Die Like a Dog ms-35

by Brett Halliday

  Shayne admitted, “It’s pretty conclusive, but… so long as we don’t know the dog was poisoned I have no moral obligation to go on and put Lucy’s life in danger.”

  “That’s quibbling,” she snorted. “I thought better of you than that, Mike Shayne. How can you go on living with yourself if you weasel out this way?”

  Shayne said stubbornly, “The moment Lucy is safe, I’ll start moving.”

  “How much?” she demanded suddenly.

  “How much what?”

  “How much do you intend to hold me up for? I know a lot about you, Mike Shayne, and I don’t believe for a minute that any woman means more to you than money. You’re not married to the girl. She’s just your secretary. Secretaries are expendable.” The old spinster’s face and voice were grim. “How much, Mike Shayne? I’m not a wealthy woman, but I do believe I can buy you. How much for immediate delivery of Daffy’s body to me? Then your conscience will be clear. You can wash your hands of the whole affair and devote your entire time to getting your snivelling secretary back safe into your arms and your bed.”

  Shayne got up. He took a step forward and leaned down to set his half-emptied glass on the coffee table in front of Henrietta Rogell. He caught the slip of yellow paper from her fingers and carefully folded it together with the note she had given him. In a remote voice, he said:

  “I’ll keep both of these. And I’ll also keep Daffy. Good night.”

  He stalked out of the hotel suite and shut the door firmly behind him.

  In the lobby he looked for Harold Peabody in the telephone book and found his home address in the northeast section of the city. He made a note of it and went out to a waiting cab and told the driver to take him to the fishing dock where he had left his car parked earlier that day.

  10

  Peabody’s address was a glittering, modern, six-story apartment building on Northeast 60th Street. Shayne parked directly in front of wide, chromium-framed glass doors flush with the sidewalk, and entered a large, softly-carpeted and softly-lighted lobby. He strode forward with assurance to a smartly uniformed elevator operator standing at attention outside an open cage that was also carpeted and fitted with an antique loveseat.

  Shayne said, “Mr. Peabody,” as he stepped inside, and the operator nodded blandly and closed the door as if it were the most natural thing in the world for Peabody to have visitors well past midnight.

  They glided upward smoothly and with almost no sensation of motion, and stopped on the fourth floor. Shayne asked, “Which apartment is it?” as the door slid open, and the man nodded to a door directly across a wide hall and said, “Four A, sir.”

  He kept the door open and waited while Shayne stepped across to 4-A and pressed the bell. He remained waiting in the open elevator until the door opened and a plump blonde girl wearing a low-cut evening gown confronted the detective. From the soundproofed apartment behind her came the sound of laughter and voices and modulated music from a hi-fi system. The girl’s careful coiffure was disarranged and her lipstick was smeared. She held a champagne glass in her left hand and her blue eyes were slightly glazed as she tilted her head on one side to look up at him with approval. “Hi there, rangy, rugged and redheaded.” The words were a bit slurred but had an enthusiastic lilt to them. “Where you been hiding all my life?”

  Shayne said, “Just looking for you, honey,” with a wide smile, and heard the elevator door close discreetly behind him.

  He moved forward and she swayed against him, tilting her head farther back and closing her eyes. Shayne put his arm about her soft waist and kissed her lightly on pursed lips.

  She said, “Yummy,” and then giggled and linked an arm in his and led him across the small, parqueted entrance hall to an archway opening onto a large living room where a gay party was in progress.

  Near a fireplace at the far side of the room, a couple were locked in a tight embrace, swaying gently to the music with their mouths glued together. Another couple were amorously entwined on a sofa at the left, and two men and a woman were seated across the room in a cluster of chairs about a table with two champagne bottles in ice buckets and trays of small sandwiches. Two of the men wore white evening jackets with cummerbunds, a third wore a conventional tuxedo, and one of the seated men was attired in white trousers and a scarlet smoking jacket. All of the girls wore evening dresses, and all of the people in the room were in varying degrees of intoxication.

