Curiostity Killed the Dog

The mysterious adventures and adventurous mysteries of F. A. King “Curiosity Killed the Dog”

by Francis Alan King

There were the dirty­white remnants of a night fog clinging to the sidewalk. The wind was blowing North. I knew this because the air was scented with malt and hops from the brewery half a mile south of the trolley stop. It was as if a handkerchief doused with chloroform were smothering the neighborhood, it felt roughly like a mugging in Chinatown. It was one of those Fall days when you think the world's gone crazy and then you realize it's only you. One of those days it's best just to sterilize yourself with gin.

I was going down into the subterranean part of our fine educational establishment to get myself a cup of black silver from the coffee machine I have in my locker when a mustached and balding gentleman in his trademark overalls, whom I recognized to be Mr. Carney, the janitor, sauntered over to me and said : “I need your help Alan.”

“Oh yeah, with what?” I shot back.

“Well I was thinking, well you know, I was thinking you could help me, my dog was shot.”

“Do I look like a goddamn veterinarian to you?”

“No I mean get the guy who murdered her.”

“Sure I'll see what I can do, but I want something in return; time ain't free.”

“Yeah, I thought of that. As a matter of habit I keep my keys close to my person, you can never trust students not to take your keys, which open any door in the school, and not to make copies for their own personal use.

Now as it so happens I am getting old and senile so I sometimes leave them in a cup near room 221 at 2:30 pm and forget about them completely until the next day. Is this clear, Alan?”

“Clear as a mountain lake.”

A couple days later I was puffing on a cigarette, unfiltered of course, thinking about who would want to kill a dog in cold blood with a gun, some cat person I guess. Well my thoughts were interrupted by a strangely childish yet deep voice.

“Got a light, handsome?”

“Sure mademoiselle, I can offer matches.”

After a slight pause, during which she looked at me as a squirrel

looks at an oncoming car, I told her: “You know, I prefer matches to lighters, I've always liked the smell of sulfur. Reminds me of home.”

She giggled in a way that made me feel my pants were sewn too tight. She was the kind of girl an animal rights activist would gladly strangle bunnies for.

“What's your name?” she asked.

“I'm Alan, you can call me Al” “I like that Paul Simon song as well. I'm Susan. I have time to kill so how about a coffee, I could really do with one.”

Even though I'd had three in the past forty minutes and I was already late for mathematics, I said yes.

Coffee was going in the direction I wanted it to be going: her apartment. Then I cracked wise that I was investigating the murder of a dog at our school. Instead of laughing, her cheery coquettish cheeks were indifferent. I paid no heed to this because she proceeded to play with my zipper. I took this as a clear signal of intent and decided to close the contract. We made enough jazz for a French Swing Band and then she poured me a drink. I drank it in a gulp. I felt woozy, sort of like I'd slipped into a warm bath and then been hit with a spade.

I woke up handcuffed to the bed.

“So is this what you like, Susan, a bit of roleplay?” I asked.

I opened my eyes. Instead of the clear blue eyes of Susan, I was confronted with a potbellied simian.

“Well you're butch. I was expecting a more slender figure,” I said.

His retort sent me flying into the wall. “You mind your own damn business,” he spat before returning to his native tongue, violence.

“Claude, honey, have you had your fun with him yet?” Susan butted in.

“I know Susan has had her fun with me.” I said.

Nobody paid any attention to my comment.

“Claude, why don't we just let him go? He knows jack shit.” Implored Susan.

“I beg to differ, I won the citywide geography 3 years running and I can recite most of Coleridge's early works!” Again no dice. What do I have to say to get a laugh?

Claude unlocked my cuffs and made one final address to my person: “If you know what's good for you, you'll stay away from the dead dog.”

First thing I did when I got to school was tell Carney I had the murderer, but I didn't know the motive. I told him that he didn't play nice. He said he guessed that from my makeover. I asked Carney whether the dog had any enemies, shady business dealings or gambling debts. He called me a wise­ass.

“Hey Alan,” shouted Bob over the din of the classroom.

“Hay is for horses, Robert,” I corrected.

“Whatever, I wanted to ask you about the case of the dead YMCA official who was shot on Monday night,” “I assure you I have an alibi, your sister in fact.”

“Anyway, how do you think the murderer got in and out without being seen?”

“Beats me, Bob. I don't know anything about the case, I just heard about it from you.”

“Wait, you said it was a Monday night, right?”

“Yeah, I'm sure.”

“Last Monday night?”

“Yeah?”

“That's funny.”

I left the classroom, even though the Literature teacher threatened to deconstruct me if I did.

