Die Like a Dog ms-35

by Brett Halliday

  The man shook his head decisively. “I’d remember him for sure. Nobody like that.”

  Shayne said without much hope, “Try these two on for size.” He described Harold Peabody and Marvin Dale as best he could, realizing as he did so how commonplace both were, and how unlikely to arouse any particular notice from a busy bartender.

  When the man again shook his head regretfully, Shayne finished his drink briskly and shoved a five across the counter. “Thanks for trying. Let’s take one more crack at it from another direction. You said the fellow was maybe twenty-five or thirty and needed a haircut. Wearing a ragged coat and hungry-looking. How hungry-looking?”

  “Jeez, I dunno.” The bartender waved his hands vaguely. “You know how it is. Just in a manner of speaking, I guess.”

  “What I mean,” said Shayne carefully, “is whether he looked like a man that needed a square meal more than a flop for the night. We know he walked out of here with about six bucks,” he explained. “I’m trying to put myself in his position and guess what direction he’d head in. With six bucks to spend. More liquor?” Shayne shook his head slowly. “He could have got that right here as well as some place else. Food… or a flop?”

  “With six dollars, he could buy both right here on Miami Avenue,” the bartender told him. “Plenty places up the street he could fill his belly for a buck or two. Beds for a dollar up.”

  Shayne nodded grimly. He knew it was hopeless. From the beginning he had realized it was useless to hope he could trace the man after he walked away from the Shamrock with a boilermaker under his belt and six dollars in hand. But he still had to try. There were empty hours of the night still stretching out in front of him, and he’d be happier doing something instead of sitting at home waiting for another day.

  So, he tried.

  He left his car parked in front of the Shamrock and took the east side of Miami Avenue first, working his way northward for six blocks, stopping at every hole-in-the-wall eating or drinking joint, stubbornly climbing up one or two flights of stairs at every cheap hotel, repeating his queries over and over again and getting the same negative replies.

  Six blocks north, he crossed to the west side and worked his way back, passing the Shamrock on the opposite side of the Avenue and continuing south to Flagler. There, he went to the east side again, and back to the Shamrock. It was full daylight by the time he completed the full circuit, and all the bars and eateries were closed.

  It was still much too early to do anything else, so he turned to the right on Fourth Street and continued his canvas of the rooming houses on the south side of the street for three blocks, and then back on the north side across the Avenue for three blocks and then back on the other side to his parked car.

  It was after seven o’clock when he got behind the steering wheel again and drove back to his hotel. His face was gaunt with exhaustion and his eyes red-rimmed with lack of sleep, and he had accomplished exactly nothing.

  But he had tried.

  Back in his own room, he walked past the cognac bottle on the center table into the small kitchen and put a teakettle of water to heat. He measured six heaping tablespoons of finely ground coffee into the top of a dripolator, waited beside the stove until the water boiled, and poured the top of the drip-pot full. Then he went into the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went, shaved carefully and took a stinging hot shower, following it with the coldest water that Miami offered.

  Then he sat down in the livingroom with a mug of strong black coffee and waited for his telephone to ring.

  11

  He dressed in fresh clothes while he waited, and when the telephone finally did ring it was Will Gentry as he anticipated.

  “I just got the autopsy report, Mike.”

  “And?”

  “John Rogell died of heart failure.”

  The tenseness went out of Shayne and he clawed at his red hair unhappily.

  “No question about it?”

  “None whatever. Doc Higgins did a complete and careful job. Rogell’s heart just stopped beating… as Doctor Jenson had warned him it might do if he married a young woman at his age and with his heart condition.”

  Shayne said, “Then why in hell did someone try to feed Henrietta strychnine… and kidnap Lucy to try and prevent the autopsy?”

  Gentry said soberly, “Forgive me for kidding about it, Mike. He did die because his heart stopped beating… on account of he ingested at least a teaspoonful of tincture of digitalis within half an hour before he died.”

  Shayne said, “Goddamn it, Will…”

  “All right. I apologized. I know how worried you are about Lucy. Still nothing on her?”

