“You must realize,” Loftus told Purley, “that a Labrador can’t be expected to go for a man’s throat. They’re not that kind of dog. The most you could expect would be an attitude, or possibly a growl.”
“You can have ’em,” Purley growled. “Is it worth going on?”
“By all means. You’d better go first.”
Purley headed for me, and I gave him room and then followed him up the stairs. The upper hall was narrow and not very light, with a door at the rear end and another toward the front. We backed up against the wall opposite the front door to leave enough space for Loftus and Bootsy. They came, Bootsy tagging, and Loftus knocked. Ten seconds passed before footsteps sounded, and then the door was opened by the specimen who had dashed out of Wolfe’s place the day before and taken my coat with him. He was in his shirt sleeves, and he hadn’t combed his hair.
“This is Sergeant Loftus, Mr. Meegan,” Purley said. “Take a look at the dog. Have you ever seen it before? Pat it.”
Meegan snorted. “Pat it yourself. Go to hell.”
“Have you ever seen it before?”
“No.”
“Okay, thanks. Come on, Loftus.”
As we started up the next flight the door slammed behind us, good and loud. Purley asked over his shoulder, “Well?”