Brett Halliday - Die Like a Dog

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.”

The man shook his head decisively. “I’d remember him for sure. Nobody like that.”

Shayne said without much hope, “Try these two on for size.” He described Harold Peabody and Marvin Dale as best he could, realizing as he did so how commonplace both were, and how unlikely to arouse any particular notice from a busy bartender.

When the man again shook his head regretfully, Shayne finished his drink briskly and shoved a five across the counter. “Thanks for trying. Let’s take one more crack at it from another direction. You said the fellow was maybe twenty-five or thirty and needed a haircut. Wearing a ragged coat and hungry-looking. How hungry-looking?”