The Black Dog Mystery (5 page)

As the car stopped, a man sitting in the rear seat leaned out and beckoned to Djuna. At first, Djuna was not sure that the man wanted him, or was beckoning to someone else. But, looking around, he saw no one else near him, and realized that the man wanted him, and no one else. Wondering a little what was wanted, he started toward the car.

The man who had beckoned to him did not say a word until Djuna got close to the car window. Djuna kept his eyes fixed on him. He wasn’t a friendly-looking man. His slouch hat was pulled down over his eyes, and his face was dark and sullen.

There were two other men in the car—the driver and another man in the rear seat. But Djuna could not see what either of them looked like, because their backs were turned toward him. Both of them seemed to be looking at the bank building, which was only a few feet from where the car had stopped. The front doors of the bank were still closed. Through an open window came the sound of a typewriter, tapping busily. The engine of the car made a low humming noise. The driver had not shut it off.

Djuna reached the side of the car and the man thrust a hand through the open window and gestured toward the east, the direction in which the automobile was heading.

“Hey, kid,” he said in a low voice, “we wanna go to Canada. Dis is th’ right road, ain’t it?”

“Why, yes, sir,” said Djuna. “You go straight ahead to Grandville—that’s about ten miles, and then you turn north. Yes, sir.”

“Okay, kid, dat’s all,” said the man. He turned to whisper to the man beside him, and Djuna was glad he had no more questions to ask. Djuna didn’t like the sound of his voice. The man had spoken in a sort of hoarse whisper, as if he had a sore throat, or as if he were not in the least grateful for the information. There had been a sneer in his voice, even while he was asking a favor.

“What did
he
want?” asked Tommy Williams curiously as Djuna came back to him.

“Oh, he just wanted to know if this was the road to Canada,” said Djuna. “He didn’t even say thanks when I told him.”

“Well, for Pete’s sake, let’s get some candy!” exclaimed Tommy. “I’ve been waiting here an hour for you!”

Just then the clock in the church tower at the

other end of the block began striking the hour. It was ten o’clock. Someone inside the bank came and opened the bank doors. Immediately, as if they had been waiting only for this, the two men in the back seat of the black car got out and started into the bank. The driver remained where he was, still keeping the engine running softly.

The two boys, with the little black dog at their heels, turned to enter the drugstore. The druggist was standing at the door, looking at the car across the street.

“Must be strangers,” he muttered. “It’s against the rules to park on that side of the street … Well, boys, what can I do for you?”

The two boys studied the contents of the candy counter with deliberation. It took a long while for them to make up their minds. They argued the merits of each variety in turn. The druggist waited patiently. Finally, after almost ten minutes, they decided on jelly-beans. Jelly-beans would last longer. They asked the druggist to put them into two separate bags, and each one took a bag.

As they walked out of the store, Champ saw his friend the old setter dog on the other side of the street standing in front of the bank. He started towards him, to finish their interrupted conversation. The old dog saw him coming and began wagging his tail as he waited for him.

Djuna was just about to yell at Champ again when he saw something so strange that he could scarcely believe his eyes.

The two men from the black car were coming out of the bank. But they did not have their faces toward him. They were walking
backwar
d
!

Djuna gasped. And the next moment he saw something that sent a cold chill through him. The men had revolvers in their hands!

Champ was still trotting toward the setter dog. And the setter had his eyes fixed on Champ and was paying no attention to the two men who were backing towards him.

Djuna thought his heart would burst. “Champ!
Champ
!” he yelled wildly. “Come here, come
her
e
!”

But it was too late. At that very moment one of the two men backed against the old setter dog. Losing his balance, he almost fell. He whirled around, straightened up, and aimed a furious kick at the dog. The setter jumped out of reach, then, with a growl of rage, leaped straight at the man’s throat.

There was a flash of flame and a deafening report. The two men began running toward their car. Black cloth masks covered their faces.

“Champ!” shouted Djuna desperately, once again. “Come back,
come bac
k
!”

It was no use. Champ was rushing after the two men like a little black cannon-ball. The first man flung open the door of the car and jumped in. The second man tried to follow. Champ was already at his heels, snarling savagely. Just as the man got his foot on the running-board, Champ leaped at him. The little black dog’s long white teeth snapped together and fastened on the man’s trouser-leg. The cloth ripped. Champ fell backwards, head over heels.

