“Did you say the Peabody Brokerage firm?”
“Sure. Harold Peabody. She was working there when she met Rogell. Peabody is one of Miami’s up-and-coming young financial consultants. Rogell is probably his biggest account, though others have been flocking to him since he got publicity along with one of his secretaries marrying millions. It’s pretty well understood he’ll be executor of Rogell’s estate. But that’s all recent history,” Rourke added as he flipped back through scattered clippings. “Just routine stuff here. Rogell buys another shipping line, invests a million in an Atlanta real estate development. Here’s what I’m looking for.”
He paused at a long front-page story, head-lined, “SPINSTER SUES
MULTI-MILLIONAIRE BROTHER.”
“This is the day they opened the trial,” he muttered. “I covered that first day myself. Let’s see… if I turn back a few clippings we should find the verdict.”
He began doing so, glancing quickly and expertly at a few words or the heading of each story. He stopped after a moment and said, “Here it is,” and read: “JURY RETURNS VERDICT IN MILLION-DOLLAR SUIT FOR DEFENDANT.”
“She lost it hands-down,” he told Shayne. “I thought I remembered it that way, but I wasn’t sure. The jury felt Henrietta was doing all right as she was… sharing the big house with him as his official hostess with charge accounts all over town and a monthly cash allowance a lot bigger than she could possibly spend. All that was brought out in testimony during the trial,” he explained. “She never complained that her brother was niggardly or that she actually wanted for anything. Her position was simply that half the money should legally be hers and she wanted it in her own hands. Maybe she hankered to buy a few shipping lines of her own.”
Shayne said, “Turn back two or three of those clippings, Tim. During the progress of the trial. There was one story I noticed as you slid by looking for the verdict.”
“Which one?” Rourke turned one clipping after another to face up to the light.
Shayne said, “There it is.” It was a two-column inside-page story, headed “HOUSEKEEPER TESTIFIES”, and beneath it there were two pictures of a woman, side by side. The one on the left was a somewhat blurred cut of a rather pretty and slightly plump young woman standing on the front porch of a weathered frame house with a crudely painted sign over her head that said “BLAIR’S BOARDING HOUSE”. The caption read: “Betty Blair in front of her boarding house in Central City, Colorado.” The other picture showed the same woman some thirty years older, still smooth-faced and comely, but some twenty pounds heavier, and was captioned: “Mrs. Blair as she appeared in court today.”
Rourke nodded and said, “I was in court that day. Henrietta’s attorneys called the Rogell housekeeper to testify for the plaintiff, but she was practically a hostile witness and didn’t help the case much. Seems she ran a boarding house in the mining town where Rogell started his fortune, and she did testify somewhat reluctantly that people in the town still told stories about how Henrietta actually shouldered a pick in the old days right beside her brother in their first prospect tunnel. Seems they both boarded at her place in later days, and, after Mr. Blair died, John Rogell went out to Colorado and brought her back here and installed her as his housekeeper. There were a few attempts by the defense attorney to insinuate that she might have been something more than just his housekeeper, but the judge quashed those fast, ruling that he was incriminating his own witness. In the long run, the Blair testimony helped Rogell, because she was emphatic that he never denied Henrietta anything, never questioned how much money she spent or for what. There were three women on the jury,” Rourke ended with a chuckle, “and you could see them drooling and wishing they were in Henrietta’s shoes.”
Shayne nodded and straightened up and glanced at his watch. “Tolliver has had the dog more than half an hour. Let’s get back and see if there’s any word.”
His telephone was ringing when he unlocked the door of his apartment. He hurried to it without turning on a light, snatched it up and barked, “Hello.”
Tolliver’s voice answered him. “Got it, Mike.”
“Got what?”
“Enough strychnine to kill a large family in that creamed chicken the Peke ate.”
Shayne said exultantly, “Will Gentry will want this straight from the horse’s mouth, Bud. Stay by the phone and I’ll have him call you.”
Timothy Rourke had switched on the light and sauntered in behind Shayne, and a wide grin came on his face when he heard Shayne’s tone.