  The trio stopped talking and looked at them curiously as the blonde stopped Shayne in the archway and waved her champagne glass exuberantly. “See what I found, by golly. Just opened the door, believe it or not, and there he stood. Big as life and twice as ugly.” She turned her head to smile at Shayne fondly. “I’m Polly, and don’t you forget I saw you first.”

  The man in the smoking jacket got to his feet and approached them. He was in his late thirties, slender, and with a hawklike face and piercing black eyes. His expression was a curious mixture of irritation, amused affability and frank curiosity as he stopped in front of them and said to Shayne, “I don’t recall… I don’t know you, do I?”

  “Who cares whether you know him or not, Harold?” said Polly gaily. “Important thing is, I know him. Make with the hospitality and champagne so’s he can catch up a little teensy bit.”

  Shayne said, “You’re Peabody?”

  “That’s right.” The broker’s eyes narrowed. His voice became cool and very thin. “I don’t recall inviting you to this party.”

  Of all the people in the room, Peabody appeared to be the most sober. Indeed, Shayne’s first, swift impression of the man was that he was a type to carefully gauge his intake of liquor on every occasion and never allow alcohol to cloud his coldly calculating mind. It was a type Shayne disliked and distrusted, and he said in a flat voice, “I didn’t know you were having a party and I’m sorry to interrupt. But there’s something I’d like to discuss briefly.”

  “Oh, come on.” Polly tugged at his arm. “You can’t discuss anything without a drink. It isn’t decent.”

  Both men disregarded her. Harold Peabody teetered forward slightly on the balls of his feet. “I can’t think of anything that needs discussion at this hour. I think you’d better go.”

  The detective said, “My name is Shayne, Mr. Peabody. Michael Shayne.”

  There was not a flicker of expression on the thinly arrogant features in front of him to indicate that the name meant anything to Peabody. But he said decisively, “I can think of nothing I wish to discuss with a private detective. Certainly, not here and at this hour. If you wish to call my secretary in the morning for an appointment…”

  Shayne shook his red head slowly. “I want some answers now. If we could step into another room…?”

  “Gee, golly, gosh!” exclaimed Polly loudly, so everyone in the room turned to listen. “A real, live private eye. Mike Shayne, no less. Anybody know where the body’s hid?”

  Peabody lifted one slender, well-manicured hand in a gesture of annoyance. He said stiffly, “Control yourself, Polly. If you insist, Mr. Shayne…” He turned to a hallway leading to the left, and Shayne smiled down at Polly and disengaged her hand from his arm. “Sorry, darling, but duty calls. You have that drink. Have two of them,” he added generously as he followed his reluctant host down the hall and into a small study.

  “Now then,” said Peabody, closing the door firmly, “please explain this unwarranted intrusion.”

  Shayne said roughly, “Come off your high horse, Peabody. You know why I’m here as well as I do.”

  The broker did not reply. He stood very stiff and still, waiting for the detective to go on.

  “Are you going to deny,” demanded Shayne hotly, “that you know Miss Rogell retained me today to investigate her brother’s death?”

  A faintly contemptuous smile twitched Peabody’s tight lips. “I don’t feel myself under any obligation to either deny or confirm anything, Mr. Shayne.”

  “The hell you say. This is a murder investigation, Peabody.
”

  “Murder? May I ask who the victim is?”

  “Miss Rogell is certain her brother was murdered.”

  “I was present at the time of his death,” Peabody pointed out coldly. “I was there when his own doctor signed a death certificate stating his demise was due to natural causes. I am also fully aware that our excellent police department made careful investigation into the circumstances of John Rogell’s death and are completely satisfied with their results. This hardly adds up to murder in my lexicon.”

  “What about the bereaved widow’s pet bitch?” demanded Shayne.

  “Ah, yes. Daffy. A most unpleasant little creature. What about her?”

  “I don’t believe anyone signed a death certificate for her.”

  “But there was another thorough police investigation,” Peabody reminded him acidly. “With the same negative results. See here,” he went on impatiently. “I have guests in the other room. I suggest you investigate and be damned, but I fail to see that it is any concern of mine.”