  “I had a telephone call from her last night… to say she was okay and would be okay if the autopsy weren’t done and the funeral went off without any hitch.”

  “Do you believe it, Mike?”

  “As much as I believe any goddamned kidnapper.” Shayne’s voice was harsh with strain. “Who knows about the autopsy?”

  “Doc Higgins and I… and the undertaker.”

  “You know the undertaker personally?”

  “Not personally, but it was put to him in no uncertain terms last night that no one was to suspect the body had left his place. He’ll be in court charged with hampering a homicide investigation if it leaks out… and he knows it. I think we’re safe on that score, Mike. Rogell is back in his coffin and there’s no reason on God’s earth why he shouldn’t be cremated at noon with no one being the wiser.”

  Shayne said, “Thanks, Will.”

  “Hell, I’m as worried about Lucy as you are. On the other hand, Mike… now we’ve got definite proof Rogell was murdered by someone in the house that evening. We’ll work as quickly as possible, but…”

  “Tell me about the digitalis,” Shayne interrupted. “Isn’t that a regular medicine for the heart?”

  “Sure. Rogell had been on the stuff for years. A daily dose of twelve drops had been keeping him alive. Doctor Jenson prescribed it first, and the new fellow… Evans… kept the dosage the same. Everyone knew he had to have his twelve drops daily, and that’s probably why they used the stuff to kill him… hoping the extra amount wouldn’t be noticed if there was an autopsy.”

  “How many people would have known a teaspoonful would be deadly?”

  “Probably everyone who had anything to do with his care. Higgins says they would have been warned the dose had to be measured very accurately… that an excess amount would be dangerous to a man in his condition.”

  “And the manner of death?” queried Shayne sharply. “Would that match Evans’ diagnosis and his death certificate?”

  “Exactly. Higgins admits he would have signed the death certificate himself under those same circumstances. He attaches no blame to Evans.”

  “How could they get the old man to take so large a dose?”

  “That was the easiest part of it, Mike. Here’s the complete picture as we have it now. His wife always administered the twelve drops personally about midnight before he went to sleep. She gave it to him in a cup of hot chocolate milk which the housekeeper prepared in the kitchen each evening and put in a thermos jug downstairs before she retired. This would have been common household knowledge, of course. The medicine bottle was kept in the bathroom shared by Rogell and his wife. Anita could have poured an extra teaspoonful in his milk on that particular night… or just about anyone else in the house could have got hold of the bottle and slipped it into the thermos jug downstairs.”

  “That leaves it nice and wide open,” said Shayne bitterly.

  “Right. Now I want to know what in hell you’re doing about Lucy.”

  Shayne said, “I’ve got to talk to you, Will. Don’t make a move until I see you. And can you have the detectives on tap who went out to Rogell’s that night?”

  “I will. But, Mike! Don’t expect me to sit on this. We’ve got a poisoner who has killed once, and made a second attempt.”

  “And he or she has got Lucy,” Shayne reminded him
grimly.

  Gentry said with heavy finality, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office,” and hung up.

  As the result of a telephone call, Timothy Rourke met the detective at a side entrance to police headquarters. They paused outside while Shayne briefly explained the latest developments to Rourke, and then they went in to Gentry’s private office together.

  The Miami Chief of Police was a solid man, with square, rugged features that were the color of raw beef. He had a thick black cigar in his mouth, and he bit down on it hard when he saw the redhead’s companion. “What the hell, Mike? I thought you were anxious to keep this thing quiet.”

  Shayne said, “Tim’s got to be in on it. He already is. He dug up Daffy last night and was with me when I got Bud Tolliver’s report. And he knows about Lucy, too. He won’t print anything.”

  “It’s up to you,” Gentry conceded. “Now, what is this about Lucy? Give it to me straight.”

  Shayne got out the two sheets of yellow paper and laid them in front of Gentry. “These were delivered to me and Miss Henrietta about midnight last night. By a messenger who’d picked them up at a Miami Avenue bar.” He went on to describe their visit to the Shamrock Bar while Will Gentry read the two notes.