The car door slammed. The car jumped forward. Champ scrambled up on his little short legs and began running after it as hard as he could go. Djuna’s heart almost stopped beating. What if they should shoot Champ? He began running, shouting frantically for Champ to come back. People were running out into the street, now, all along the block. A man jumped in front of Djuna and seized him by the shoulders. “Get back, kid!” he pleaded. “You’ll get hurt!”

Djuna struggled wildly to free himself. “Let me go, let me go!” he wailed. “That’s
my
dog!”

He wrenched himself loose with one final twist and ran on after the disappearing car. Champ was still flying in pursuit of the car, but as it began to go faster and faster he soon gave it up, and came trotting slowly back toward Djuna, his red tongue hanging out. Djuna rushed up to him and threw himself down on his knees, hugging the little dog to him. Hanging from the car windows, the two men in the rear of the car fired wildly. Bullets whined far over Djuna’s head. Hugging Champ, he didn’t even hear them.

But he heard someone shout angrily, “Get out of the way! Lie down!” and glanced up to see the ponderous form of the Chief of Police hurry past him, a revolver in each hand. The Chief lifted one and fired after the car, again and again, hoping to puncture the tires. But the car was already more than a block away, traveling at a terrific speed, although the road was beginning to climb the hill on the edge of town; and a moment later it swept over the top of the hill and vanished.

The Chief of Police lowered his smoking revolver and, running back, leaned over Djuna.

“Are you all right?” he asked, breathing heavily. “Did they hit you?”

“No, sir, I’m all right!” said Djuna.

“What were you doing here, then?” grunted the Chief angrily. “If you hadn’t been in my way, I’d have plugged them!”

He began running again, back to the bank. People crowded into the street again, coming out from the doorways they had darted into when the robbers first began firing. Two men in police uniforms ran towards him, pushing their way through the crowd. The Chief shouted at them excitedly.

“Taylor! Ryan!” he panted. “Get your motorcycles! Chase those birds! They’re headin’ for Grandville! I’ll phone Grandville to head ’em off! Watch yourselves—they’re killers!”

The two officers rushed to get their motorcycles, and a moment later they roared off down the road in pursuit. The police chief ran on, panting for breath, toward the bank, the crowd trailing after him. At the door he paused. “Anybody see the license number of that car?” he shouted to the crowd at his heels. “Anybody see it?”

No one answered, and he plunged on into the building. Djuna had remained kneeling beside Champ. Nothing except Champ’s escape, unharmed, mattered to him.

“Are you all right, Champ?” he cried, his voice trembling. “Are you all right?”

Champ was hot and panting, but there wasn’t a scratch on him. He licked Djuna’s chin with his hot tongue, and Djuna laughed in sheer relief.

Tommy Williams came running up just then. “Hey, look!” he exclaimed excitedly. “The Chief of Police says for us not to go away until he talks to us!”

Djuna got up, still hugging Champ in his arms. “What does he want?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Tommy. “But we’d better go and see, right away. He’s in the bank.”

The two boys hurried toward the bank. A crowd was standing­ in front of its doors, at which a frightened-looking bookkeeper was standing guard. No one was being admitted. People on the fringe of the crowd were looking at a dark spot on the sidewalk. It was a puddle of dark blood. Djuna felt sick when he saw it.

“That was Bill Peters’s dog they shot,” he heard a man saying angrily. “Nicest old dog you ever saw. Deader ’n a doornail. They’ve carried him over to Doc Anderson’s office, to see if Doc can get the bullet.”

“Lucky they didn’t shoot anybody,” said another man. “There wasn’t anybody hurt, was there?”

Just then the doorman caught sight of them, over the heads of the crowd. “You boys come on in,” he exclaimed. “Chief wants to see you.”

The crowd parted to let them through. “That’s him, that’s the dog that chased the car!” Djuna could hear people saying admiringly as they saw Champ’s whiskery black face over Djuna’s shoulder. Djuna’s heart swelled with pride.