The detective gave Gentry’s home telephone number to the switchboard, and told Rourke while he waited, “You got those blisters in a good cause. Strychnine. Now we’ll move.”
Chief of Police Will Gentry’s gruff voice came sleepily over the wire, and Shayne told him, “Bud Tolliver’s got news for you, Will. About a dead dog.”
“The Rogell pooch?” Gentry’s voice came awake fast. “By God, Mike, I didn’t think you could pull it off. What’s the verdict?”
“Ask Tolliver. He’s waiting for your call.” Shayne gave Gentry the number. “Call me back, huh?”
“Right.”
Shayne hung up and said happily, “This calls for a small libation.” He poured a drink of Hennessy and waited until Rourke had put whiskey in his glass. He said solemnly, “To the best grave-robber I know,” and drank his off while Rourke bowed with mock humility before following suit.
His phone rang again and Will Gentry said, “Congratulations, Mike. I’m ordering an immediate P.M. on Rogell. Thank God he’s slated to be cremated, so the body hasn’t been embalmed.”
“Can you do it without a court order or getting permission from the family?”
“With this sort of evidence, yes. In fact I discussed it with the States Attorney after talking with you today, and got his official okay to go ahead, if things turned out this way. We’ll know in the morning.”
Shayne hung up and looked at his watch, his rugged face tensely alert. He muttered to Rourke, “I better call Lucy. She’ll have her fingernails chewed down to the quick by this time.” He lifted the phone again and gave her number.
He sat and listened to the telephone ring in her apartment, the alertness slowly fading from his face to be replaced by a disbelieving frown. After the tenth ring, he broke the connection and said harshly to the hotel operator, “I’m trying to call Lucy Hamilton. Did you dial the right number?”
“I’m positive I did, Mr. Shayne. I recognized her number when you gave it. Shall I try it again?”
“Please. And make sure it’s the right number.”
Rourke crossed his thin legs and grinned at the worried expression on the redhead’s face as the telephone again began ringing monotonously at the other end of the line.
“So maybe she’s not as worried as you thought, Mike. Hell, it isn’t midnight yet.”
“She’s at home,” said Shayne fiercely. “I know how Lucy is. She knew we were making a try for the dog tonight, and she knew I’d phone her the first moment…”
He broke off as the ringing stopped and the operator asked, “Want I should keep on trying, Mr. Shayne? That’s fifteen rings and she still don’t answer.”
Shayne said, “No,” and then added quickly, “Have the operator check that number to see if anything’s wrong with it.”
There were deep trenches in his cheeks and his eyes were bleak as he hung up and reached for his drink.
Settled back comfortably in a deep chair, Rourke chuckled and needled him gently, “Lucy’s not a teen-ager, Mike. Hell, you’re acting like a heavy father. Chances are she had a date…”
Shayne said wrathfully, “Lucy doesn’t have dates. Not when she’s worried about me sticking my neck out. I’ll bet my bottom dollar she’s sitting beside that telephone in her apartment right now wondering why I don’t call her.”
Timothy Rourke shrugged his scrawny shoulders and took a long drink. “Hell, I didn’t mean to imply she was stepping out on you. I just meant…”
; The sharp ring of the telephone interrupted him. Shayne snatched it up and a cheerful voice from the hotel switchboard told him, “They checked Miss Hamilton’s telephone, Mr. Shayne and it’s okay. Want me to keep on trying?”
Shayne said, “No,” and slowly hung up. His hand doubled into a fist as it came away from the instrument, and the knuckles showed white. He stared down at them broodingly and Rourke didn’t say anything. He lifted his head finally, and a grim smile twitched one corner of his mouth. “I guess maybe you’re right, Tim. Maybe Lucy doesn’t worry about me as much as I thought.”
“Well, hell,” said Rourke reasonably. “A gal can’t be expected to sit at home alone by the telephone every night in the week just because her boss is on a case. She knows you can take care of yourself.”
Shayne said, “Sure.” He drained his glass and set it down slowly.
Rourke studied his friend’s trenched face for a moment, cocking his head on one side and narrowing his eyes. “She didn’t say she was going to sit at home and wait for a call, did she?”
