Brett Halliday - Die Like a Dog

“Now, if you expect me to go out digging up dead dogs. Michael Shayne…” she began stormily, but he interrupted her with a briskly reproving, “You know I wouldn’t ask you to do anything like that, angel.”

He started out the door, paused and turned back. “Have you got the morning Herald? ”

“Right here.” She lifted a newspaper from in front of her. “I’ve been reading the item about the curious death of Mrs. Anita Rogell’s very highly-bred and very expensive Pekinese last night. Her registered name was Sombre Daffodil 3rd, but her mistress always called her Daffy.”

“So it’s actually written up in the paper,” said Shayne, openly pleased. “Anything about suspicion of poison?”

“Not a word. I guess they wouldn’t dare… it being John Rogell’s widow.”

Shayne nodded and said, “I guess not.” He strode out and was absent for a little more than two hours. Lucy was typing a letter when he returned, and he paused at the railing to ask, “Had your lunch?”

She nodded and he said, “Come in my office a moment.”

When Lucy entered, he seated her firmly in the client’s chair beside his desk and drew a beautifully printed, four-color, four-page brochure from his pocket. He placed it in front of Lucy and leaned over her shoulder to look down at it admiringly.

The cover was done in soft pastel colors. It showed a beautiful blue Persian cat on one side, facing a proud, black French poodle on the other. Between the two animals was an archway of weathered gray stone with an orange sunburst glowing through it from a distance. Neatly lettered on the archway were the words: Pet Haven Eternal.

Lucy looked at it wonderingly, caught her lower lip between her teeth and glanced up at him. “What on earth, Michael?”

“Look inside,” he told her gleefully. “Just read what Haven Eternal offers bereaved pet owners. You’ll never believe it if you don’t. Private burial plots, individually landscaped. Artistic grottos with sculptured friezes, and with iridescent colored lights that glow automatically from dusk till dawn… at a slight extra charge. A private chapel with piped-in organ music. A crematorium for those who wish that method of disposal. Rosewood caskets in all sizes, lined with varicolored satins. Read it for yourself,” he urged, turning to the first page. “Every word of it. You’ll never believe it otherwise.”

He swung away to the water cooler and poured himself a drink while Lucy Hamilton sat at the desk bemused, reading the printed words describing “Miami’s Most Beautiful and Most Exclusive Pet Cemetery”

When she turned the last page she looked up at him, shaking her brown curls vigorously. “But this is utterly fantastic, Michael. Do people actually go for this? It’s morbid and unhealthy. It… it makes me sort of sick to my stomach.”

“But you’re not one of the Anita Rogells of this world,” Shayne told her easily. “Don’t you think she might find this brochure completely fascinating?”

“Well… from what Henrietta said about her…” Lucy paused uneasily, studying Shayne’s bland expression. “You mean you think she might be persuaded to have her beloved Daffy disinterred and moved to this repulsive place?”

Shayne shrugged and said, “Seems reasonable. And I think you’re the one to persuade her.”

“Me? Now see here, Michael…”

“All in the interest of justice,” he told her soothingly. “If her Peke wasn’t poisoned, what’s the harm? The little darling ends up at Haven Eternal in much nicer surroundings than she has at present. She can even be cremated if Anita wants that… after her stomach contents have been analyzed. Sure, you can do it, angel. You look the part okay. Just memorize a few of the salient points in that brochure, and work out a sales pitch. Notice the place on Page Three where it says they are so discreet that a private car will call if desired, and an attendant in plain business suit will see to removing the remains of the departed pet. That’s me,” he explained with a grin. “I’ll turn up with a shovel as soon as you phone me that it’s all set. Here, I got this made for you,” he went on persuasively, opening his wallet and extracting a freshly printed business card. In large Gothic type, it said Pet Haven Eternal, and in small type in the lower left hand corner it said: Miss Lucy Hamilton.

“This should get you in to see the grieving widow,” he told her briskly. “From then on it should be duck soup for a gal of your talents. You’ll note the brochure very discreetly doesn’t even mention any prices, so you’re on your own if the matter of cost seems a major consideration. I know she’s probably heir to several millions, but sometimes those people squeeze a buck tighter than you or I do. So make the terms as attractive as you want. After it’s all over we’ll actually take Daffy to Haven Eternal and get her put away in style. What’s anybody got to lose… except the poisoner?” he added grimly, “if Daffy was poisoned.”

Lucy Hamilton shook her head, fluffing out her hair angrily. “Michael Shayne! You’re the darndest guy. Why I keep on working for you…”

“Because you love it,” he laughed at her. “You know you wouldn’t pass up this opportunity for anything. Take fifteen minutes to study up on the subject,” he said generously. “And when you get out there keep your eyes open and your wits about you. See the housekeeper if you can, and Anita’s brother who’s living off her. And the chauffeur… especially in relation to Anita. I’m depending on you, angel,” he went on seriously. “We’ve got to earn that five hundred bucks we extracted from Henrietta. Don’t forget you’re the one who insisted we needed a client and made me finish my drink and fixed me up pretty so she wouldn’t be revolted when she saw me. That makes it your responsibility. And it’s got to be done this afternoon. John Rogell is due to be cremated tomorrow unless we get evidence enough to order an autopsy on him.”

“But how will I ever explain that I know about Daffy?”

“That item in the paper,” Shayne reminded her. “Its a perfect excuse. Hell, if the Haven Eternal people were on their toes they’d already have contacted her. Let’s hope they’ve not.”

A long curving macadamized drive led off Brickel Avenue through beautifully landscaped grounds to the turreted mansion that John Rogell had built on the bayfront more than thirty years before. It was constructed of rough slabs of native limestone, aged and weathered by the years and the tropical sun. A rakish two-toned convertible and a sleek, black Thunderbird were parked under the long porte-cochere, and Lucy Hamilton pulled her light sedan up behind them.

She had stopped by her apartment to put on a wide and floppy-brimmed white hat, and she wore spotless white string gloves on the hands gripping the steering wheel nervously. In the neat white leather handbag on the seat beside her reposed the brochure from Haven Eternal, and the printed card her employer had given her was in a cardcase beside the brochure.

She sat motionless behind the wheel for a moment after shutting off the motor. There was a bright sun overhead, but the front of the house was shaded by huge cypress trees, and a light breeze from Biscayne Bay swept around the corner of the house behind her.

She drew in a deep breath with palpable effort, slowly expelled it, then unlatched the door at her left and picked up her bag. She circled between her car and the rear of the Thunderbird to wide and worn stone steps leading up to a white-columned verandah running the full length of the front of the house. She crossed weathered boards to the double oak doors and put the tip of her forefinger firmly on the electric button.