“He didn’t like him,” Loftus replied from the rear, “but there are lots of people lots of dogs don’t like.”
The third-floor hall was a duplicate of the one below. Again Purley and I posted ourselves opposite the door, and Loftus came with Bootsy and knocked. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder, and pretty soon the door opened to a two-inch crack, and a squeaky voice came through.
“You’ve got the dog.”
“Right here,” Loftus told him.
“Are you there, Sergeant?”
“Right here,” Purley answered.
“I told you that dog don’t like me. Once at a party at Phil Kampf’s — I told you. I didn’t mean to hurt it, but it thought I did. What are you trying to do, frame me?”
“Open the door. The dog’s on a leash.”
“I won’t! I told you I wouldn’t!”
Purley moved. His arm, out stiff, went over Loftus’s shoulder, and his palm met the door and kept going. The door hesitated an instant and then swung open. Standing there, holding to its edge, was a skinny individual in red-and-green-striped pajamas. The dog let out a low growl and backed up a little.