Shayne said, “No,” through clenched teeth. He got to his feet slowly and looked down at the reporter. “Don’t kid me about being jealous, Tim. Lucy’s a big girl like you say, and she doesn’t have to get my permission to stay out until after midnight. At the same time, I’m going over to her place to see what’s what. Drive me to the dock to pick up my car?”
Rourke averted his gaze from the rangy redhead’s eyes, and said, “Sure.” He finished his drink and unfolded himself from the deep chair.
The telephone rang again. Shayne turned back to the table and grabbed it fast. It was the clerk downstairs.
“There’s a Western Union messenger here, Mr. Shayne. Shall I send him up?”
Shayne said, “Yes,” and exhaled a deep sigh as he dropped the receiver. He told Rourke happily, “A telegram. Lucy must have had to go out for something and knew I’d be worried…” He turned and went to the door to pull it open.
Rourke chuckled aloud and said, “Why don’t you two get married and have done with all this nonsense? Then you could legally chain her up every night and beat hell out of her once a week to keep her in line.”
The elevator door clanged open down the hall, and jingling coins in his pocket as he waited by the open door, Shayne grinned over his shoulder and said, “Maybe I’ll do that. Maybe, by God…”
He broke off to withdraw half a dollar from his pocket as a wizened little man appeared in the doorway wearing an oversized messenger’s uniform. He intoned, “Message for Mr. Michael Shayne,” and deftly exchanged a white envelope for the coin.
Shayne’s expression changed as he looked down at the envelope, with his name and address penciled in crude print on the outside. He exclaimed, “Wait a minute. This isn’t a telegram.”
The messenger said placidly, “It sure ain’t. But it’s for you if you’re him that’s writ down there.” He started to turn away, but the detective grated, “Wait a minute,” as he tore the envelope open. There was a single folded sheet torn from a yellow scratchpad inside. In the same crude printing as the address, Shayne read:
“You got the dog but we got your secretary. If you want to see her alive again, throw the pooch in the bay and forget you ever saw her.”
The message was unsigned.
Shayne grabbed the messenger’s thin arm and demanded harshly, “Where did you get this?”
“Corner of Miami Avenue and Fourth. Shamrock Bar.”
“Who gave it to you to bring here?”
“Bartender had it for me.” The messenger twisted uneasily, dropping his rheumy gaze from Shayne’s hot eyes. “Paid me two bucks and said to deliver it right away.”
“How did you know to go there and pick it up?”
“Central office sent me. We get calls like that all the time. Pick-up and deliver.”
Shayne let go his arm and he scuttled down the hall toward the elevator.
8
“What is it, Mike?” Rourke was beside him, his voice anxious.
Shayne extended the sheet of yellow paper wordlessly. Rourke read the brief message at a glance and swore softly. “They moved fast. Goddamn it, Mike! If you hadn’t been so quick on the trigger getting hold of Tolliver…”
“But I was quick on the trigger,” said Shayne angrily. “And the autopsy’s already ordered.” He grabbed the sheet of yellow paper from Rourke and glared at it. “Who, in the name of God? And how did he know…? Did you leave the grave open, Tim?”
“No. I filled it back in and smoothed it over the best I could in the dark. Of course, if someone went back and checked carefully…”
“Someone did,” Shayne said. He whirled around and strode to the center table, opened the telephone book and riffled through the pages to the Rogell number. He gave it to the operator and waited for a long time with the receiver to his ear. A woman’s voice finally said, “Mrs. Rogell’s residence.”
“This is the police,” said Shayne curtly. “Sergeant Hanson speaking. I want to talk to the Rogell chauffeur. At once.”
“Charles?” He was certain it was Mrs. Blair’s voice. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. He’s sleeping now… under heavy sedation.”
“Wake him up then,” grated Shayne. “This is the police.”
“I don’t care who it is,” said Mrs. Blair spiritedly. “I don’t believe you could wake him if you tried. Doctor gave him two pills he said would knock him out at least eight hours. He needs the rest, goodness knows. I suppose the doctor did report what happened here tonight?”
