“Did she bleed while she wrote it?”
“I gather she does hate to part with money,” said Shayne cautiously. “But, damn it, Will, I sort of like the old biddy. Give me the dope on her brother’s death.”
“There just isn’t anything to go on, Mike. We checked it out from A to Z. John Rogell was sixty-eight years old and has had a serious heart condition for years. Been under the care of Doctor Caleb Jenson for many years until the doc kicked off himself a couple months ago. Since then, a Doctor Albert Evans has been seeing the old boy twice a week. Evans has a good reputation, and he signed the death certificate without the slightest hesitation.”
“Henrietta says she’s in love with him.”
“Plus everything else wearing pants that ever came to the house,” snorted Gentry. “Hells bells, Mike! If Anita Rogell were servicing every man Henrietta accuses her of, the woman would have to be a nympho to end all nymphos.”
“Is she?” asked Shayne equably.
“I haven’t met the girl.” Gentry paused, and went on more seriously, “Donovan and Petrie covered the whole deal. They do say the girl is put together right and has what looks like hot lips and a roving smile. But, hell! She’s in her early twenties and Rogell was sixty-eight, so what can you expect?”
“That she might be eager to be rid of him so she could take on a younger man like Doctor Evans,” said Shayne promptly.
“Sure, there’s that. Or the chauffeur or even Harold Peabody who are both on Henrietta’s list. But I tell you, Mike, we checked every angle. I had Doc Higgins go over the complete record of the Rogell case in Jenson’s files. And Jenson’s secretary told him privately that Jenson had urged Rogell not to marry… had predicted that just this would happen if he took on a twenty-three-year-old sex-pot like Anita.”
“You mean Jenson warned him his heart wouldn’t stand it.”
“Exactly.”
“Then maybe Anita did kill him,” said Shayne thoughtfully. “If she knew how serious his condition was and kept egging him on beyond his physical ability.”
“Maybe she did,” agreed Gentry. “It wouldn’t surprise me one damned bit. But that’s not a crime, Mike. Not according to the statutes, it isn’t.”
“All right, I understand why you passed up Henrietta’s accusations after John’s death. But what about last night? The little dog that died after he ate her creamed chicken. That looks pretty clear-cut to me.”
“Sure it does, hearing Henrietta tell it. But the dog had been pretty sick a couple days ago. Did she tell you that? In fact, it was one of those inbred, pampered little bitches that was always having stomach upsets.”
“But it never died of convulsions before, ten minutes after eating a plate of creamed chicken.”
“No, it never did,” agreed Gentry promptly. “And I’d run a test fast enough if I had the body. But I haven’t. It was already buried by the time Donovan and Petrie got to the house.”
“A suspicious circumstance in itself,” Shayne pointed out. “Why the unseemly hurry?”
“Sure, it’s suspicious. On the other hand, there was Anita having hysterics all over the place because of her little pet’s death, and her almost pathological horror of any sort of corpse. That’s why she urged her husband to put a clause in his will that he should be cremated, and why she hysterically ordered the chauffeur to bury Daffy within minutes after her death.”
“So it was Anita who urged Rogell to put a cremation clause in his will?”
“She doesn’t deny it. She has a similar clause in her own will.”
“I still think the dog should be dug up and analyzed.”
“So do I,” agreed Gentry promptly. “Give me proof that the creamed chicken killed her and I’ll get an autopsy on Rogell.”
“It still seems like a police job to me, Will. You’ve got the authority to demand that the dog be produced.”
Chief Gentry sighed strongly and said, “Listen, Mike. John Rogell was a multi-millionaire and a very important citizen in Miami. His widow is now a multi-millionaire and a very important citizen. Just to put it very bluntly, they pay a lot more taxes than Miss Henrietta Rogell.”
“I never knew taxpayers were so important to you?”
“They pay my salary, meagre though it is,” said Gentry. “As Henrietta scathingly pointed out to me this morning.” He paused and then burst out angrily, “Why in hell don’t you get to work and earn your retainer?”
Shayne said, “All right. I will,” and hung up.
