II
“Properly speaking,” Cramer declared as one who wanted above all to be perfectly fair and square, “it’s Goodwin I want information from.”
He was in the red leather chair at the end of Wolfe’s desk, just about filling it. His big round face was no redder than usual, his gray eyes no colder, his voice no gruffer. Merely normal.
Wolfe came at me. “Then why did you bring him in here without even asking?”
Cramer interfered for me. “I asked for you. Of course you’re in it. I want to know where the dog fits in. Where is it, Goodwin?”
That set the tone — again normal. He does sometimes call me Archie, after all the years, but it’s exceptional. I inquired, “Dog?”
His lips tightened. “All right, I’ll spell it. You phoned the precinct and gave them a tag number and wanted to know who owns the dog. When the sergeant learned that the owner was a man named Philip Kampf, who was murdered this afternoon in a house at twenty-nine Arbor Street, he notified Homicide. The officer who had been on post in front of that house had told us that the dog had gone off with a man who had said it wasn’t his dog. After we learned of your inquiry about the owner, the officer was shown a picture of you and said it was you who enticed the dog. He’s outside in my car. Do you want to bring him in?”
“No, thanks. I didn’t entice.”
“The dog followed you.”
I gestured modestly. “Girls follow me, dogs follow me, sometimes even your own dicks follow me. I can’t help—”