Murder at the Dog Show

by Mignon G. Eberhart
From "Fifty Best Mysteries"
Edited by Eleanor Sullivan, Published by Carroll & Graf Publishers, Inc. (New York)

The P.A. system warbled, Dr. Marrer-Dr. Marrem-Dr. Richard Marrrry, through the hospital corridors; I translated it to Dr. Richard Marly and went to the charge desk where I was referred to a telephone. It was Jean calling.

"Richard-I was shot at just now in the park."

"That's funny. It sounded as if you said somebody shot at you."

"I did. In the park. But I think he was aiming at Skipper. I had him out for an airing. And you know the finals in the show are tonight-"

"Who shot at you?"

"I don't know. I couldn't see, there was shrubbery. I ran to the avenue, dragging Skipper, and got a taxi. I think somebody is trying to keep Skipper out of the show."

"Call the police-"

"What could I tell them?" she asked reasonably. "Richard, will you come to the show and-well, keep an eye on things? I'll leave a ticket at the box office for you."

There had been a slight coolness between us, owing to the Dog Show and to Jean's kind but firm observations that my own dog, Butch, a Kerry Blue terrier, was not likely ever to take any ribbons.

"You can get somebody else to fault him," she had said mysteriously; but in her opinion Butch's legs were too much or too little like stove pipes and his coat was too black or too blue-in short, he was not a show dog. Jean confidently expected that Skipper, the Kerry Blue she had trained, would walk away with Best in Show.

Right now I swallowed my pride and said I would be there. Jean hung up, and I finished my round of patients as hurriedly as I could and drove home.

Jean was not the type to get the wind up over nothing. On the other hand, a murderous attack on Jean-or on Skipper-seemed very unlikely.

Dogs had brought us together and had very nearly separated us. She had come to me as a patient following a battle between one of the dogs she was training and a beloved old cat; as sometimes happens with a peacemaker, Jean had received the only wounds. Perhaps I prolonged the treatment; in any event we began to see each other frequently. Her father had died when she was a child and had left Jean and her mother with little money. Jean's only talent, she told me, was a kind of understanding and love for cats, dogs, and all small creatures. As she grew older, this talent turned into a profession: she and her mother started a small kennel at their country cottage. They prospered moderately at first, and more noticeably after Jean had undertaken the training of dogs, as well as their handling in various dog shows. She had the infinite patience required and Skipper was the first dog she had trained and steered successfully through the requisite shows and ribbons to what promised to be a peak of his, and Jean's, career. If he won Best in Show tonight it would be a very bright feather in Jean's little professional cap, for the Heather Dog Show was one of the big, important shows of the year.

Skipper, I knew, belonged to a Mrs. Florrie Carrister who lived in the country near Jean and was in affluent circumstances; she was divorced from her husband Reginald Carrister, a stockbroker in the city, who had inherited a considerable fortune. Beyond that-and the fact that Jean considered Skipper a far better dog than my own Butch-I knew nothing of Skipper, and certainly nothing that could account for anyone taking a pot shot at Jean-or at Skipper. While I could believe that rivalries in a dog show do become fervent, still I did not believe that any rival dog owner would go to such lengths.

Arriving at my apartment I told Suki, who cooks, valets, and answers the telephone for me, where I was going, patted Butch consolingly, told him he was better than any dog at the show, and departed again, this time for the Armory where the dog show was being held.

The whole vicinity of the Armory was a bedlam-taxis arriving, taxis departing, the flash of photographers' bulbs as jeweled and furred ladies and their escorts (or a dog, groomed to the last hair and led along as carefully as if it were the Bank of England on a leash) passed through the foyer. My ticket was waiting for me at the box office and I entered the Armory which I found jammed, confirming my suspicion that all the world loves a dog.

I bought a program. An usher directed me and I went upstairs and came out in a box. It was an end box, a choice one, and sparsely occupied. Two women sat in the front row talking with remarkable volubility and watching some dogs marching sedately around the ring; a man sat in the front row too but at the other end of the box, next to the wall, and leaned intently over the railing.

One of the women in the front row turned, saw me, broke off her flood of talk, and spoke to me. "Dr. Marly? I'm Mrs. Carrister. Jean asked me to leave a ticket for you." She was a large woman, with heavy shoulders that slumped down shapelessly in her seat. The woman in the aisle seat turned and she introduced us. "Miss Runcewell-Dr. Marly. You know-Jean's friend." Mrs. Carrister turned back to me. "I bought Skipper from Miss Runcewell's kennels when he was only six weeks old."