  “You know I’ve got Daffy’s body,” Shayne challenged. “And if it is proved that the dog died from a dose of poison intended for Miss Rogell, it will be accepted as prima-facie evidence that the attempt was made on her life because she refused to accept the findings on her brother. An autopsy on John Rogell will then be a foregone conclusion.”

  “I know nothing of the sort,” said Peabody indifferently. “I understood that Daffy had been interred and that Mrs. Rogell… quite properly in my opinion… refused to have the body of her pet desecrated to satisfy an old woman’s obviously absurd suspicions.”

  Shayne said harshly, “I think you’re lying, Peabody. Don’t tell me Anita didn’t get on the phone to you the moment she discovered Daffy had been dug up.”

  “I don’t intend to stand here and be insulted in my own home,” said Peabody. “Leave immediately or I’ll call the police and ledge a formal complaint.”

  Shayne slapped him. The force of his openhanded blow rocked the broker sideways and he staggered to keep his footing. Shayne’s eyes were blazing as his right hand shot out and grabbed the scarlet lapels of the smoking jacket tightly at Peabody’s throat and jerked him upright.

  “Lodge all the goddamned complaints you want,” he grated. “But listen to one thing, Peabody, and pass the word along to anybody else who may be interested.” He lifted the broker off the floor and shook him viciously, and Peabody’s face went ashen and he made gurgling noises in his throat.

  “If anything happens to Lucy Hamilton, I’ll kill the man who’s responsible. Personally, and with distinct pleasure. I don’t know whether it was your idea or not, but if it was, it was the worst goddamned mistake you ever made. Tell Anita and Charles and all the rest of them that.” He flung Peabody back angrily and the broker crashed into a desk behind him.

  Shayne turned and jerked the door open and stalked out of the study. He looked neither to right nor left as he strode through the end of the living room and out the entryway. He slammed the outer door behind him and stabbed viciously at the elevator button, frustrated rage mingling with the realization that he had been utterly childish in his handling of the situation.

  The black mood stayed with him while he drove to his hotel and went up to his corner suite. There was nothing he could do now except wait for a report from Will Gentry. He was morally certain what the report would be, and he shrank from the decision he would have to make if it were determined that Rogell had been murdered.

  The glasses and bottles were on the center table where he and Rourke had left them, and Shayne put the whiskey bottle back on the shelf, went into the kitchen and rinsed out the tall glass Rourke had drunk from, put ice cubes in it and filled it with water.

  Back in the living room he filled his smaller glass with cognac and settled back with a cigarette, taking alternate sips of liquor and ice water while his brooding gaze moved restlessly about the familiar room and his thoughts went over and over the personalities involved in the Rogell case, seeking some clue to a course of action that would insure Lucy’s safety.

  The telephone rang beside him before he had half-finished his drink. He lifted it on the first ring and said, “Hello.”

  Lucy Hamilton’s voice came over the wire, without the familiar lilt in it, but calm and steady and purposeful:

  “Michael. Just listen to me and don’t ask questions. I’m all right. I’ll be all right if you drop the Rogell case… don’t have the dog’s stomach analyzed. I will be released tomorrow afternoon if the funeral goes off on schedule.” Her calm rendition of prepared lines changed to staccato intensity. “Don’t pay any attention…”

  There was a click and then silence. Shayne’s hand was unsteady as he replaced the receiver. Subconsciously, he had expected her call. Whoever was holding Lucy would be smart enough to know the only pressure that could be exerted on the detective would be his belief that she was safe and would be released safely if he followed orders. On the other hand, how many kidnap victims were returned safe after the ransom was paid?

  Shayne’s big hand gripped the wine-glass with white-knuckled force as he slowly drained it without taking it from his lips. He sat looking at the empty glass for a long moment and his other hand stretched out mechanically toward the bottle. He arrested the motion in mid-air, shook his head from side to side and deliberately drew back his arm and threw the glass across the room where it shattered against the wall.

