She straightened slowly and took her hands away from tear-streaked cheeks. She looked up at him dully for a moment and then took the cup and obediently emptied it. She crumpled it with a long, shuddering sigh and said, “Now I know everything. I’m at least ten years older than Charles, yet he made me feel like a virgin maiden of sixteen.”
Shayne said quietly, “He must be quite a guy.”
“It isn’t anything he does or says, Michael,” she cried out despairingly. “It’s the way he is. You’ll never understand.”
“No,” said Shayne equably, “I don’t suppose I ever will.” He lowered one hip to the railing so he was close to Lucy, but he didn’t look at her. “You make it sound like a pretty explosive set-up, the way you describe the two of them.”
“Oh, I suppose I’m exaggerating horribly.” He heard Lucy blow her nose, and her voice became more normal. “Good heaven! How melodramatic can you get?”
“What about the brother?”
“Marvin? Oh, he’s a weak lush.”
Shayne tugged at his earlobe. “You make it seem more important than ever to get that dog’s stomach contents analyzed. Damn it, Lucy! Do you suppose she suspected what you were after?”
“No. I’m sure she didn’t.” Lucy was composed now, and when Shayne looked at her inquiringly she wrinkled her nose at him and smiled shyly. “I think I’ve made up my mind,” she announced. “I’ve been arguing with myself all the way back from the Rogell estate. Shall I tell Michael, or shan’t I? I know I shouldn’t, darn it. You’ll probably end up in a peck of trouble and it’ll all be my fault. On the other hand…” She paused disconcertingly and opened her leather handbag to rummage inside it.
“Should or shouldn’t tell me what?” demanded Shayne.
“Where Daffy is buried. If I do tell you, I know perfectly well you’ll be out there, as soon as it’s dark, digging her up. You’ll be trespassing and breaking I don’t know how many laws… and if Charles should catch you at it…” She shuddered and then looked down into her bag with a frown.
Shayne said roughly, “I think I can handle a chauffeur. Do you mean you think he’s suspicious?”
Lucy drew a folded sheet of paper from her bag and said composedly, “I wouldn’t be at all surprised. He didn’t say anything, But I could tell from the way he acted.…”
“A sort of aura?” suggested Shayne. “Or more like a physical emanation?”
She hesitated with the paper unfolded in her hands. “Don’t tease me about it, Michael. I was honestly trying to analyze what happened while I was alone with Charles.”
Shayne set his teeth together hard, and a muscle quivered in his right cheek. “All right, angel. Tell me.”
“It came to me suddenly when Anita absolutely refused to have Daffy dug up and taken to Haven Eternal. I made up a wild story about us beautifying graves at home and putting up headstones and even providing individual perpetual care if it was desired. And she fell for it. She called Charles in and told him to show me where Daffy was buried, so I could give her an estimate of the cost. So Charles took me down a rear stairway and out the back and along a path leading to the boat-house.”
Lucy paused a moment, studying Shayne’s face doubtfully. “It’s beautifully landscaped right up to the low bluff overlooking the bay. In back there’s a four-car garage with a large apartment above. Charles lives there. The two maids and the housekeeper, Mrs. Blair, have rooms on the third floor of the house,” she interpolated. “Charles told me when I asked. And, for no reason at all, he volunteered the information that Mrs. Blair had always had her private suite on the second floor next to Henrietta until Mr. Rogell married Anita. Then she was moved up with the maids.”
Lucy paused a moment, eyes downcast. “That might be important… in the light of something Henrietta said this morning. I don’t know whether you noticed it or not, Michael, but she started to say something about her brother and Mrs. Blair, and then stopped abruptly.”
Shayne said, “I remember. So he led you down this path to the boathouse.”
Lucy nodded. “And about a hundred feet from the edge of the bluff, where there are wooden stairs leading down to a private dock and boathouse, there’s a huge, old, cypress tree on the right… on the left coming from the boathouse.” She unfolded her sheet of paper and studied it for a moment. “I stopped my car as soon as I drove outside, and jotted down some figures. Turning off from the path at right angles to the tree, it’s eighteen of my paces to Daffy’s grave, before you reach the trunk of the tree, but under the shade. And from the point where you turn off at right angles from the path toward the tree… from that point to the top of the stairs is fifty-eight paces. I counted them when I walked down the path pretending I had to get a good view of the bay in order to plan Daffy’s landscaping.”
