Brett Halliday - Die Like a Dog

“Jeez, I dunno.” The bartender waved his hands vaguely. “You know how it is. Just in a manner of speaking, I guess.”

“What I mean,” said Shayne carefully, “is whether he looked like a man that needed a square meal more than a flop for the night. We know he walked out of here with about six bucks,” he explained. “I’m trying to put myself in his position and guess what direction he’d head in. With six bucks to spend. More liquor?” Shayne shook his head slowly. “He could have got that right here as well as some place else. Food… or a flop?”

“With six dollars, he could buy both right here on Miami Avenue,” the bartender told him. “Plenty places up the street he could fill his belly for a buck or two. Beds for a dollar up.”

Shayne nodded grimly. He knew it was hopeless. From the beginning he had realized it was useless to hope he could trace the man after he walked away from the Shamrock with a boilermaker under his belt and six dollars in hand. But he still had to try. There were empty hours of the night still stretching out in front of him, and he’d be happier doing something instead of sitting at home waiting for another day.

So, he tried.

He left his car parked in front of the Shamrock and took the east side of Miami Avenue first, working his way northward for six blocks, stopping at every hole-in-the-wall eating or drinking joint, stubbornly climbing up one or two flights of stairs at every cheap hotel, repeating his queries over and over again and getting the same negative replies.

Six blocks north, he crossed to the west side and worked his way back, passing the Shamrock on the opposite side of the Avenue and continuing south to Flagler. There, he went to the east side again, and back to the Shamrock. It was full daylight by the time he completed the full circuit, and all the bars and eateries were closed.

It was still much too early to do anything else, so he turned to the right on Fourth Street and continued his canvas of the rooming houses on the south side of the street for three blocks, and then back on the north side across the Avenue for three blocks and then back on the other side to his parked car.

It was after seven o’clock when he got behind the steering wheel again and drove back to his hotel. His face was gaunt with exhaustion and his eyes red-rimmed with lack of sleep, and he had accomplished exactly nothing.

But he had tried.

Back in his own room, he walked past the cognac bottle on the center table into the small kitchen and put a teakettle of water to heat. He measured six heaping tablespoons of finely ground coffee into the top of a dripolator, waited beside the stove until the water boiled, and poured the top of the drip-pot full. Then he went into the bathroom, shedding clothes as he went, shaved carefully and took a stinging hot shower, following it with the coldest water that Miami offered.

Then he sat down in the livingroom with a mug of strong black coffee and waited for his telephone to ring.

He dressed in fresh clothes while he waited, and when the telephone finally did ring it was Will Gentry as he anticipated.

“I just got the autopsy report, Mike.”

“And?”

“John Rogell died of heart failure.”

The tenseness went out of Shayne and he clawed at his red hair unhappily.

“No question about it?”

“None whatever. Doc Higgins did a complete and careful job. Rogell’s heart just stopped beating… as Doctor Jenson had warned him it might do if he married a young woman at his age and with his heart condition.”

Shayne said, “Then why in hell did someone try to feed Henrietta strychnine… and kidnap Lucy to try and prevent the autopsy?”

Gentry said soberly, “Forgive me for kidding about it, Mike. He did die because his heart stopped beating… on account of he ingested at least a teaspoonful of tincture of digitalis within half an hour before he died.”

Shayne said, “Goddamn it, Will…”

“All right. I apologized. I know how worried you are about Lucy. Still nothing on her?”

“I had a telephone call from her last night… to say she was okay and would be okay if the autopsy weren’t done and the funeral went off without any hitch.”

“Do you believe it, Mike?”

“As much as I believe any goddamned kidnapper.” Shayne’s voice was harsh with strain. “Who knows about the autopsy?”

“Doc Higgins and I… and the undertaker.”

“You know the undertaker personally?”

“Not personally, but it was put to him in no uncertain terms last night that no one was to suspect the body had left his place. He’ll be in court charged with hampering a homicide investigation if it leaks out… and he knows it. I think we’re safe on that score, Mike. Rogell is back in his coffin and there’s no reason on God’s earth why he shouldn’t be cremated at noon with no one being the wiser.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Will.”

“Hell, I’m as worried about Lucy as you are. On the other hand, Mike… now we’ve got definite proof Rogell was murdered by someone in the house that evening. We’ll work as quickly as possible, but…”

“Tell me about the digitalis,” Shayne interrupted. “Isn’t that a regular medicine for the heart?”

“Sure. Rogell had been on the stuff for years. A daily dose of twelve drops had been keeping him alive. Doctor Jenson prescribed it first, and the new fellow… Evans… kept the dosage the same. Everyone knew he had to have his twelve drops daily, and that’s probably why they used the stuff to kill him… hoping the extra amount wouldn’t be noticed if there was an autopsy.”

“How many people would have known a teaspoonful would be deadly?”

“Probably everyone who had anything to do with his care. Higgins says they would have been warned the dose had to be measured very accurately… that an excess amount would be dangerous to a man in his condition.”

“And the manner of death?” queried Shayne sharply. “Would that match Evans’ diagnosis and his death certificate?”

“Exactly. Higgins admits he would have signed the death certificate himself under those same circumstances. He attaches no blame to Evans.”

“How could they get the old man to take so large a dose?”

“That was the easiest part of it, Mike. Here’s the complete picture as we have it now. His wife always administered the twelve drops personally about midnight before he went to sleep. She gave it to him in a cup of hot chocolate milk which the housekeeper prepared in the kitchen each evening and put in a thermos jug downstairs before she retired. This would have been common household knowledge, of course. The medicine bottle was kept in the bathroom shared by Rogell and his wife. Anita could have poured an extra teaspoonful in his milk on that particular night… or just about anyone else in the house could have got hold of the bottle and slipped it into the thermos jug downstairs.”

“That leaves it nice and wide open,” said Shayne bitterly.

“Right. Now I want to know what in hell you’re doing about Lucy.”

Shayne said, “I’ve got to talk to you, Will. Don’t make a move until I see you. And can you have the detectives on tap who went out to Rogell’s that night?”

“I will. But, Mike! Don’t expect me to sit on this. We’ve got a poisoner who has killed once, and made a second attempt.”

“And he or she has got Lucy,” Shayne reminded him grimly.

Gentry said with heavy finality, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office,” and hung up.

As the result of a telephone call, Timothy Rourke met the detective at a side entrance to police headquarters. They paused outside while Shayne briefly explained the latest developments to Rourke, and then they went in to Gentry’s private office together.