  He knew there would be no sleep for him that night. And he didn’t want any more liquor just then. There was nothing in the world he could do about Lucy, yet he had to do something. He couldn’t sit there comfortably for hours with only the company of his own thoughts. If he did, he’d go on drinking. And he didn’t want that.

  He got up and paced restlessly up and down the room. He should, of course, take the kidnap notes to Will Gentry at once-throw the entire resources of the police department into the search for her and her abductor.

  But he knew he wasn’t going to do that. Once the alarm was out, Lucy’s life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. Alone, he could accomplish exactly as much as the police department. Which was exactly nothing.

  Yet he knew he had to try. He couldn’t just sit and wait for the autopsy report. He was already positive in his own mind that the finding would be murder. There was no other possible reason for Lucy being snatched.

  If there were only some point of departure. Some end that he could pick up with a faint hope of unravelling the knot.

  He stopped his restless pacing, got the two notes out of his pocket and read them both again. The one point of contact was the bum who had delivered the notes to the Shamrock bartender. Let’s see, now. He came in with a ten-dollar bill that he broke by buying a boilermaker. That would be about eighty cents in a place like the Shamrock. Another dime for the phone call to Western Union. And three dollars left behind to pay the messenger. That left the guy six dollars profit from the transaction.

  Wait a minute, though! Where was the man who had given him the notes and the ten-dollar bill while he was in the barroom? It stood to reason they must be complete strangers. The only safe way to handle a thing like that was to cruise around and pick up a man off the street who had never seen you before and couldn’t possibly put the finger on you if he were apprehended. So, how would you know you could trust such a bum to carry out his part of the bargain and spend three of the precious ten dollars to get the notes delivered?

  The obvious answer was that you wouldn’t trust him. Not completely. You’d take him to a joint like the Shamrock and send him inside with explicit instructions, and you’d go in behind him and unobtrusively have a drink at the bar while you watched him call Western Union and made sure he left the money and notes behind. Or, at the very least you’d hang around outside to be sure he carried out your orders.

  Shayne had his coat on and was headed toward the door by the time he got that far in his theorizing.

  The Shamrock was still open when he got there the second
time. The same bartender was still listlessly on duty, and now there were five bar-stools occupied, two of them by women who were giggling with three men eager to buy them drinks.

  The bartender recognized the redhead, and glanced inquiringly toward the bottle of cognac behind him. Shayne nodded and the man poured out a drink and remembered to put a glass of water beside it. He leaned his forearms on the bar and asked, “You get a line of that fellow you was asking about?”

  Shayne shook his head. “That’s why I’m back. To see if you can remember another damned thing about him that might help.”

  “Sorry, Mister. I told you all I could the first time.”

  “Something else has occurred to me. How busy were you at the time he was in here? Take your time and think back carefully,” urged Shayne. “Was business light or heavy?”

  “Medium, sorta, I guess.” The bartender wrinkled his forehead. “About that time of night we get a pretty good crowd. Regulars, mostly.”

  “I remember you said that,” Shayne encouraged him. “So, maybe you might have noticed a stranger that came in about the same time the bum did. Stayed for a drink or two while he was here, and then went out after he left.”

  “See what you mean,” mumbled the bartender, wrinkling his forehead deeper and half-closing his eyes in deep concentration. “Another guy keeping an eye on him, sorta, to make sure he called Western Union and the notes got left with me?”

  “That’s it exactly. Keep this up and I’ll get you a detective rating on the police force.”

  Obviously pleased, the man continued his effort to concentrate while Shayne sipped at his drink and waited hopefully. Finally, he shook his head. “It just don’t come. I been thinking back hard, but it just don’t come, Mister. There was a pretty good crowd in here. Some that I never saw before. But I don’t recollect any one of ’em paying any particular heed to this bum.”

  “Keep on thinking,” Shayne urged him. “Here’s a couple of descriptions.” He described Charles first, ending, “You’d have noticed him for sure. Two front teeth freshly knocked out and the side of his face split, with probably a bandage on it.”