There were still no PD cars out in front. After turning left on Court Street and continuing two blocks, I was relieved to find the cab still there, with its passenger perched on the seat looking out at the scenery. If the hackie had gone off with him to sell him, or if Stebbins had happened by and hijacked him, I wouldn’t have dared to go home at all. He seemed pleased to see me, as he damned well should have been. During the drive to Thirty-fifth Street he sat with his rump braced against me for a buttress. The meter said only six dollars and something, but I didn’t request any change. If Wolfe wanted to put me to work on a murder merely because he had got infatuated with a dog, let it cost him something.
I noticed that when we entered the office Jet went over to Wolfe, in place behind his desk, without any sign of bashfulness or uncertainty, proving that the evening before, during my absence, Wolfe had made approaches, probably had fed him something, and possibly had even patted him. Remarks occurred to me, but I saved them. I might be called on before long to spend some valuable time demonstrating that I had not been guilty of impersonating an officer, and that it wasn’t my fault if murder suspects mistook me for one.
Wolfe put down his empty beer glass and inquired, “Well?”
I reported. The situation called for a full and detailed account, and I supplied it, with Wolfe leaning back with his eyes closed. When I came to the end he asked no questions. Instead, he opened his eyes, straightened up, and began, “Call the—”
I cut him off. “Wait a minute. After a hard morning’s work I claim the satisfaction of suggesting it myself. I thought of it long ago. What’s the name of the Institute in Pittsburgh where they have shows of pictures?”
“Indeed. It’s a shot at random.”
“I know it is, but it’s only a buck. I just spent ten on a taxi. What’s the name?”
“Pittsburgh Art Institute.”
I swiveled for the phone on my desk, got the operator, and put in the call. I got through to the Institute in no time, but it took a quarter of an hour, with relays to three different people, to get what I was after.
I hung up and turned to Wolfe. “The show ended a week ago yesterday. Thank God I won’t have to go to Pittsburgh. The picture was lent by Mr. Herman Braunstein of New York, who owns it. It was shipped back to him by express four days ago. He wouldn’t give me Braunstein’s address.”