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Die Like a Dog

A Mike Shayne Mystery

MysteriousPress.com

There was a quizzical smile on Lucy Hamilton's lips and a little dancing light in her brown eyes as she opened the door to her employer's private office and announced demurely, "There is a lady to see you, Mr. Shayne."

It was a warm Miami morning, and Michael Shayne was slumped in a swivel chair behind his wide desk in shirt-sleeves, with collar unbuttoned and tie awry. In front of him was an open checkbook, a pile of canceled checks and the monthly bank statement. His left hand clawed through unruly red hair and his right hand reached out automatically for a pair of nested paper cups beside the bank statement as he arched ragged brows at his secretary and growled, "A lady?" in a tone of disbelief.

Lucy nodded firmly and drew the door shut behind her. She advanced toward him, saying in an altered tone, "Ditch that brandy, Michael, before I bring her in, and for heaven's sake, straighten your tie. You might even slip on a jacket for once."

"Why should I ditch a drink?" Shayne lifted the twin cups and sipped from the contents.

"All right," said Lucy in a tone of forbearance. "Down the hatch with it and get rid of the evidence. I'm very sure that Miss Henrietta Rogell is not one to approve of drinking at eleven o'clock in the morning." She reached his side and bent down to brush a coarse lock of red hair back from his forehead.

Shayne grinned up at her and protested, "I didn't know we were interested in Miss Henrietta Rogell's approval or disapproval."

"But we are, Michael. She's the first client in two weeks." She slid around behind his chair and put her arms around each side of his neck to button his collar and straighten his tie.

"We're doing all right without any clients. I've been going over last month's bank statement ..."

"And there is less than two thousand dollars in our checking account," Lucy interrupted him. She stepped back to survey his appearance with a nod of approval. "Miss Henrietta is John Rogell's sister ... and only living relative."

"The millionaire who died a couple of days ago." Shayne shrugged and tossed off the rest of his cognac. He crumpled the cups in a big fist and dropped them into a wastebasket, then closed the checkbook and shoved it aside. "All right, Miss Hamilton. Show her in."

Shayne got to his feet behind the desk when Lucy ushered the prospective client into his office a few moments later. Miss Rogell looked to be a tough seventy. She was tall and angular, and had a seamed face that had the color and appearance of old leather. Brown hair that was liberally streaked with gray was drawn back tightly from her face into an untidy bun. She wore a gray silk suit with pleated skirt, and loose jacket that hung awkwardly from bony shoulders. Expensive white silk gloves were incongruous below brown and sinewy bare forearms. Service-weight hose accentuated thick calves, and her shoes were sturdy brown oxfords that were probably hand-crafted.

Lucy said, "This is Miss Henrietta Rogell, Mr. Shayne," and went out, closing the door to the private office.

Shayne blandly inclined his head and motioned to an upholstered armchair beside his desk. "Won't you have a seat, Miss Rogell?"

She strode forward, flat-footed, and said, "Of course I'll have a seat, young man. You don't expect me to remain standing, do you? I expect this to be quite a lengthy interview." Her voice matched her appearance. It was strong and deep without being harsh or masculine. She lowered herself solidly into the chair and planted both feet flat in front of her with knees together.

"Now then, before I waste any more of my time, I want to know exactly what your charges are."

Shayne sat down in his swivel chair and leaned back comfortably. "My charges for what?"

"For whatever you do. Detecting, of course. You do call yourself a detective, I believe."

Shayne said gravely, "I am a detective, Miss Rogell. Licensed by the state of Florida to practice that profession. Tell me your problem and we can discuss the fee later."

She said, "Nonsense. I'm too old to buy a pig in a poke. Let's have it understood from the beginning so there'll be no outrageous bill for me to pay at the end. Exactly what do you consider your time worth?"

Shayne got a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket and lit one. He blew out the match with a stream of smoke and said, "That depends entirely on what I am able to do for you. I think you've come to the wrong office, Miss Rogell," he went on briskly before she could speak. "My secretary can give you a list of half a dozen competent detectives who will quote you a flat daily rate for their services ... plus expenses ... and they won't pad the expense account too heavily. I think you'd be happier with one of them."

Her eyes were very clear and very blue. They remained unwinkingly fixed on his face as he spoke and her leathery face showed no trace of expression.

"You have no regular rate of charges?"

Shayne blandly expelled smoke from both nostrils and shook his head. "No more so than a self-respecting attorney has."

"What assurance do I have that you won't accept my case and then gouge me for some fantastic amount after doing nothing to earn it?"