Shayne nodded, his face inscrutable. “Is the grave easily distinguishable?”
“It wasn’t when he first showed it to me. There’s no grass under the tree, and he had smoothed it down so it didn’t show very much, but I got him to break off a couple of switches and stick them at each end of the grave so I could find it easily next time I came. I said he might not be around to show me. And that’s when I think he started getting a little suspicious. He made a couple of nasty remarks while he was marking it that didn’t sound unsuspicious.”
Shayne nodded and drew a deep breath. “You’re terrific, Lucy. If we pull this off and the dog was poisoned, remind me to give you the entire fee we earn from the case as your Christmas bonus this year.”
“I’ve never had a Christmas bonus, Michael.”
“Haven’t you?” He stared at her. “Why the hell not?”
She laughed softly. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened after he showed me Daffy’s grave?”
Shayne said, “No. You’ll tell me some day. And, after I’ve met Charles, I’ll be better able to understand why it hit you so hard.” He leaned over and lovingly rumpled her brown curls. “I’m sorry I haven’t the ability to make you feel like a virginal maid of sixteen, but I’ll take some lessons from Charles and maybe…”
“Michael!” She blushed and turned her head to press her cheek against the back of his hand for a moment. “It wasn’t really as bad as I said. It’s just that for a little moment out there alone under the cypress tree with Charles…”
Shayne said gruffly, “Forget it. Right now, we’ve got to find some way of equating your paces with mine.” He stood up from the railing and moved back against the wall near the outer door. “You start here,” he directed her, “and walk straight through the door into my office to the opposite wall. Count how many steps you take.”
Lucy did so, and reported, “Fourteen.” Shayne stepped the same distance in his longer strides and made it eleven of his paces.
“Eleven of mine to fourteen of yours,” he muttered. “That ought to make some kind of equation. Let’s see if I remember my algebra from high school.” He got a sheet of paper and wrote down: “11:14 = X: ?” He stopped and asked Lucy, “How many of your steps from the top of the stairs to the place where you turned off at right-angles to the tree?”
She looked at her paper. “Fifty-eight.”
Shayne completed his equation by replacing the question-mark with 58. He studied it for a moment with a frown, and then multiplied 11 times 58. He wrote down: “14X = 638,” and then divided 638 by 14 and announced triumphantly, “Forty-five and eight-fourteenths of my paces equal fifty-eight of yours. What was that other distance you paced from the grave to the path?”
“Eighteen. I didn’t know you could do algebra, Michael.”
“One of my minor accomplishments,” he told her with a wave of his big hand. He multiplied 18 by 11 and divided the result by 14 and said with satisfaction, “Just a trifle over fourteen of my steps from the path to the grave. Perfect, Lucy. A licensed surveyor couldn’t have done better. How far is the boathouse, approximately, from the garage?”
“It’s… I don’t know. A good little distance. There�
�s a lot of shrubbery between, and the path winds quite a lot.”
“Out of earshot?”
“Oh, yes. Michael, do you really think you should… ?”
He nodded emphatically. “I think I’ll try my luck fishing from a rowboat on the bay about dusk tonight. I’ll have to manage to locate the Rogell boathouse before dark from out on the bay. That may present a problem.” He frowned thoughtfully and glanced at his watch, “Get Tim Rourke on the phone, angel. He’s pretty good with a pair of oars.”
Lucy compressed her lips and went back to her desk without protesting further. When she had Timothy Rourke on the wire, the redhead said, “Are you very busy, Tim?”
“No more than usual.” Alerted by the detective’s casual tone, the Daily News reporter, added, “Not too busy to get on the trail of a story.”
“How’d you like to go fishing?”
After a brief silence, Rourke demanded incredulously, “This is Mike Shayne, isn’t it? Did you say fishing?”
Shayne grinned at the phone and said, “That’s right. You know, in a rowboat on the Bay. With poles and lines with hooks on them.”