  “I went straight to Lucy’s place, Will, and found she’d been there a couple of hours during the evening… probably after dinner… and had left hurriedly. I’m sure she didn’t know why she was leaving because there was nothing left for me. Then there was the phone call from her later that I told you about.”

  Chief Gentry had curiously rumpled eyelids which he habitually raised and lowered much in the manner of Venetian blinds. He leaned back in his chair and folded them up as he demanded:

  “Who out at the Rogell place knew you had dug up the dog’s body. How did they know you did it… and how to get at Lucy?”

  Shayne lit a cigarette and briefly recounted the ruse he had employed to discover where Daffy was buried, and how he and Tim had gotten possession of the body.

  “They guessed why I was there at night, of course,” he concluded, “and after I left with Dr. Evans somebody must have checked Daffy’s grave. How they knew how to get to Lucy, I don’t know. But someone was desperate enough to kidnap her to try and stop me from having the dog’s stomach contents analyzed.”

  “The chauffeur sounds most likely,” rumbled Gentry.

  “I know. The two notes sound like him. But I knocked hell out of him, Will, and Mrs. Blair swears he went to bed at once in his own room over the garage with a sedative strong enough to put him out for eight hours.”

  “The widow and her brother?” demanded Gentry.

  “I swear I don’t know. The brother appears weak, and was pretty drunk. Anita is… capable of anything. On the other hand, Henrietta plugs for Harold Peabody as the mastermind. And I wouldn’t put anything past the coldblooded bastard,” Shayne went on angrily. He described his brief visit to the broker’s apartment. “I suppose the party gives him a sort of alibi, although I wouldn’t suspect him of personally pulling a snatch anyhow. I think he’s perfectly capable of arranging such a job though. But guessing is no good,” he went on somberly. “Someone has Lucy put away on ice, and all we can hope right now is that they think I’m sufficiently scared to not have the dog analyzed.”

  Gentry leaned back with a sigh and rolled his sodden cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You think she’ll be safe as long as they think that?”

  “Until after the funeral anyhow.” Shayne met his gaze squarely. “If you don’t upset the applecart by doing anything to indicate the Rogell case is being reopened.”

  “And after the funeral?”

  Shayne shook his red head and said doggedly, “If it goes off all right and the killer thinks Rogell is safely cremated and all proof of murder has gone up in smoke, I think there’s a chance Lucy will be released.”

  “Or?” asked Gentry significantly.

  “Or killed,” Shayne said bluntly, the trenches deep in his cheeks. “But they’ll keep her safe until after the funeral, Will, and I want that much time with no official interference.”

  “You’re asking me to sit on a murder.”

  “A murder you wouldn’t know a damned thing about if I hadn’t handed it to you on a silver platter,” flared Shayne.

  Gentry said soothingly, “Sure, Mike. I grant you that. Sure, I’ll give you all the time you want,” he added generously. “Up until… say… three o’clock this afternoon.”

  “That ought to be plenty,” said Shayne bitterly, “for me to solve a murder that the whole goddamn police force of Miami has had in their lap for several days.” He got up and demanded abruptly, “Where’ll I find Petrie and Donovan?”

  “They’re waiting for you right inside.” Will Gentry gestured toward a closed door. “I’ve told them to give you everything, Mike, and in addition to that, they’re under your orders if you want to make use of them.”

  “Until three o’clock?”

  Gentry said, “Until three o’clock,” and Shayne jerked his head at Rourke and went to the side door to interview the two detectives who had handled the Rogell investigation.

  12

  Shayne and Rourke both knew the two city detectives casually, and the men greeted them without particular enthusiasm as they entered. Petrie was thin and sour-faced, and he said sneeringly, “Gentry tells us you’re going to turn the Rogell thing into murder… and then solve it for us.”