Miss Runcewell, very doggy in a tweed suit and leather hat and gloves, looked modest and Mrs. Carrister glanced back to the ring. "Oh, there's Jean! "

I sat down two rows behind them and watched Jean. She was worth watching-tall and slim and pretty with her short dark hair and level blue eyes; she was wearing a blue skirt, a neatly tailored white coat, and a red scarf, and was putting a lovely blue merle Collie through his paces deftly and precisely. But I didn't see how I was going to keep an eye on things as Jean had so confidently asked me to do. There was too much and at the same time too little to keep an eye on.

So I shifted to the dogs entering the ring and going through their prescribed routine, and decided that in the full view of so many thousands of people nothing in the way of violence was likely to happen. The two women ahead of me talked steadily-indeed, Mrs. Carrister never stopped. The man at the end of the box also watched the dogs. After the second event Miss Runcewell left the box and came back with two orange drinks, one of which she gave to Mrs. Carrister. And just before the next event a man came down the steps, took a seat in the row below and in front of me, and touched Mrs. Carrister on the shoulder. "Hello, Florrie," he said amiably.

He was handsome, as she certainly was not, in his mid-forties, and very elegantly turned out. She turned and said, "Oh, Reginald." Miss Runcewell turned and said how-do-you-do and Mrs. Carrister introduced me. "This is Dr. Marly-my former husband, Mr. Carrister."

We nodded. Mrs. Carrister said, "The Field Trials are coming up. Everything is right on time tonight because the show is on television." She turned absorbedly back to watch the ring and resume the steady talk to which Miss Runcewell contributed only rarely. Mr. Carrister folded his coat over his knees and I felt a twinge of uneasiness. Field Trials-or as the program more accurately put it, Gun Dogs in Action-that meant guns, didn't it?

Jean, however, would not be showing in the Field Trials. And, really, nothing could happen. Corn shocks and brush began to move into the ring. It was like Birnam Wood moving upon high Dunsinane Hill except that the corn shocks and brush were mounted on wood and carried by attendants who placed them at strategic intervals over the green ground-cloth. A brace of setters turned up, straining at a leash held by a man in a hunter's red shirt, a gun was fired, and the so-called "Field Trials" began. The gun shot was obviously a blank.

I leaned back and before I knew it was caught up in the color and drama and magnificent performance of the hunting dogs. Even Mrs. Carrister stopped talking and if Mr. Carrister ahead of me moved at all I was not aware of it. It was indeed so stunning a show that nobody in the box said a word when it ended.

The man at the end of the box rose and avoided Mrs. Carrister's bulk between him and the aisle by neatly stepping back over the rows of seats and out of the box. His face seemed suddenly but vaguely familiar to me, yet something about him seemed wrong and unfamiliar. His clothes? But he wore an ordinary dark coat and hat. He vanished at once, attendants appeared and cleared the ring, and I decided I must have seen him sometime, at the hospital.

The show went smoothly on and all at once I became aware of a kind of tension in the air. Mrs. Carrister seemed to have slumped down even more absorbedly in her seat, Miss Runcewell sat upright even more rigidly, and Mr. Carrister said over his shoulder, "It's coming up now. The Best in Show."

My own pulse quickened. I leaned forward to watch the dogs enter the ring which they shortly did, stepping very proudly, every one of them, and then Jean entered with Skipper. I had to admit that he was a beautiful dog, moving with incredible grace and ease, his square muzzle lifted so he could watch Jean for commands. Mr. Carrister turned briefly to me again. "It's amazing what Jean has done with that dog. A Kerry Blue is not easy to train-unless you use a two-by-four."

"You are quite mistaken," I said. "My own Kerry Blue understands everything."

He gave me an indulgent smile. "Look at Skipper stand like that! What he really wants to do is take on the lot of them and have a rousing good fight."

It is true there was a kind of quivering intensity about the Kerry Blue. It is also true that a magnificent Doberman was eyeing a Chesapeake next to him in a deeply brooding manner. Jean leaned over to make some invisible adjustment to the Kerry Blue's whiskers-and did not so much as count her fingers afterward which, in view of Skipper's extremely adequate teeth, astounded me-and the judging began with a long, slow parade around the ring. It was about then that I became aware of a curious mass murmur rising in the Armory. And then I saw it.

Now I am reliably informed that this cannot happen at any dog show; I can only say that it did happen. Another Kerry Blue, unattended by a handler, had mysteriously joined the parade and was marching jauntily along. He was perhaps darker than Skipper, perhaps not as stylish and certainly a little shaggy, but full of joie de vivre. I rose in sudden panic. It was my own dog-Butch!

Did he really understand everything? Was he determined to enter the show and compete with Skipper? In that dazed second it seemed possible.