“What are we going to fish for, Mike?” asked Rourke resignedly.
“A dead dog.”
Rourke said, “I see.” There was a longer pause this time, then the reporter demanded hopefully, “Have you got in on the Rogell deal?”
“I just suggested going fishing for a dead dog. You want to go along?”
“You bet. When?”
“I think the best time will be shortly after dark, but we should take a boat from the Fisherman’s pier a little before sundown. Can you meet me there about seven.”
Rourke said, “Will do,” and Shayne caught him before he could hang up:
“Know where you can get hold of a shovel?”
“What kind of shovel?”
“One that digs… in the ground?”
“I’ve got a short-handled spade in the back of my car. Look, Mike. If it is the Rogell thing…”
Shayne said blandly, “Bring your short-handled spade along, Tim. Fisherman’s Wharf at seven.”
5
At early dusk that evening a small rowboat was quartering lazily about a half mile offshore on the smooth surface of Biscayne Bay some two miles southwesterly from the municipal docks. There were two men in the boat. Michael Shayne sat in the stern, hunched over with elbows on his knees, wearing a newly-purchased, cheap straw hat, and with a fishing rod extended over the stern trailing a line in the water with an unbaited hook on the end of it.
Timothy Rourke sat toward the bow facing Shayne’s hunched back and rowing easily. He had a bottle of bourbon between his feet, and he shipped his oars at brief intervals to take a sip from the bottle. Rourke was very thin and bony, with almost emaciated features, and he grimaced as he shipped his oars again and looked down at the palms of his hands. “I’m getting blisters, Mike. How about you taking over?”
Shayne said, “Sure. But right now let’s drift for awhile.” He studied the curving palm-lined shoreline through narrowed eyes, and said, “I’d guess one of those three boathouses opposite us must be the Rogell place.”
“Seems about right,” Rourke agreed. “But which one? We’ve got to decide that before dark.”
Shayne said, “We can row in closer after a little. Lucy said there was a private dock and stairs leading up the bluff.”
“You can row in,” Rourke said shortly. He shaded his eyes to study the three boathouses with Shayne, and announced, “There’s someone down at the center dock. If we could get in close enough to ask him.…”
“Looks to me like he’s getting out a boat. Maybe we can intercept him without being too obvious about it.” Shayne turned on his seat to stretch out a long arm. “Let me have a shot of that rotgut before you pass out.”
Rourke grinned amiably and passed him the bottle. The little boat rocked gently on the very faint swell, and there was utter silence and tranquility in the early evening air until it was broken by the rapid put-putting of an outboard motor from the shore.
Shayne took the bottle away from his mouth, making a wry face at the taste of Tim’s whiskey, and said with satisfaction, “He’s headed out in this direction. Get your line over the side and make like you’re fishing too. If he’s on fishing bent, he’ll never be able to resist stopping by to see how we’re doing.”
Rourke grunted and leaned forward to lift a jointed trolling rod that had been furnished them by the owner of the rented boat. He stuck it over the side and let out line so the weighted hook sank beneath the surface. “Just so he doesn’t pull up close enough to see the shovel and wonder what in hell we’re doing with it on a fishing trip.”
“Toss your trenchcoat over it.” The small skiff with its outboard motor pushing it through the water was describing a curving route that would bring it close to the drifting row-boat. They could see there was only one figure in the rear handling the tiller, and as it approached closer they could see it was a lad in his early teens. True to the tradition of fishermen, he did cut his outboard as he swept in to cross their bow, and they saw he was a fresh-faced, deeply-tanned youngster with a crew cut and an ingenuous smile as he hailed them with a true-to-form, “Having any luck?”
“Not a damned bite so far,” Shayne called back disgustedly. “Are there any fish in this bay, or is that just a Chamber of Commerce come-on for Yankee suckers?”
The lad chuckled delightedly as his skiff drifted past forty feet beyond their bow. “Plenty of fish all right, if you know where to look,” he told them, as condescending as only youth can be. “But, heck, it’s a mile deep hereabouts. You got to get out to the reef about two miles that-away.” He waved his hand in an easterly direction. “I’m going out to anchor if you wanta follow along. Just about good dark is when they start biting.”
