whisky.
“Anyone seen a dog around here?” I demanded.
“Sure,” a big guy said, pushing his way towards me, “a big wolfhound. He came in here a few minutes ago and then Murphy suddenly seemed to go crazy and ran for the elevator. The dog went off like he was offended.”
“Which way did he go?”
“To the right. What’s it all about?”
I didn’t wait, but bolted out into the street.
There was no sign of Whisky anywhere. That didn’t worry me a great deal. There was only one place where he’d go and that would be home.
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.