But then he found Jean and leaped on her with glee. Skipper rightly resented this and leaped on Butch, a liberty not wisely taken. Butch has a generous nature-until he is annoyed. In the fraction of a second wild contagion blazed around the ring. I had a flashing vision of the Doberman's handler, who imprudently clung to the Doberman's leash, being dragged across the floor. The Armory rose like a tidal wave and roared. Handlers and judges ran and shouted, whistles blew, some cops came at the double from the main entrance under the correct impression that a riot had broken out, Miss Runcewell jumped up and made for the stairs, and I ran after her.

She knew the way, so she had the best of it through passages that echoed with a truly Gargantuan dog fight to the runway that led to the ring. It was a photo finish, however, for I was frightened. While Butch is remarkably intelligent he could not have induced a taxi driver to bring him to the Armory. And his entrance at that time was not an accident. Once at the runway Miss Runcewell dove into the ring.

I was blocked by a frenzied attendant who was wielding a broom over a Coonhound's back with no perceptible effect. I felt a sharp nip on my ankle, detached a tiny pug who was merely a victim of the contagion and desisted quite amiably, and was seized by Suki, in a dashing Homburg. He also had a walking stick and a wild gleam in his eyes. "I only did what you told me to do! Somebody phoned and said you wanted me to bring Butch to this runway, at exactly this time, and just let him off the leash and- ahhh-" Then Suki dashed into the fray himself, his Oriental calm completely deserting him. His hat flew off, and with his walking stick he flailed at every moving object around him including one of the judges who forgot himself and flailed back-striking, as it happened, one of the handlers who absently struck back also, but instead got a policeman squarely on the chin. This second chain reaction might have gone on and on had not the policeman collared me but then released me with a sharp cry and turned to disengage himself from a large and determined Chow.

Suddenly, magically, people and dogs began to sort themselves out. I do not say that order was instantly restored but it is a fact that judges and handlers of dogs are made of stern stuff. Dogs began to be pulled out of the melee; a doctor and some girls in Red Cross uniform set up a hasty emergency table at the edge of the ring. Their first customer was the policeman who had collared me and he had some difficulty rolling up his trouser leg but valiantly refused to remove his trousers.

I emerged at what was still the focus of a certain amount of activity just as Suki, Jean, Miss Runcewell, and a number of other people succeeded in separating Butch and Skipper. The dogs, surprisingly, took a long look at each other and while I cannot say they exchanged a mutual wink they did look all at once mightily pleased with themselves. Jean's cheeks were pink but she gave me a reassuring wave. Somebody shouted, "Get that dog out of here," and Suki and I complied-although with some difficulty-since Butch obviously wished to remain. However, we finally got him to the runway, put his leash on him, and I told Suki to take him home. Butch gave me a deeply reproachful look but disappeared in Suki's wake and by that time-incredibly!-every dog in the ring was back at his place and looking extremely and mysteriously smug.

A loudspeaker announced in shocked tones that the judging would be resumed, and I made for Mrs. Carrister's box. Once there I paused, panted, and looked around. Little had changed in the box. Miss Runcewell was perched, also panting, on the arm of a seat in the last row. Mr. Carrister was standing, looking down at the ring. Mrs. Carrister was slumped even further down in the first row. The fourth occupant of the box had not returned. The Armory still seethed with a sort of uninhibited joy, but suddenly became quiet as the judging began once more. Jean looked up to find me and I waved encouragement-and then saw her eyes travel downward.

I moved without knowing it. Jean was still staring, her face white and taxed, when I reached Mrs. Carrister's side and saw what ken had observed from the ring. Mrs. Carrister was still slumped down-too far down.

She was dead.

Suddenly Mr. Carrister and Miss Runcewell were beside me. We all saw the dreadful blotch of wet redness on Mrs. Carrister's white blouse, under her suit jacket. And in a moment I knew that there was nothing I could do for her. I sent Carrister for the police. Mainly, just then, I was afraid of starting a mass panic. I remember telling Miss Runcewell to shut up and that she gulped and did so. I was dimly aware that the judging was proceeding; I had a glimpse of Jean, white but controlled, taking Skipper through his paces. Then a group of policemen arrived and made a blue wall around the box.

One of them said the lady had been stabbed. They tried to find the knife and couldn't, as applause suddenly roared through the Armory, flashbulbs popped, and there was Jean taking the trophy. So Skipper had won Best in Show, Mrs. Carrister had been murdered-and I knew who had murdered her.

But I didn't know how to prove it.