“That’s why we’re checking,” lied Shayne. “How long ago did Charles take his pills and go to bed?”
“Right after doctor left. I made him go out to his own apartment and tucked him in myself.”
“Is Mrs. Rogell’s brother still there?”
“Marvin’s here, all right, but you won’t get much out of him either. He didn’t need any pills to pass out cold.”
Shayne hung up the receiver, shaking his head at Rourke. “No help there. The housekeeper claims both Charles and the brother are dead to the world and can’t be wakened.”
“I been thinking, Mike. Whoever snatched Lucy and wrote this note thinks you got it before you had time to do anything with the dog. They wouldn’t know about Tolliver doing a fast job for you. If you can keep them thinking that…”
Shayne said, “Yeh.” He lifted the phone again and gave Will Gentry’s home telephone number. When the chief answered, he said, “Mike Shayne again, Will. Something has come up at this end.” The urgency in his voice kept Gentry from asking any questions. “Have you ordered the autopsy?”
“Sure. They should have already picked the body up from the undertaker’s.”
“How many people know that?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just what I asked. Can’t you understand plain English?”
“Hold your water, Mike. Nobody outside the department except the undertaker, and he’s sworn to secrecy. Doc Higgins promised him he’d have the corpse back in its casket tomorrow morning so no one will know.”
Shayne breathed a fervent, “Thank God,” and then went on strongly, “Promise me this, Will. Don’t take any action tomorrow morning no matter what the P.M. says. Not till you talk to me first. Will you promise that?”
“Now, wait a minute, Mike. What gives?”
Shayne hesitated, then said flatly, “They’ve got Lucy. She’ll stay alive as long as they think we haven’t found poison inside the dog and haven’t autopsied Rogell. If he can be cremated tomorrow with them still thinking that…”
“Lucy?” rumbled Gentry. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“That’s what I’ve got to have time to find out, Will. Someone who doesn’t want an autopsy on Rogell. So, for the love of God, keep it quiet, Will.”
Gentry said gruffly, “I like Lucy, too. You want help?”
“That’s what I don’t want right now. Just complete secrecy on the autopsy… and a call as soon as you know.”
<
br /> Gentry said, “You’ll have that,” and Shayne hung up. He got up and said, “Drive me out to Lucy’s, Tim. Maybe we can pick something up there.”
The reporter hastily tossed off the last of his drink and said “Let’s go.”
Downstairs, Shayne stopped at the desk to tell the clerk, “I’ll be at Miss Hamilton’s number in about fifteen minutes. Try her phone if anything comes up.”
He got in the driver’s seat of Rourke’s car and headed toward Miami Avenue, explaining, “We’ll stop at the Shamrock first.”
“I don’t get this, Mike. How could anyone get to Lucy so fast? None of the people involved know her, do they?”
“She was out there this afternoon. Charles was smart enough to figure she was my secretary, and the rest of them knew what he suspected.”
“But she’s not listed in the phone book. This may all be a bluff.”
Shayne said, “Maybe.” He was driving north on Miami Avenue, and slowed as he approached Fourth Street. A corner saloon had a sign in green neon, SHAMROCK BAR. He parked and they got out.
It was a small bar, dingy and dimly-lighted. At this hour there were only three men on stools with drinks in front of them. The bartender was thin and sallow-faced, wearing a dirty white jacket. He came toward them incuriously as they ranged up against the front end of the bar, and Shayne said, “A cognac,” mechanically, his gaze sliding over a row of bottles behind the bar. “Martel will be fine, with water on the side. And Grandad on the rocks.”
He got out his wallet and extracted a five-dollar bill, smoothed it flat on the bar between his big hands as the bartender set their drinks in front of them. He moved the bill forward and said, “Keep the change. I want to ask you a question.”
The bartender put his fingertips on the bill but did not pick it up. Pale blue eyes studied Shayne’s face warily. “Sure, Mister. Go ahead and ask.”
“A messenger from Western Union picked up an envelope from you fifteen or twenty minutes ago. Tell me about it.”
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