He sat for a moment, tugging thoughtfully at his left ear-lobe, and then opened a drawer of his desk to lift out a Classified Telephone Directory. He settled back and turned the pages slowly, wondering what alphabetical listing to look under. After a couple of false attempts, he found the listing he wanted and made a notation of the address. Then he got up briskly and went to the outer office where he lifted down his Panama from a rack near the door and glanced at his watch.
“I have to go out for an hour or so,” he told Lucy at her desk behind the low railing. “Grab some lunch while I’m gone and be back by one-thirty or two. I expect to have a very important assignment for you.”
“Now, if you expect me to go out digging up dead dogs. Michael Shayne…” she began stormily, but he interrupted her with a briskly reproving, “You know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like that, angel.”
He started out the door, paused and turned back. “Have you got the morning Herald?”
“Right here.” She lifted a newspaper from in front of her. “I’ve been reading the item about the curious death of Mrs. Anita Rogell’s very highly-bred and very expensive Pekinese last night. Her registered name was Sombre Daffodil 3rd, but her mistress always called her Daffy.”
“So it’s actually written up in the paper,” said Shayne, openly pleased. “Anything about suspicion of poison?”
“Not a word. I guess they wouldn’t dare… it being John Rogell’s widow.”
Shayne nodded and said, “I guess not.” He strode out and was absent for a little more than two hours. Lucy was typing a letter when he returned, and he paused at the railing to ask, “Had your lunch?”
She nodded and he said, “Come in my office a moment.”
When Lucy entered, he seated her firmly in the client’s chair beside his desk and drew a beautifully printed, four-color, four-page brochure from his pocket. He placed it in front of Lucy and leaned over her shoulder to look down at it admiringly.
The cover was done in soft pastel colors. It showed a beautiful blue Persian cat on one side, facing a proud, black French poodle on the other. Between the two animals was an archway of weathered gray stone with an orange sunburst glowing through it from a distance. Neatly lettered on the archway were the words: Pet Haven Eternal.
Lucy looked at it wonderingly, caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced up at him. “What on earth, Michael?”
“Look inside,” he told her gleefully. “Just read what Haven Eternal offers bereaved pet owners. You’ll never believe it if you don’t. Private burial plots, individually landscaped. Artistic grottos with sculptured friezes, and with iridescent colored lights that glow automatically from dusk till dawn… at a slight extra charge. A private chapel with piped-in organ music. A crematorium for those who wish that method of disposal. Rosewood caskets in all sizes, lined with varicolored satins. Read it for yourself,” he urged, turning to the first page. “Every word of it. You’ll never believe it otherwise.”
He swung away to the water cooler and poured himself a drink while Lucy Hamilton sat at the desk bemused, reading the printed words describing “Miami’s Most Beautiful and Most Exclusive Pet Cemetery”
When she turned the last page she looked up at him, shaking her brown curls vigorously. “But this is utterly fantastic, Michael. Do people actually go for this? It’s morbid and unhealthy. It… it makes me sort of sick to my stomach.”
“But you’re not one of the Anita Rogells of this world,” Shayne told her easily. “Don’
t you think she might find this brochure completely fascinating?”
“Well… from what Henrietta said about her…” Lucy paused uneasily, studying Shayne’s bland expression. “You mean you think she might be persuaded to have her beloved Daffy disinterred and moved to this repulsive place?”
Shayne shrugged and said, “Seems reasonable. And I think you’re the one to persuade her.”
“Me? Now see here, Michael…”
“All in the interest of justice,” he told her soothingly. “If her Peke wasn’t poisoned, what’s the harm? The little darling ends up at Haven Eternal in much nicer surroundings than she has at present. She can even be cremated if Anita wants that… after her stomach contents have been analyzed. Sure, you can do it, angel. You look the part okay. Just memorize a few of the salient points in that brochure, and work out a sales pitch. Notice the place on Page Three where it says they are so discreet that a private car will call if desired, and an attendant in plain business suit will see to removing the remains of the departed pet. That’s me,” he explained with a grin. “I’ll turn up with a shovel as soon as you phone me that it’s all set. Here, I got this made for you,” he went on persuasively, opening his wallet and extracting a freshly printed business card. In large Gothic type, it said Pet Haven Eternal, and in small type in the lower left hand corner it said: Miss Lucy Hamilton.