Some time later the situation remained much the same and Jean and I were permitted to gather up Skipper, who was yawning almost as cavernously as the by then empty Armory, and we took a taxi to my apartment. Jean thought it was all over and told me I was wonderful- which was very nice except that the investigation had barely begun and I knew it. The police were still casting about with antennae in the hope of picking up a lead. And the police have remarkably sensitive antennae.

The knife had not been found and it was the considered opinion of a police matron who had retired briefly with Jean and Miss Runcewell, and of the sergeant who had searched me and Mr. Carrister, that none of us had it. There was some muttered talk about the angle of the knife wound from which I gathered that anyone in the box could have killed Mrs. Carrister.

Nevertheless, a few facts did emerge. No one knew, or admitted knowing, the identity of the fourth occupant of the box and all I could say was that his face had seemed familiar to me, but not his clothing-which quite comprehensibly drew skeptical looks from the police.

Mr. Carrister protested that he was on good terms with his former wife, denied killing her, but admitted frankly that he paid her an extremely large alimony. He admitted with equal frankness that he-and only he-had not left the box at any time.

Jean's story of having been shot at in the park elicited the facts that both Miss Runcewell and Mr. Carrister owned guns and that neither of them had an alibi for the time when Jean had given Skipper his run in the park- but then neither of them had a conceivable motive for taking a pot shot at Jean, or at Skipper.

I brought up the problem of Butch's little frolic in the ring and the mysterious telephone call that had led to it, but the lieutenant in charge merely gave me a long look and said something about practical jokes and that young people would be young people. Since I could not possibly prove anything at all, I repressed a desire to tell him that doctors who wish to rise in their profession do not make a hobby of provoking dog fights. It was shortly after that Jean and I were permitted-I do not say asked-to leave.

Suki had heard the news over the radio and was waiting for us, with hot milk and sandwiches for Jean and a highball which he slid into my thankful hand. There was a moment of tension when the two dogs met but now, strangely enough, they seemed to regard each other as old and tried friends. Suki's fuller report of the telephone message was not illuminating. He could not be sure whether it was a woman, or a man imitating a woman's voice. "But orders are orders," he said. I took Butch to the side street entrance and then to the runway, at exactly eleven o'clock as I was told to do, and just-well, let him off the leash. Nobody stopped me. When Butch saw all those dogs-" He shrugged fatalistically.

I reflected that anyone who had a program for the show knew that the final event was scheduled for eleven-which would include some thousands of people. I did not know what to do and Jean's eyes were clearly expecting something in the nature of a full-fledged miracle. So I told Suki to get my revolver.

I felt it was rather impressive; Jean's eyes widened. But Suki said with insufferable calm that he thought I might require it and pulled it from his pocket. "Load it," I said, trying to regain lost ground.

"Oh, I've already done that, Doctor," and he put the revolver on the desk beside me.

But Jean's eyes still demanded action of some sort and indeed a few questions seemed indicated. I said, "Jean, did Mrs. Carrister ever talk of her husband?"

"Oh, yes. She talked about everything really. She talked all the time. I got so I didn't really listen. But honestly, there wasn't a thing that could be -evidence. She was on good terms with him. And with Miss Runcewell, too. They drove up to my kennels often to see how Skipper was shaping up. Mrs. Carrister had her heart set on Skipper winning. She was going to start a kennel of her own, if he won."

"Mrs. Carrister? Did her husband or Miss Runcewell know of this?"

"I don't know about her husband. But she often spoke of it to Miss Runcewell. You see, if Skipper won the big championship, he'd be-he is -a very valuable dog. The fees as sire alone would be considerable."

"So she would then be a rival-at least, a competitor-of Miss Runcewell's."

"Oh, Miss Runcewell didn't mind. I heard her say something about Mrs. Carrister taking over her kennels. So I think she intends to go out of business. I suppose she was going to sell out to Mrs. Carrister."

After a moment I said, "Did they ever ask questions about-say, me? Or Butch?"

"Oh, yes. They asked all sorts of questions. I told them about Butch and -well, that he isn't a show dog. But he is sweet." Butch heard his name and put his great head on Jean's knee with infuriating complacence. Butch is many things-but he is not sweet.

The telephone rang and I picked it up. "Doctor," said a voice with a heavy French accent. "This is Henri."

"Henri," I said, and light broke upon me. "Henri! You were in the box tonight!"

A flood of English and French burst upon my ear. "My heart, she is not so good. Le docteur say no excitement. Il faut que je parts toute de suite-"

"Why did you part-I mean, leave?"

He told me at some length. "Thank you," I said at last. "No, I'm sure the police will understand. Give me your telephone number."