“Just about good dark we’ll be back at the wharf where we belong,” Rourke grunted. “Say, are you from the Rogell place?”
“Naw. That’s the next one south from us. None of them ever do any fishing.” The lad spat in the water to express his contempt for neighbors who didn’t fish, and leaned over to pull the starting rope of his motor. It caught at once and he surged on eastward with a wave of his hand for the two landlubbers who thought all you had to do was drop a hook in the water to catch fish.
“Now that,” said Shayne feelingly, looking at the wake of the departing skiff, “is what I consider a fine, outstanding example of All-American youth. We’ve got it made, Tim,” he exulted, transferring his gaze to the boathouse indicated by the lad. “See those gray stone turrets above the treetops on the bluff. That’s just the way Lucy described the Rogell house. We should be able to see lights there after dark to guide us in.”
“Yep,” said Rourke. “The Shamus’ luck still holds. What do we do until it’s dark enough to try our luck?”
“I think we start rowing back toward the city… just in case anyone has noticed us from shore and starts wondering.”
“You start rowing,” said Rourke, looking at his inflamed palms again.”
“Sure,” Shayne agreed cheerfully. He stood up and they gingerly changed seats in the rocking boat, and the redhead put the oars in the water and awkwardly manoeuvred the bow around to head back toward the city, and sent it lazily in that direction.
Nightfall came slowly and almost imperceptibly to the Bay and the lone rowboat making sluggish way northwestward. Lights began to dot the hazy skyline of Miami in the distance, and, watching to their rear as he rowed, Shayne noted, with satisfaction, that the barely-seen turrets of the Rogell mansion also showed dimly lighted windows.
He turned the boat at that point, and said cheerfully, “Here we go in for a landfall, Tim. Keep me headed toward it, huh?”
“Sure. Suppose the chauffeur did get suspicious of Lucy this afternoon and is keeping watch?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it,” grunted Shayne, laying his weight into the oars awkwardly but with enough brute strength to
send the boat angling shoreward at good speed. “He’ll have no reason to expect anyone to come by water, so we’ll do all our talking now and go in to the dock as quietly as we can. I’ll go up the stairs first, Tim. You follow behind with the shovel while I locate the grave. Forty-five and a half paces up the path from the top of the stairs. Then right-angles to the left off the path toward a big cypress for fourteen steps. There should be a stick at each end of the grave to mark it.”
In a subdued voice, Rourke said, “Right. When you get in a little closer you better quit rowing and give me an oar. I can scull us in with half the noise those oarlocks make.”
They indulged in no further conversation. There was no moon, but the sky was clear and bright starlight glinted on the surface of the bay. Facing toward Shayne in the stern, Rourke kept his eyes fixed on the third-floor lights of the turreted house and kept the boat roughly on course by lifting one hand or the other. When he judged they were as close to shore as was safe, he held up both hands with his palms upward toward the rower, and leaned forward to take an oar which Shayne lifted from the oarlock. Then kneeling in the bow and using the small dock and boathouse touched lightly by starlight at the base of the bluff.
When it nosed alongside the dock, Shayne was leaning out the stern with a mooring line to catch a stanchion, and he made it fast with a double half-hitch. He stepped easily onto the wooden dock and moved forward into the shadow of the boathouse where he turned to see Rourke stepping out with the spade in his hand.
There was utter night-silence about him as he climbed the wooden steps in rubber-soled shoes, and his alert ears caught no sound from Rourke behind him.
At the top, he could glimpse a faint blur of light through shrubbery from the big house some distance beyond, and there was enough starlight to outline the path he was to follow. He strode along it, counting his steps carefully, and stopped on forty-five. On his left, fifty or sixty feet away, silhouetted against the sky, was a towering cypress tree. Shayne walked toward it confidently, again counting his paces. At the count of ten, the blaze of a strong flashlight struck him suddenly in the face from a point some twenty feet to his right. He stopped in mid-stride as a resonant voice ordered, “Stand still and put your hands in the air.”
Die Like a Dog Page 4