“This should get you in to see the grieving widow,” he told her briskly. “From then on it should be duck soup for a gal of your talents. You’ll note the brochure very discreetly doesn’t even mention any prices, so you’re on your own if the matter of cost seems a major consideration. I know she’s probably heir to several millions, but sometimes those people squeeze a buck tighter than you or I do. So make the terms as attractive as you want. After it’s all over we’ll actually take Daffy to Haven Eternal and get her put away in style. What’s anybody got to lose… except the poisoner?” he added grimly, “if Daffy was poisoned.”
Lucy Hamilton shook her head, fluffing out her hair angrily. “Michael Shayne! You’re the darndest guy. Why I keep on working for you…”
“Because you love it,” he laughed at her. “You know you wouldn’t pass up this opportunity for anything. Take fifteen minutes to study up on the subject,” he said generously. “And when you get out there keep your eyes open and your wits about you. See the housekeeper if you can, and Anita’s brother who’s living off her. And the chauffeur… especially in relation to Anita. I’m depending on you, angel,” he went on seriously. “We’ve got to earn that five hundred bucks we extracted from Henrietta. Don’t forget you’re the one who insisted we needed a client and made me finish my drink and fixed me up pretty so she wouldn’t be revolted when she saw me. That makes it your responsibility. And it’s got to be done this afternoon. John Rogell is due to be cremated tomorrow unless we get evidence enough to order an autopsy on him.”
“But how will I ever explain that I know about Daffy?”
“That item in the paper,” Shayne reminded her. “Its a perfect excuse. Hell, if the Haven Eternal people were on their toes they’d already have contacted her. Let’s hope they’ve not.”
3
A long curving macadamized drive led off Brickel Avenue through beautifully landscaped grounds to the turreted mansion that John Rogell had built on the bayfront more than thirty years before. It was constructed of rough slabs of native limestone, aged and weathered by the years and the tropical sun. A rakish two-toned convertible and a sleek, black Thunderbird were parked under the long porte-cochère, and Lucy Hamilton pulled her light sedan up behind them.
She had stopped by her apartment to put on a wide and floppy-brimmed white hat, and she wore spotless white string gloves on the hands gripping the steering wheel nervously. In the neat white leather handbag on the seat beside her reposed the brochure from Haven Eternal, and the printed card her employer had given her was in a cardcase beside the brochure.
She sat motionless behind the wheel for a moment after shutting off the motor. There was a bright sun overhead, but the front of the house was shaded by huge cypress trees, and a light breeze from Biscayne Bay swept around the corner of the house behind her.
She drew in a deep breath with palpable effort, slowly expelled it, then unlatched the door at her left and picked up her bag. She circled between her car and the rear of the Thunderbird to wide and worn stone steps leading up to a white-columned verandah running the full length of the front of the house. She crossed weathered boards to the double oak doors and put the tip of her forefinger firmly on the electric button.
Nothing happened for what seemed to her a long interval, and her courage slowly ebbed away while she waited. During the years she had been Michael Shayne’s secretary and only employee, she had successfully carried out many difficult and some dangerous assignments to help him on his cases, but this one today, she felt, was the most weird and bizarre she had ever attempted.
She was in such a state of bemusement that she could not repress an open start of nervousness when the right hand door swung open silently.
A sullen-faced maid stood on the threshold of a long, dim hallway facing her. The girl wore a neat, black uniform with white lace at the wrists and neck, and she had pouting lips and wary eyes.
She said, “What is it, Ma’am?” in a sing-song voice that contrived to convey a faint impression of insolence.
Lucy said, “I’d like a moment with Mrs. Rogell.”
The maid tightened her lips momentarily and said, “Madame is not at home to anyone.”