Shayne said, "You have no assurance at all, Miss Rogell, that I won't do exactly that." He put his hands flat on the desk in front of him and half rose from his chair. "My secretary will give you that list of names on your way out."

She remained firmly seated and said, "Humph. I like plain speaking, young man. I'm a plain-spoken person myself. I want you to prove that my brother was murdered and to see that the person or persons responsible are made to pay for the crime."

Shayne hesitated, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully, and then sank back into his chair. "I understood from the newspapers that your brother died of a heart attack."

"Of course. That's what they called it. But I know John was poisoned."

"How do you know?"

"Because I have eyes to see what's going on, and a brain to add two and two together. If I had the proof I wouldn't be here in your office, obviously. That's what I'm hiring you for."

Shayne said, "Murder is a matter for the police, Miss Rogell. Have you discussed your suspicions with them?"

"Do I look like a complete nincompoop? Of course I have. I called the police immediately after John died, and the two detectives who came just listened to me politely and promised they would investigate. Investigate?" Her upper lip curled bitterly over the word. "They asked a few questions of the very people who fed John the poison, and then went away saying they would file a report."

"Did they?"

"I suppose they did, and I'd give a great deal to see just what sort of report they filed. I think it's my right to see it, and I demanded a look at it from Chief Gentry just an hour ago. I'm a taxpayer, I told him, and my taxes help pay your salary and your entire force. But he beat around the bush and said the matter was closed. He refuses to order an autopsy even after I told him about the attempt on my own life last night. He thinks there must be some mistake ... that I must be exaggerating. Oh, I could tell just what he was thinking while he sat there on his fat behind in that plushy office that we taxpayers support. He thinks I'm an hysterical old female with a persecution complex. But how does he explain the fact that the dog died in convulsions after eating the food that had been poisoned for my special benefit? How do you think he explains that?"

Shayne said politely, "I have no idea. I do know Will Gentry quite well, and he's an efficient and honest police officer."

"But none of them will listen to me," she said grimly. "They all listen to that simpering hussy who married John for his money, and to her paramour who signed the death certificate."

"For the dog?" asked Shayne with interest.

"Of course not for the dog. For John. That young whippersnapper she brought in and foisted on my brother after old Dr. Jenson died two months ago. I warned John against him, but he wouldn't listen to me. Oh, no! The only person he listened to was Anita."

"The death certificate?" said Shayne patiently. "Did it specifically state a heart attack?"

"Naturally. What else would you expect a widow's lover to say about her husband's death? Would you expect him to suggest an autopsy ... knowing full well it must be poison?"

"Let's get back to the dog," said Shayne patiently. "When did it die ... and how did it come to eat your food?"

"Because I fed it to him out of my plate, that's why." Henrietta Rogell's voice was grimly triumphant. "At supper last night. After I had spoken my mind to them plainly, and I could see they were frightened. I told them right out that I knew John had been poisoned by one or all of them, and I intended to prove it. I warned them I was going to force an autopsy on John before he was cremated tomorrow, and I could see they were frightened. So I had this premonition when the buffet supper was served. It was such a perfect opportunity to get rid of me that I was suspicious. And when I tasted my creamed chicken I knew. And I slipped some on a saucer to her nasty little dog and he lapped it up. And ten minutes later he was dead. And your efficient and honest chief of police says that's no proof," she went on bitterly. "Just a coincidence, he says ... or an accident. And he says his hands are tied because the chicken was all thrown down the garbage disposal and there's nothing left to analyze. Why not the dog? I asked him. And I ask you. Wouldn't that be proof that they tried to kill me? But dear little Daffy is already buried and can't be disturbed. Why not? Because he was the darling of Anita's heart and she just can't bear to think of his sacred remains being desecrated by some bad old doctor making a stomach analysis. And your Will Gentry says he can't legally do a thing if she refuses permission to dig him up."

When she stopped long enough to catch her breath, Shayne said mildly, "Let's go back to supper last night and exactly what happened. You spoke of them several times ... saying you warned them you were planning to have an autopsy on your brother before his body is cremated. Exactly who is 'them'?"

"Anita and that no-good brother of hers, and Harold Peabody and Dr. Evans," she said promptly. "I'm sure they're all in it together. That is, I think Harold planned it all and put her up to it ... and then with Dr. Evans twisted around her little finger the way he is, it was in the cards for him to cover up for her. And I wouldn't be surprised if that chauffeur and Mrs. Blair were mixed up in it too," she added darkly. "The way I've seen Anita looking at the chauffeur and rubbing against him when she thought nobody was looking. And even Mrs. Blair is changed since John married Anita. I always thought that she and John ... well."

