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.