Beware of the Dog by Peter Corris Read Free Book Online Page B

The garden was definitely overgrown, with weeds sprouting and several shrubs growing ragged.The neighbours would soon be getting up a committee to complain.
    The house had a solid, respectable feel from the heavy front door through to the glassed-in back sun porch. There were three bedrooms. The largest, in the front to the right of the hall, was dark and furnished with the kind of stuff that is old, expensive and depressing. The one opposite it was brighter and had been used as a kind of studio. It had drop cloths covering the carpet and there were framed canvases, pencil and charcoal sketches on heavy paper and enlarged photographs scattered about. The third bedroom, off the kitchen, was empty with a door that stuck on the frayed carpet.
    I gave most of the house a quick once-over—the kitchen was old-style, but functional, the bathroom and toilet likewise. The dining room featured more of the heavy, Victorian furniture but was enlivened by a few paintings on the walls. They were landscapes and sea studies, full of light and life. All unsigned.
    The occupied bedroom had been cleaned of all signs of use. The drawers in the dresser and bedside table were empty, with fresh paper liners; the wardrobe was the same with only a few wire hangers taking up the space. I looked under the bed and under the mattress. Nothing. There was a film of dust over the surfaces but no one had written any messages in it. An elaborately carved chair with a straight high back sat in a corner of the room and seemed to reproach me.
    I went back to the studio. Here at least, something had gone on. It was past midday and the light was fading in the room but it must have been glorious earlier on. The bleached look of the drop clothsconfirmed this. A tall easel had been laid on its side along one wall. I examined it and found that one of its legs was a splintered, fractured ruin. I found a mark on the wall where the easel had probably struck when it was hit or kicked. There were also paint smears, suggesting that a painting had flown off the easel and hit the wall. Which painting? A frame lying face-down was a mess; the wood was broken on two sides and there were signs that a canvas had been cut and ripped out of it. The other framed pictures, more landscapes, showed no signs of disturbance.
    They and the sketches were all unmistakably in the style of those on the dining room walls. Some of the drawings were barely begun, others had been left half-finished. I’m no art critic but these looked accomplished. I turned the heavy sheets of paper over, hoping to learn something. The only thing that struck me was the absence of human faces and figures. That seemed odd, but what do I know? A couple of studies of dogs, stretched out at a full run, had the kind of life-like quality and vigour that someone like me who can’t draw can only gape at.
    Two things caught my eye simultaneously. A photograph, blown up to poster size, which looked to have been attacked by a paint brush, and movement in front of the house. I picked up the creased and crumpled photograph and moved to the window. I could see clearly through the greenery to the street. A police car had pulled up behind mine. Two officers approached the Falcon. One carried a clipboard. He consulted it and checked my registration number. He nodded to his mate who went back to their car. I couldn’t see what he was doing and I didn’t wantto wait around to find out. I had no outstanding traffic infringements so my rego number was on their list for another reason. After a second or two they advanced on Number 12. One made as if to draw his pistol. The other stopped him, but one trigger-prone cop is more than enough.
    I shot through the house, checked that I had the keys and that I hadn’t left anything lying around. I bounded down the back steps and flipped the door shut behind me. The back yard was short. I was at the fence in a couple of strides and over it with an agility that surprised