I went straight to the computer room, room 204 and sat in front of a monitor. I had to find out more about this. My mind was spinning with ideas and questions. Could the dog murder and the YMCA murder happening on the same night really be a coincidence? It seemed as unlikely as finding a real strawberry in strawberry yogurt. I remembered that there is an underground passageway linking our school to the YMCA headquarters through the gymnasium, could that be the link? The murderer got into the school went through the passageway, then shot the YMCA sucker, went back through the passageway, the dog saw him, the dog would have barked and woken Carney up. The murderer couldn't afford this, so he shot the dog. The dog knew too much. It all made sense, but one question still remained. Why? Why kill the YMCA guy? That's

what I was determined to find out.

The screen still showed: “Welcome.” It had been five minutes since I turned the machine on. Apparently this is called progress. The infuriating little hourglass stopped turning and at long last I was logged in. I looked at the crime blotter for Monday night. Apparently the victim was a Martin Müller. He had been an accountant for the YMCA organization, he had no surviving family. I still hadn't a clue why someone would want a loser bean­counter for a nonprofit in the morgue. On my way out I spotted a pimply teen sniping a bandanna­wearing muscle­man who had a grenade in his hand.

I advised: “I hate to be the one telling you this, but there aren't many jobs open for counter­terrorist assassins.

The next place to look would have been his office, however that was sealed off by the police. So I conned his home address out of the secretary and decided to pay him a posthumous visit.

His apartment would be described even by a crooked realtor as a fleabag in the seediest part of town, it was near the power plant so you got your electricity fresh but otherwise it had nothing going for it. It was a fifth floor walk­up, much to my chagrin. I burst into a coughing fit. Damn smokes. I swung the door open and looked about, I went to the desk and pulled out the drawers, in one I found a diary. If there was an explanation for the premeditated murder it would be in there. The last entry read: “The numbers don't add up, we lost over five hundred million in assets on a land deal with a notorious commercial real estate developer, I wonder if I should notify the police or the press. Maybe I should confront management about this.” From the looks of it he chose the latter, much to the satisfaction of many a maggot. So the YMCA head honchos sold a chunk of land to a shady character for less than they could and I would bet anything that they got a nifty sum in return. But who killed the accountant? Was it the YMCA chiefs or the developer's goons?

The revelation alone that YMCA ripped itself off should have been enough, I would have gotten public service awards, a medal, maybe a radio interview and free gym membership for life, but that wasn't enough.

I needed to know more. Who killed the janitor's dog? I just needed to know, what's more there were keys in it as well, but above all I was a

detective, like Philip Marlowe. A good one too. Being a detective is not a profession. It's a personality, a way of thinking about things, a deformation, a method, such as being a mathematician or an economist.

Except detectives solve riddles and economists talk in riddles.

As I was falling asleep thinking about the case the phone rang. On the other end there was a familiar voice. It was blue­eyed Susan. I should have just hung up, no good could come of this, but I listened on as she said her “sorrys” and her “I care about yous” and her “forgive mes.” She told me she needed help with getting rid of Claude's body. She said that he had roughed her up and that she just snapped. I believed her because she did try to spare me the full brunt of Claude's assault. I believed her because I thought I could get information out of her. I believed her because I guess I'm a sucker for sweet dames.

Her apartment was twenty five minutes away. I was there in ten.

There was a lake of red in the middle of the living room. We loaded the corpse into the car, which was no simple feat and drove towards the abandoned quarry outside of town. When we got there I started to dig a hole for the body. It took me an hour and a half to dig the damn thing, right after I threw away the shovel and started going back to the car the trunk opened and Claude clambered out. Susan pulled out a revolver.

Luckily it was Susan with the gun so I just turned my back and lit a cigarette, unfiltered of course. I heard a shot and then another and I collapsed to the ground in mind shattering pain. I felt a warm puddle forming under me and I knew that I made a poor choice of friends that night. The last thing I felt was being dragged and dropped into the hole.

Luckily I have my cigarette case, which stopped the bullet which would have killed me. I woke in early morning before dawn sprawled at the side of the road. I looked for the hole, but it was filled, a regular grave freshly dug. That minx used me to dig a hole for Claude. Hoped for Claude to kill me and then she would bury the two of us. I suspected she wasn't in on it from the beginning, but when she realized how few people knew about a massive fraud, she decided she would reduce the number and blackmail the slum lord.

I hitched backed to the City. I called the Deputy Commissioner and the D.A. so it wouldn't get pinned on me. I poured myself a triple scotch

and soda, put on an Art Blakey record and waited for my next well written high­concept comic adventure mystery.