Inside the bank, the Chief of Police, seated at the cashier’s desk, was impatiently jiggling the telephone. “Get me police headquarters at Grandville, operator!” he was roaring. “What’s the matter with you? Oh, is that you, Mike? This is Crackle, at Clinton. Robbery here. First National. Three men. Black sedan. Less ’n two minutes ago. Headed your way. They’ll be there inside of ten minutes, the way they’re traveling. What? No, nobody got a good look at any of ’em. Two of ’em wore masks. Young fellows. Medium height, both of ’em. Dark clothes. Armed. Wait a second—”

He turned to the cashier. “Figured what they got?” he snapped.

“Nearly a thousand,” groaned the cashier. “Eighty-eight fives. Fifty tens. Fifty-six in silver.”

The Chief of Police barked the numbers into the telephone and hung up the receiver.

Facing around, his eyes fell on the two boys. “Oh, there you are!” he said. “Which one of you was it that talked to them robbers? Doc Peters says he saw one of you go over to that car, just before the ruckus started. Which one of you was it? Speak up, now!”

Djuna flushed, put Champ down, and stepped forward.

“I did, sir,” he said.

“Oh, it was you, was it? You’re the kid that got in my way, dodgast you! You know these fellows?”

“I never saw them before,” said the boy indignantly. “I just happened to be coming out of the hardware store when their car stopped across the street. One of them called me over.”

“Well, what did he want?”

“He wanted to know if—no, the way he said it was: ‘We want to go to Canada. Is this the right road?’ So I told him it goes to Grandville, but to turn north when he got to Grandville.”

The police chief grabbed the telephone and asked again for the Grandville police headquarters.

“But maybe—” began Djuna eagerly.

The police chief motioned to him to keep silent. “Crackle talking­, Mike,” he said as the connection was completed. “Say, they tell me those fellows were asking how to get to Canada. Is there any way they can get into the Canada highway without going into your town? No? I thought not. You’ve got your road blocked already? Fine! I’ve got a couple of my men following them! Okay, watch yourself.”

He hung up again with a sigh of satisfaction. “They
can’t
get away!” he grunted. “We’ve got ’em cornered!”

He turned back to Djuna. “Now, what was that you were trying to butt in with while I was telephoning?” he said impatiently. “Didn’t he
say
he was goin’ to Canada?”

Djuna reddened. “That’s just what I was trying to say, Captain Crackle,” he replied, his voice low but steady. “That’s what he
said
. Seems to me, though, that if he was so careful to tell exactly what road he was going to take, maybe he didn’t really mean to, at all. I thought maybe—”

His voice died away as he realized that the Chief of Police was staring at him with open mouth and an expression of exaggerated admiration.

“Well, now, listen to that!” said the Chief heartily, beaming. “We’ve got a real Sherlock Holmes here! The only thing wrong with that, Mister Holmes, is that the car was heading right for Grandville. You saw that yourself, didn’t you?”

Djuna swallowed hard, and said nothing. He wished he hadn’t spoken at all.

“Well, never mind, son,” the Chief continued, in a more kindly tone. “We’ll get ’em, don’t worry. What I want to know is, did you get a good look at them? Reckon you’d know ’em if you saw ’em again?”

“I’d remember the one that spoke to me,” said Djuna. “I’m not sure about the others. You see, the man that was driving had his back to me, and so did the other man in the back seat. He was looking out of the window towards the bank.”

“What did the other one look like—the one that spoke to you?”

“Well, he wasn’t very old, but he had an awful mean face. His nose was sort of flat, and his right ear—the one that was nearest to me—was funny-looking. All puffed up, sort of. And on the inside of his thumb, his left thumb, the one he pointed up the road with, there was a scar, as if he had cut it. But it was all healed up.”

“H’m!” said the Chief thoughtfully. “That ought to help, some. But you don’t remember the others?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you notice the license plate on the car? Notice the numbers?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, you were standing right there,” said the Chief, irritably. “And you never noticed?”

“I was standing right in front of the rear door of the car,” said Djuna stoutly. “I couldn’t see either the front or the rear markers from there. And, anyway—”

He paused.

“Anyway what?” snapped the Chief.

“Well, don’t they usually—robbers, I mean—carry extra license plates and change them, right after a robbery, and throw the others away?”