She shook her head and shrugged and continued briskly, "So I made sure all of them were there when I told them right out that the wool wasn't pulled over my eyes. Those four sitting there guzzling John's liquor with his funeral tomorrow, and Mrs. Blair coming in and out from the kitchen fixing the table, and Charles lolling out in the kitchen listening to every word that was said. Any one of those six could have slipped the poison into my little chafing dish of creamed chicken because they were all having a casserole of curried shrimp and I'm allergic to seafood and every one of them knew the creamed chicken was just for me and no one else would touch it. So it was safe enough, and I wouldn't be here to tell you about it if I hadn't thought to try it out on her dog first."

"And you say all the rest of the special dish prepared for you was disposed of after the dog died?" Shayne asked with interest.

"You can be sure of that. By the time I called the police, and the detectives got there ... not a smidgen of chicken left. Not even the pot it was cooked in. All washed clean as a whistle. And the dog already taken out by Charles to be buried so the detectives couldn't even look at it. And still your chief of police can't see anything suspicious in all that. And if something isn't done by this time tomorrow before the funeral, it'll be just too late. Because John will be burned up and there'll never be any proof he was poisoned by the woman he married and the men she's been carrying on with right under his nose in his own house."

"Will Gentry," said Shayne thoughtfully, "is hedged in by a lot of official rules and regulations. Even though he was personally suspicious, there's hardly any official action he could take."

"But you're not," she said tensely.

"I'm not hedged in by anything except my own conscience," he conceded with a wry grin.

"Chief Gentry intimated as much ... when he advised me to consult a private detective if I wasn't satisfied with the official investigation made by his men."

"Gentry sent you to me?" Shayne asked in surprise.

"Not in so many words. I did ask him to recommend a private detective and he refused. But I've read about some of your cases, of course, in the papers, and when I asked him point-blank whether even half of the things they say about you are true, he laughed and said just about half. But I got the impression he would be personally pleased if I did come here."

"We have worked together in the past," Shayne agreed. He leaned forward to mash out the very short butt of his cigarette in a tray, and asked abruptly, "Exactly what do you want me to do, Miss Rogell?"

"Why ... it seems obvious to me. Have the dog's body dissected and analyzed at once. Even Chief Gentry agreed with me that if it were proved my creamed chicken was poisoned he would feel that was sufficient evidence for ordering an autopsy on John."

"You say the dog is already buried?"

"Oh, yes. Anita saw to that. She had Charles remove it at once and take it out to bury it on the grounds. Last night while the detectives were there, they asked Charles where the grave was, and he refused to tell them after Anita ordered him not to. I really think the detectives would have dug it up for examination if they'd known where to find it, but I guess they felt they had no authority to force him to tell them."

"Neither have I," said Shayne bluntly. "Without the dog's body, I don't see what I can do."

"Find it," she shot at him grimly.

Shayne shrugged. "It may be difficult ... particularly if the chauffeur is as intimate with Mrs. Rogell as you imply."

"Take my word for it, he is," she told him sharply. "But you call yourself a detective and I assume you plan to charge me an outlandish price for your services ... so I suggest you start detecting. Finding the day-old grave of a little dog on the grounds of our estate should not be a superhuman task."

Shayne grinned at her suddenly and rumpled his red hair. There was something damned likable about the old girl and her unshakable convictions. He said cheerfully, "All right. I'll start detecting. But there's the small matter of a retainer first."

"How small a matter?" she demanded, gimlet-eyed.

"Say five hundred. You can leave a check with my secretary on your way out."

"Isn't that somewhat ... excessive?"

He met her gaze coldly. "It all depends on your point of view, Miss Rogell. As I explained before, my secretary will be happy to furnish you with a list of investigators who will charge between thirty and fifty dollars a day."

Her clear, blue gaze locked with his for a number of seconds. Then she arose composedly and said, "I will be happy to leave a check with your secretary."

Shayne arose with her. "One final thing," he said as she neared the door. "If you're serious in believing someone at the Rogell house tried to poison you yesterday, I'd move out of the house fast."

She turned with her hand on the knob and smiled for the first time since she had entered his office. It was a wintry smile, but a smile none the less. "I am not a complete fool, Mr. Shayne. I took that elementary precaution last night. For the time being, I am occupying a suite at the Waldorf Towers. Where I shall remain until I can return to the house I have lived in for thirty years without fear for my life." She opened the door and went out with a queer sort of dignity in her mannish stride.

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Excerpted from Die Like a Dog by Brett Halliday. Copyright © 1959 Brett Halliday. Excerpted by permission of MysteriousPress.com.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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