Brett Halliday - Die Like a Dog

Rourke was still standing beside the door when he reentered the sitting room. Shayne held out the tall glass and said pleasantly, “Want to gargle on this while I look at the bedroom?”

Rourke said, “Sure,” and came toward him. “What do you make of it?”

“Not much this far. Lucy was here… alone… for a couple of hours after dinner. Had one drink and left in a hurry.”

“Under duress?” Rourke took the drink from him, studying his face keenly.

Shayne shrugged. “I should guess not. There’d be an overturned glass… something to signal me. She’d know I’d be around…” His voice trailed off and he took a sip of cognac, then moved to the telephone and stared down moodily at the clean white pad beside it. No telephone numbers jotted, not even a doodle. But Lucy was not the doodling kind, he reminded himself.

He went into the neat bedroom in which the only sign of disarray or hurried departure was a pair of furry mules lying on their sides near the foot of the bed. With his intimate knowledge of Lucy’s habits, Shayne knew she had changed to them immediately after coming in, had hurriedly kicked them off and put on her shoes before going out again. It was another sign of hurried departure, but not necessarily of coercion.

He went to her closet and opened it and surveyed the neat contents with bleak eyes. The array of dresses and outer wraps on hangers told him nothing, but he did note the small overnight case on the shelf above, and knew she hadn’t packed for a protracted stay.

The bathroom was immaculate, as Lucy always kept it, and told him nothing more. Rourke was lounging in a deep chair when he came out, and his deep-set eyes regarded the detective with feverish brightness. “What does the mastermind make of it?”

Shayne sighed and crossed to the divan where he sank down and took a long sip of cognac. “She came in alone and relaxed for an hour or so… then ducked out hurriedly. I don’t think she had any idea what she was getting into, Tim. She’d have managed to do something… leave some sort of sign for me…”

Lucy Hamilton’s telephone rang.

Shayne’s hand jerked and some of his cognac spilled on the carpet. He crossed to the instrument in two strides and said, “Hello,” into the mouthpiece.

The voice that answered him was deep and strong, but undoubtedly feminine. “Is that you, Mr. Shayne?”

“Yes.”

“Your hotel gave me this number. Henrietta Rogell.”

Again, Shayne said, “Yes?”

“I must see you at once. At the Waldorf Towers. It’s a matter I cannot discuss over the telephone.”

Her voice was inflexibly determined, and Shayne wasted no time in what he realized would be useless argument. He said, “In a few minutes, Miss Rogell,” dropped the receiver and strode toward Rourke who was already on his feet draining his glass.

Without pausing on his way to the door, he said, “The Waldorf Towers, Tim. Drop me there and I’ll pick up my car at the dock later.”

Henrietta met him at the door of her suite wearing a faded gray bathrobe, cut along mannish lines, tightly belted about her lean waist, and with comfortable-looking carpet slippers on her bare feet. Her grayish hair was released from its tight bun, tied behind her head with a black ribbon in a sort of pony-tail and fluffed out loosely about her face to soften the hardness of her features somewhat.

Shayne entered a pleasantly-decorated and nicely furnished sitting room, and she closed the door behind him and strode past with bathrobe flapping about bare, stringy ankles to a glass coffee table in front of a sofa. “I’m drinking rye,” she announced, “with a smidgen of water to cut the bite. If you want some fancy mixed drink, I can call Room Service I guess.”

There was a bottle of bonded rye on the coffee table beside a hotel bucket of ice cubes, a water carafe, and one highball glass. Shayne said, “Rye and water will be fine,” and she went through a door at the end of the sitting room and returned with a clean glass. She handed it to him, saying, “Pour your own and I’ll do the same.”

The bottle was about a quarter full. Shayne poured an inch in the bottom of his glass, fished two cubes of ice out of the bucket with his fingers and dropped them in, poured water up to the halfway mark, and watched with interest while Henrietta put double that amount of whiskey in her glass, added one ice cube and about a tablespoonful of water.

She then took a folded sheet of yellow paper from a pocket of her bathrobe and handed it to him. “This was delivered at the desk half an hour ago. By a Western Union messenger, they said.”

Shayne read the same penciled writing as his own message:

“The dog is already dead but Lucy Hamilton ain’t-yet. Tell Shayne we mean business.”

Henrietta sat on one end of the sofa and watched the redhead’s face while he read it. “What does it mean?” she demanded. “Isn’t Lucy Hamilton that nice secretary in your office?”

Shayne nodded. He got out his message and handed it to her. “Both these were given to a downtown bartender about an hour ago by a bum for delivery to us.”

She read his note. “Then you did get hold of the dog?” There was a glitter of pleasure in her eyes. “As soon as you find she died from eating my poisoned creamed chicken, you can get an order delaying the funeral until they can do an autopsy on John, can’t you?”

Shayne said, “If the dog was poisoned. If I go on and have her stomach contents analyzed.”

“If you do,” she said sharply. “Isn’t that what I hired you for?”

Shayne sat down in a deep chair in front of her and crossed his long legs. He took a sip of his drink and said, “You’ve read those two notes. I was in Lucy Hamilton’s apartment when you phoned, and she’s missing. I think I’m going to step out of this case, Miss Rogell.”

“You can’t. I paid you an exorbitant fee for a day’s work and I have some rights in the matter. This silly note.” She waved it contemptuously. “It’s just a bluff to frighten you. I didn’t think you were that sort.”

Shayne said, “My hands are tied as long as they’ve got Lucy.”

“Nonsense! I won’t have it. I demand possession of that dog’s body. I paid for it.”

Shayne shook his head. “I’ll return your check tomorrow.”

“I’ll refuse to accept it. I’ll sue you. Now you listen to me, young man…”

“You listen to me.” He didn’t raise his voice but there was a finality about his tone that checked her protest. “Your brother is dead. Lucy Hamilton is alive. I want her to stay alive. It’s that simple.”

“So you’ll kow-tow to them? Let them get away with murder just because…”

“Just because I may save my secretary’s life by so doing.” Shayne’s voice was harsh. “Exactly. Now that you understand the situation, you can cooperate by telling me anything that might help get her back. Once she’s safe, I’m perfectly willing to go ahead… but not before.”

“But the funeral is at noon. John is to be cremated and then it will be too late to do anything.”

“All the more reason we should move fast to find Lucy,” grated Shayne. “Who do you think wrote those notes?”

“They sound like Charles.”

“That’s what I thought. But I’ve got reason to think Charles wasn’t physically capable of snatching Lucy. Who else among those you suspect?”

“Any one of them. Or all of them put together. If Charles didn’t write the notes, I’d guess it was someone else who tried to make them sound like Charles.”

“You mean Marvin, Anita, Mrs. Blair and the doctor.”

“And don’t forget Harold Peabody. Cold as a fish and sharp as a hound’s tooth. He’s got more brains in his little finger than all the others put together. Wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if he engineered the whole deal from the word go.”