Brett Halliday - Die Like a Dog

In a highly emotional state and with much sobbing, Anita had related how John had appeared in good spirits when she entered the room with his tray and shooed Peabody out. Her husband was already in pajamas and robe, she told them, and she poured out his hot drink herself and sat with him while he drank it. Then she had gone into his separate bedroom with him (they occupied adjoining suites with a large connecting bath) and there was some indication, in halting testimony, that they might have been preparing to have intercourse when he suddenly groaned and stiffened in his bed, and a moment later his body became rigid and his breathing shallow and fast. It was then she had run to the head of the stairs to shout for the doctor, and when she returned to the bedroom a moment later, she could no longer detect his breathing. Henrietta had then come in from her own suite at the end of the hallway, and angrily berated her for being an unfaithful wife… then gone on to an open accusation of murder.

The officers had also interviewed Charles, who told them he had been in his quarters above the garage reading a magazine until about ten when he had come to the kitchen for a snack and had chatted with Mrs. Blair for a time while she was preparing Mr. Rogell’s hot chocolate milk. He had returned to his apartment and was in bed when he heard the excitement in the big house and realized that something was wrong.

That, in essence, was the contents of the report Petrie and Donovan had made of their investigation. Discounting Henrietta’s almost hysterical accusations, there was nothing whatsoever to indicate that John Rogell had not died a perfectly natural death. But as he discussed the case with the two detectives, after reading their report, Shayne discovered they had not been altogether as wholly satisfied as the report indicated. There was definite agreement between them that it was quite possible Anita’s grief was not as genuine as she tried to make it appear. Little things they had noticed, including a certain change in her manner when she looked at Charles and spoke to him for the first time since she had become a widow. Nothing you could put your finger on, they explained, but you got a feeling of, at least, a sort of relief between the two of them that it was all over.

They pointed out, however, that this did not necessarily mean they were guilty of anything more than possibly having had some sort of affair under the old man’s nose. Certainly, it was nothing on which to base a suspicion of murder.

Also, while trying to interview Marvin Dale in his drunken condition, he had openly admitted his pleasure in Rogell’s death, muttering that things would be different around the house now, and strongly intimating that his sister’s millionaire husband had disapproved of his sponging on her and had practically ordered her to cease providing him with funds.

And, of course, there was Henrietta. But you could see that her nose was completely out of joint and that she deeply resented Anita and would stop at nothing to harm her.

So there you were, the detectives said, and how in hell can you make murder out of any of that?

They had turned in a shorter report on the death of Daffy. Again, they had been sent to the Rogell house after an almost hysterical call from Henrietta insisting that this time someone had tried to murder her. Again, they had found exactly the same group of people present, with Marvin a little more sober and slightly more coherent this time, and all of them somewhat drawn together and somewhat on the defensive, as they related Henrietta’s impassioned harangue shortly before dinner, during which she had accused them all, singly or in unholy conspiracy, of having poisoned her brother. She had warned them flatly that she was going to demand an autopsy on John’s body, and was prepared to take whatever legal measures were necessary to force such action.

Then they had sat down at the dining table for dinner together and Henrietta had been served her special plate of creamed chicken from a chafing dish that had stood on the sideboard for half an hour, the others all sharing a dish of curried shrimp because Henrietta’s allergy to seafood was well-known to all.

None of them at the table, it appeared, had noticed Henrietta when she surreptitiously removed some of her chicken to a saucer and put it down on the floor beside her for Daffy. Indeed, Anita had insisted that she had done no such thing, and Peabody was quietly dubious as to whether she could have done so without being noticed… but anyhow the little dog had had convulsions and died almost at once… and Henrietta insisted she hadn’t eaten any of her chicken.

But the last scrap of it had vanished by the time the officers arrived, and even the chafing dish and Henrietta’s plate and the dog’s saucer had been washed clean.

Sure, that looked suspicious, they both agreed, but you had to blame Mrs. Blair for it because it appeared no one had ordered her to do so, and it was pretty hard to suspect the plump and pleasant housekeeper of murder and attempted murder.

But the swift burial of Daffy was a somewhat different matter. All of the witnesses agreed that Anita had become hysterical after her pet’s death, and called Charles in and ordered him to take Daffy’s dead body away from her sight and bury the bitch at once. Her explanation of this somewhat suspicious action was that she had a deep-rooted phobia about death and corpses and could not stand the sight or thought of them.

But when the detectives pointed out that it would clarify matters and either prove or disprove Henrietta’s contention that her chicken had been poisoned if they could take the dog’s body for analysis, Anita had arrogantly denied the need to disprove Henrietta’s absurd charge, and had flatly ordered Charles not to show the detectives where Daffy was buried.

“So, there you have it,” Petrie summed up the situation with a shrug. “Sure, it looked suspicious but we couldn’t force them to show us the dog’s grave. Maybe we could have taken it into court and got a search warrant, but Will Gentry didn’t think so.”

Shayne nodded thoughtfully and said, “Let’s go back to Rogell’s death. Check your report and read me exactly what Peabody said about his leaving the couple together upstairs.”

Petrie shuffled some typewritten pages clipped together and said, “Let’s see. Here it is.” He cleared his throat and began reading:

“Mr. Rogell and I concluded our business shortly before midnight and were smoking a final cigar when Mrs. Rogell came in from the bathroom, carrying a thermos jug and a cup, and a bottle containing her husband’s heart medicine which I knew he took every night. She was dressed in a negligee, and was very sweet, but wifely and firm, when she insisted it was time for John’s medicine and I would have to go. She put the cup and jug on a bedside table, and measured out his medicine with an eye-dropper into the cup. I said good night to them both and went out while she was pouring hot chocolate into the cup.”

Petrie stopped and looked up. “Want me to go on?”

Shayne said, “No. But I do want to get it straight in my mind about that thermos jug. The way I understand it, Mrs. Blair fixed the chocolate drink in the kitchen as was her custom, and left it on the dining table about eleven o’clock before she retired.”

“That’s the way she told it,” Donovan said. “They all said she did it that way every night, and that it was understood Anita would take it up at midnight and give the old man his daily dose of medicine… and from some other things that was said we got the idea she was maybe gonna give him his daily dose of something else along with it.” He snickered. “Isn’t that right, Jim?”

“Yeh. She’d be the one to do that little thing… just in case the chauffeur didn’t give her all she wanted.” Petrie looked at Shayne, “You’re thinking there might have been something else in his cup of hot milk besides medicine?”