Brett Halliday - Die Like a Dog

“It’s… I don’t know. A good little distance. There’s a lot of shrubbery between, and the path winds quite a lot.”

“Out of earshot?”

“Oh, yes. Michael, do you really think you should…?”

He nodded emphatically. “I think I’ll try my luck fishing from a rowboat on the bay about dusk tonight. I’ll have to manage to locate the Rogell boathouse before dark from out on the bay. That may present a problem.” He frowned thoughtfully and glanced at his watch, “Get Tim Rourke on the phone, angel. He’s pretty good with a pair of oars.”

Lucy compressed her lips and went back to her desk without protesting further. When she had Timothy Rourke on the wire, the redhead said, “Are you very busy, Tim?”

“No more than usual.” Alerted by the detective’s casual tone, the Daily News reporter, added, “Not too busy to get on the trail of a story.”

“How’d you like to go fishing?”

After a brief silence, Rourke demanded incredulously, “This is Mike Shayne, isn’t it? Did you say fishing?”

Shayne grinned at the phone and said, “That’s right. You know, in a rowboat on the Bay. With poles and lines with hooks on them.”

“What are we going to fish for, Mike?” asked Rourke resignedly.

“A dead dog.”

Rourke said, “I see.” There was a longer pause this time, then the reporter demanded hopefully, “Have you got in on the Rogell deal?”

“I just suggested going fishing for a dead dog. You want to go along?”

“You bet. When?”

“I think the best time will be shortly after dark, but we should take a boat from the Fisherman’s pier a little before sundown. Can you meet me there about seven.”

Rourke said, “Will do,” and Shayne caught him before he could hang up:

“Know where you can get hold of a shovel?”

“What kind of shovel?”

“One that digs… in the ground?”

“I’ve got a short-handled spade in the back of my car. Look, Mike. If it is the Rogell thing…”

Shayne said blandly, “Bring your short-handled spade along, Tim. Fisherman’s Wharf at seven.”

At early dusk that evening a small rowboat was quartering lazily about a half mile offshore on the smooth surface of Biscayne Bay some two miles southwesterly from the municipal docks. There were two men in the boat. Michael Shayne sat in the stern, hunched over with elbows on his knees, wearing a newly-purchased, cheap straw hat, and with a fishing rod extended over the stern trailing a line in the water with an unbaited hook on the end of it.

Timothy Rourke sat toward the bow facing Shayne’s hunched back and rowing easily. He had a bottle of bourbon between his feet, and he shipped his oars at brief intervals to take a sip from the bottle. Rourke was very thin and bony, with almost emaciated features, and he grimaced as he shipped his oars again and looked down at the palms of his hands. “I’m getting blisters, Mike. How about you taking over?”

Shayne said, “Sure. But right now let’s drift for awhile.” He studied the curving palm-lined shoreline through narrowed eyes, and said, “I’d guess one of those three boathouses opposite us must be the Rogell place.”

“Seems about right,” Rourke agreed. “But which one? We’ve got to decide that before dark.”

Shayne said, “We can row in closer after a little. Lucy said there was a private dock and stairs leading up the bluff.”

“You can row in,” Rourke said shortly. He shaded his eyes to study the three boathouses with Shayne, and announced, “There’s someone down at the center dock. If we could get in close enough to ask him…”

“Looks to me like he’s getting out a boat. Maybe we can intercept him without being too obvious about it.” Shayne turned on his seat to stretch out a long arm. “Let me have a shot of that rotgut before you pass out.”

Rourke grinned amiably and passed him the bottle. The little boat rocked gently on the very faint swell, and there was utter silence and tranquility in the early evening air until it was broken by the rapid put-putting of an outboard motor from the shore.

Shayne took the bottle away from his mouth, making a wry face at the taste of Tim’s whiskey, and said with satisfaction, “He’s headed out in this direction. Get your line over the side and make like you’re fishing too. If he’s on fishing bent, he’ll never be able to resist stopping by to see how we’re doing.”

Rourke grunted and leaned forward to lift a jointed trolling rod that had been furnished them by the owner of the rented boat. He stuck it over the side and let out line so the weighted hook sank beneath the surface. “Just so he doesn’t pull up close enough to see the shovel and wonder what in hell we’re doing with it on a fishing trip.”

“Toss your trenchcoat over it.” The small skiff with its outboard motor pushing it through the water was describing a curving route that would bring it close to the drifting row-boat. They could see there was only one figure in the rear handling the tiller, and as it approached closer they could see it was a lad in his early teens. True to the tradition of fishermen, he did cut his outboard as he swept in to cross their bow, and they saw he was a fresh-faced, deeply-tanned youngster with a crew cut and an ingenuous smile as he hailed them with a true-to-form, “Having any luck?”

“Not a damned bite so far,” Shayne called back disgustedly. “Are there any fish in this bay, or is that just a Chamber of Commerce come-on for Yankee suckers?”

The lad chuckled delightedly as his skiff drifted past forty feet beyond their bow. “Plenty of fish all right, if you know where to look,” he told them, as condescending as only youth can be. “But, heck, it’s a mile deep hereabouts. You got to get out to the reef about two miles that-away.” He waved his hand in an easterly direction. “I’m going out to anchor if you wanta follow along. Just about good dark is when they start biting.”

“Just about good dark we’ll be back at the wharf where we belong,” Rourke grunted. “Say, are you from the Rogell place?”

“Naw. That’s the next one south from us. None of them ever do any fishing.” The lad spat in the water to express his contempt for neighbors who didn’t fish, and leaned over to pull the starting rope of his motor. It caught at once and he surged on eastward with a wave of his hand for the two landlubbers who thought all you had to do was drop a hook in the water to catch fish.

“Now that,” said Shayne feelingly, looking at the wake of the departing skiff, “is what I consider a fine, outstanding example of All-American youth. We’ve got it made, Tim,” he exulted, transferring his gaze to the boathouse indicated by the lad. “See those gray stone turrets above the treetops on the bluff. That’s just the way Lucy described the Rogell house. We should be able to see lights there after dark to guide us in.”

“Yep,” said Rourke. “The Shamus’ luck still holds. What do we do until it’s dark enough to try our luck?”

“I think we start rowing back toward the city… just in case anyone has noticed us from shore and starts wondering.”

“You start rowing,” said Rourke, looking at his inflamed palms again.”

“Sure,” Shayne agreed cheerfully. He stood up and they gingerly changed seats in the rocking boat, and the redhead put the oars in the water and awkwardly manoeuvred the bow around to head back toward the city, and sent it lazily in that direction.

Nightfall came slowly and almost imperceptibly to the Bay and the lone rowboat making sluggish way northwestward. Lights began to dot the hazy skyline of Miami in the distance, and, watching to their rear as he rowed, Shayne noted, with satisfaction, that the barely-seen turrets of the Rogell mansion also showed dimly lighted windows.