  Donovan was flabby-fat and easy-going. He grinned amiably and told them, “Don’t pay no heed to Jim. He’s sore because the chief wouldn’t let him haul in that hot little dish of a widow and give her a going-over. Not that I wouldn’t like to work over her myself, if you get what I mean.” He rolled his eyes and smacked his lips suggestively. “Like the guy comes home from the office and when the wife complains about all the work she’s did that day, he says, ‘What about me, doggone it? Slaving in the office over a hot secretary all day.’”

  Shayne said, “Ha-ha. Why don’t you two start by telling us exactly what happened the night Rogell died.”

  With Petrie doing most of the talking and Donovan filling in some details, they related how they had been called to the Rogell house by an insistent telephone call received from his sister at twelve-forty, which was exactly eleven minutes after her millionaire brother had died quietly in his bed.

  On arrival, they had been met at the door by Henrietta, fully clothed and tearless, loudly insisting that she was convinced John Rogell had been poisoned by his wife. In the small library off the right of the hall, they had found Marvin Dale, soddenly drunk and obviously quite pleased that his brother-in-law had passed on. With Marvin had been Harold Peabody, sober and shaken, who told them he had spent the latter part of the evening alone with the millionaire in his second-floor sitting room, going over business affairs with him until Anita had interrupted them precisely at midnight with a hot drink for her husband which she invariably brought to him each night at that hour.

  It had been a normal evening, Peabody insisted, with Rogell in the best of spirits and apparently in perfect physical condition, and he had left husband and wife together at twelve with no premonition of what was to come, had paused in the library for a nightcap with Marvin, and they were together when Anita called down frantically that John had had a stroke and to call Dr. Evans immediately.

  The doctor had arrived within ten minutes and found his patient already dead. He was upstairs with the body when the detectives went up, and had not the slightest hesitancy in positively declaring that death was the normal result of Rogell’s heart condition, and had signed the death certificate to that effect.

  Mrs. Blair, the housekeeper, had been in Anita’s boudoir consoling the grief-stricken widow whom they found fetchingly attired in a lacy nightgown and filmy black negligee. Mrs. Blair was also wearing slippers and robe, and told the officers she had retired to her third-floor quarters about eleven as was her custom, after preparing a silver thermos pitcher of hot chocolate
milk for Mr. Rogell and leaving it downstairs on a tray on the dining table for Anita to take up to him at midnight… a nightly service which she insisted on performing for him herself every night.

  In a highly emotional state and with much sobbing, Anita had related how John had appeared in good spirits when she entered the room with his tray and shooed Peabody out. Her husband was already in pajamas and robe, she told them, and she poured out his hot drink herself and sat with him while he drank it. Then she had gone into his separate bedroom with him (they occupied adjoining suites with a large connecting bath) and there was some indication, in halting testimony, that they might have been preparing to have intercourse when he suddenly groaned and stiffened in his bed, and a moment later his body became rigid and his breathing shallow and fast. It was then she had run to the head of the stairs to shout for the doctor, and when she returned to the bedroom a moment later, she could no longer detect his breathing. Henrietta had then come in from her own suite at the end of the hallway, and angrily berated her for being an unfaithful wife… then gone on to an open accusation of murder.

  The officers had also interviewed Charles, who told them he had been in his quarters above the garage reading a magazine until about ten when he had come to the kitchen for a snack and had chatted with Mrs. Blair for a time while she was preparing Mr. Rogell’s hot chocolate milk. He had returned to his apartment and was in bed when he heard the excitement in the big house and realized that something was wrong.

  That, in essence, was the contents of the report Petrie and Donovan had made of their investigation. Discounting Henrietta’s almost hysterical accusations, there was nothing whatsoever to indicate that John Rogell had not died a perfectly natural death. But as he discussed the case with the two detectives, after reading their report, Shayne discovered they had not been altogether as wholly satisfied as the report indicated. There was definite agreement between them that it was quite possible Anita’s grief was not as genuine as she tried to make it appear. Little things they had noticed, including a certain change in her manner when she looked at Charles and spoke to him for the first time since she had become a widow. Nothing you could put your finger on, they explained, but you got a feeling of, at least, a sort of relief between the two of them that it was all over.