He did and I hung up. Jean's eyes were round with questions. I said, "That was Henri. He is headwaiter at-" and I named a famous restaurant downtown. "Mrs. Carrister gave him a ticket to her box for the show tonight. He left after the Field Trials."

I went to my bedroom for my book of special telephone numbers. It seemed to me that there was now enough evidence on which to proceed, so I started to dial the number of a former patient of mine who is a high official in the police department when-if I may speak frankly-all hell broke loose in the front hall.

I felt for my gun, remembered that it was still on my desk, and ran for the hall amid an ear-splitting tumult of barks. Mr. Carrister was just disappearing into my study, Suki and Jean were tugging at Butch, and Miss Runcewell was efficiently scooping up Skipper's leash. Since the dogs were merely in high spirits and meant nothing really serious in the way of mayhem, we soon assembled in the study where we found Mr. Carrister crouching on top of my desk looking extremely indignant.

Miss Runcewell said, "I was worried about you, Jean. You were not at your hotel, so we thought you might be here," and she held a firm grip on Skipper's leash.

Mr. Carrister eyed Butch coldly and said, "I'll put it to you frankly, Doctor. You were in the box tonight. If you have any idea at all about the murder I want to know what it is."

"Why, certainly," I said. "I'll call the police at once and ask them to make the arrest."

His eyes bulged, Jean gave me an admiring glance, and I picked up the telephone and dialed.

"Hello-" my official friend said sleepily.

"This is Doctor Marly. You may send the police to my house to arrest the person who murdered Mrs. Carrister . . . Yes, I have proof."

Something moved behind me. The dogs burst out in full cry, I seized my gun, and my friend on the phone cried out, "Where's the dog fight?"

"Hurry," I shouted and dropped the telephone but unfortunately dropped my gun at the same time.

Miss Runcewell was already at the front door. So it was the dogs that backed Miss Runcewell into the coat closet, assisted in a hurry-burly way by the rest of us. Suki then neatly locked the door of the closet. Mr. Carrister glanced at Butch, took to the top of the desk again, and said, "Do you mean she murdered Florrie? But why?"

"Because you were going to be in the box tonight and Miss Runcewell knew it. She also knew that you had an excellent reason for killing your wife."

Mr. Carrister said, "Huh?"

"It was a pattern of diversionary tactics," I explained. "Your wife appears to have been an exceedingly talkative woman." Carrister nodded unhappily. "I feel sure that Miss Runcewell was told of your expected presence in the box. Certainly at some time she was told of me and my dog. She shot at Jean-not to hurt Jean or Skipper-but merely to induce Jean to ask me to come to the Armory tonight. Then later, on the excuse of getting orange drinks, she left the box and phoned Suki, telling him to bring my dog to the Armory-"

"But he's the dog that started the fight!"

"That was exactly Miss Runcewell's intention. The police would believe that Mrs. Carrister was murdered while everyone's attention was diverted by the-er-confusion attending Butch's entrance in the ring. She saw to it that she was well away from the box during that time. You remained, as she hoped, in the box and consequently became a choice suspect. But your wife was actually murdered during the Field Trials. That's why the police could not find the knife. It was tossed down into the nearest corn shock and carried off when the attendants cleared the ring."

"But how do you know that?"

"Henri-a friend of mine-was in the box. He left after the Field Trials, stepping over the seats behind him rather than disturb Mrs. Carrister to get to the aisle. As you know, we were in an end box. He told me a short time ago that he saw the knife flung down into the corn shock."

"But why did she kill my wife?" said Mr. Carrister.

There was clearly only one explanation. I said, "I think you'll find that Mrs. Carrister has loaned Miss Runcewell enough money to keep her kennels going. Possibly the understanding was supposed to be a friendly one and Miss Runcewell did not, in writing, use her kennels as collateral. But Mrs. Carrister was intending to take over Miss Runcewell's kennels and means of livelihood-and Miss Runcewell knew that. She kept up a pretense of friendliness, until the time came when Mrs. Carrister decided to act. Then Miss Runcewell acted first."

Jean linked her arm in mine. "But, Richard, I know that you knew who killed her even before Henri phoned! How did you know?"

"Oh," I said. "That. Well-it was during the Field Trials that both women stopped talking-Mrs. Carrister for an obvious reason, Miss Runcewell because she knew Mrs. Carrister was dead."

That night Mr. Carrister, handsomely in one way but regrettably in another, presented Skipper to Jean.

After he had gone Jean looked thoughtfully at the two dogs. "They do seem friendly," she said.

Friendly, yes. But two Kerry Blues in the same household? "Butch," I said finally, "may not be a show dog but-"

"But he's your dog," Jean smiled, "and he is sweet."

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