Lucy smiled pleasantly and said, “I think she’ll see me,” with a lot more assurance than she felt. She unsnapped her bag and took out the cardcase, extracted the square of white cardboard and offered it to the maid. “Please take her my card.”
The girl pressed her hands against her sides and said primly, “I couldn’t disturb Madame while she’s resting.”
Lucy Hamilton lifted her chin arrogantly and said, “I didn’t come here to argue with servants. Take my card to Mrs. Rogell at once.” She took a step forward as she spoke, thrusting the card into the girl’s face so her hand lifted instinctively to take it. She backed away, saying sullenly, “You wait here and I’ll see.”
Lucy said, “I have no intention of waiting on the doorstep,” and moved into the hall, closing her bag and pressing it to her side under her right elbow.
The maid gave way reluctantly, closing the door and moving aside to an archway with drawn portières, drawing them aside ungraciously and muttering, “You can wait in here then, if you insist.”
Lucy went in to a large, square, sombre room lined with dark walnut bookshelves laden with books in dark leather bindings. There were massive leather chairs in the room, and a man stood in the far corner with his back turned to her. He was bent over a portable bar, and Lucy heard the clink of a swizzle-stick against glass. He wore light tan slacks and a red and yellow plaid sport jacket, and when he swung about to face Lucy with a highball glass in his hand she saw he was a fair-haired young man of about thirty with a wispy mustache and suspiciously high color in his cheeks for a man of his age.
He smiled quickly, showing slightly protruding upper teeth, and exclaimed, “By Jove, there. You’ve arrived just in the nick of time to save me from a fate worse than death. Drinking alone, you know? And long before the sun has swung over the yard-arm.” His voice was thin and a trifle high, but he exuded friendliness like a stray mongrel who has just received his first kind word in weeks.
He advanced toward Lucy, his smile becoming a beaming welcome. “Whatever you’re selling, I’ll take a lot of. Provided, of course, that you have a drink with me first. My name’s Marvin Dale, you know. How long has it been since anyone has told you how gorgeous you are?”
Lucy couldn’t refrain from smiling. “I’m Lucy Hamilton to see Mrs. Rogell. It’s a little early for a drink, and I have nothing at all you’d want to buy.”
“Let me be the judge of that.” He stood close to her and she saw t
hat his eyes were greenish-blue and had a ferrety gleam in them as they travelled down audaciously from her face over trim bosom and neat waist, hovered approvingly over nicely-rounded hips and then moved downward to well-fleshed calves and slender ankles.
“Ve-ry nice. Every bit of it if you’ll allow me a snap judgment with so many clothes intervening.” He took hold of her left elbow and firmly led her toward the bar. “Of course it’s a little early for a drink, but never too early. Wasn’t it Dorothy Parker who said, ‘Candy is dandy; but liquor is quicker?’”
“I think it was.” Lucy struggled with a desire to giggle. This must be the ne’er-do-well brother Henrietta had mentioned so disparagingly, and Michael had told her to keep her eyes open and learn as much about the different members of the family as she could. Marvin, she realized, was already slightly drunk as well as being more than slightly amorous, and she decided to indulge him to the extent of one small drink.
“If you could make me a gin and tonic,” she agreed hesitantly. “A very light one. I have a business matter to discuss with your sister,” she added as stiffly as she could.
Marvin released her elbow and beamed at her as he whisked a gin bottle from a shelf beneath the bar, and opened an ice bucket to deposit two cubes in a tall glass. He uncorked the bottle and started to tip it over the rim of the glass, but Lucy took it away from him firmly, saying, “I mentioned a light one, remember? Very light.” She picked up a jigger and poured it less than full, while he remonstrated:
“So many people do without really meaning it, you know. Say they want a light one, I mean. I always feel the hospitable thing is to…”
“Ply your women with liquor,” Lucy carried on for him pleasantly. “But I’m not Dorothy Parker. Tonic, please.” She held the glass out and he reluctantly filled it to the brim with fizzing liquid.
“I can see you’re not. If you’re holding back on the intake, however, because you hope to discuss business with my dear sister today, you may as well relax and have a decent slug.”
Die Like a Dog Page 2
