and frank curiosity as he stopped in front of them and said to Shayne, “I don’t recall… I don’t know you, do I?”
“Who cares whether you know him or not, Harold?” said Polly gaily. “Important thing is, I know him. Make with the hospitality and champagne so’s he can catch up a little teensy bit.”
Shayne said, “You’re Peabody?”
“That’s right.” The broker’s eyes narrowed. His voice became cool and very thin. “I don’t recall inviting you to this party.”
Of all the people in the room, Peabody appeared to be the most sober. Indeed, Shayne’s first, swift impression of the man was that he was a type to carefully gauge his intake of liquor on every occasion and never allow alcohol to cloud his coldly calculating mind. It was a type Shayne disliked and distrusted, and he said in a flat voice, “I didn’t know you were having a party and I’m sorry to interrupt. But there’s something I’d like to discuss briefly.”
“Oh, come on.” Polly tugged at his arm. “You can’t discuss anything without a drink. It isn’t decent.”
Both men disregarded her. Harold Peabody teetered forward slightly on the balls of his feet. “I can’t think of anything that needs discussion at this hour. I think you’d better go.”
The detective said, “My name is Shayne, Mr. Peabody. Michael Shayne.”
There was not a flicker of expression on the thinly arrogant features in front of him to indicate that the name meant anything to Peabody. But he said decisively, “I can think of nothing I wish to discuss with a private detective. Certainly, not here and at this hour. If you wish to call my secretary in the morning for an appointment…”
Shayne shook his red head slowly. “I want some answers now. If we could step into another room…?”
“Gee, golly, gosh!” exclaimed Polly loudly, so everyone in the room turned to listen. “A real, live private eye. Mike Shayne, no less. Anybody know where the body’s hid?”
Peabody lifted one slender, well-manicured hand in a gesture of annoyance. He said stiffly, “Control yourself, Polly. If you insist, Mr. Shayne…” He turned to a hallway leading to the left, and Shayne smiled down at Polly and disengaged her hand from his arm. “Sorry, darling, but duty calls. You have that drink. Have two of them,” he added generously as he followed his reluctant host down the hall and into a small study.
“Now then,” said Peabody, closing the door firmly, “please explain this unwarranted intrusion.”
Shayne said roughly, “Come off your high horse, Peabody. You know why I’m here as well as I do.”
The broker did not reply. He stood very stiff and still, waiting for the detective to go on.
“Are you going to deny,” demanded Shayne hotly, “that you know Miss Rogell retained me today to investigate her brother’s death?”
A faintly contemptuous smile twitched Peabody’s tight lips. “I don’t feel myself under any obligation to either deny or confirm anything, Mr. Shayne.”
“The hell you say. This is a murder investigation, Peabody.”
“Murder? May I ask who the victim is?”
“Miss Rogell is certain her brother was murdered.”
“I was present at the time of his death,” Peabody pointed out coldly. “I was there when his own doctor signed a death certificate stating his demise was due to natural causes. I am also fully aware that our excellent police department made careful investigation into the circumstances of John Rogell’s death and are completely satisfied with their results. This hardly adds up to murder in my lexicon.”
“What about the bereaved widow’s pet bitch?” demanded Shayne.
“Ah, yes. Daffy. A most unpleasant little creature. What about her?”
“I don’t believe anyone signed a death certificate for her.”
“But there was another thorough police investigation,” Peabody reminded him acidly. “With the same negative results. See here,” he went on impatiently. “I have guests in the other room. I suggest you investigate and be damned, but I fail to see that it is any concern of mine.”
“You know I’ve got Daffy’s body,” Shayne challenged. “And if it is proved that the dog died from a dose of poison intended for Miss Rogell, it will be accepted as prima-facie evidence that the attempt was made on her life because she refused to accept the findings on her brother. An autopsy on John Rogell will then be a foregone conclusion.”
“I know nothing of the sort,” said Peabody indifferently. “I understood that Daffy had been interred and that Mrs. Rogell… quite properly in my opinion… refused to have the body of her pet desecrated to satisfy an old woman’s obviously absurd suspicions.”
Shayne said harshly, “I think you’re lying, Peabody. Don’t tell me Anita didn’t get on the phone to you the moment she discovered Daffy had been dug up.”
“I don’t intend to stand here and be insulted in my own home,” said Peabody. “Leave immediately or I’ll call the police and ledge a formal complaint.”
Shayne slapped him. The force of his openhanded blow rocked the broker sideways and he staggered to keep his footing. Shayne’s eyes were blazing as his right hand shot out and grabbed the scarlet lapels of the smoking jacket tightly at Peabody’s throat and jerked him upright.
“Lodge all the goddamned complaints you want,” he grated. “But listen to one thing, Peabody, and pass the word along to anybody else who may be interested.” He lifted the broker off the floor and shook him viciously, and Peabody’s face went ashen and he made gurgling noises in his throat.
“If anything happens to Lucy Hamilton, I’ll kill the man who’s responsible. Personally, and with distinct pleasure. I don’t know whether it was your idea or not, but if it was, it was the worst goddamned mistake you ever made. Tell Anita and Charles and all the rest of them that.” He flung Peabody back angrily and the broker crashed into a desk behind him.
Shayne turned and jerked the door open and stalked out of the study. He looked neither to right nor left as he strode through the end of the living room and out the entryway. He slammed the outer door behind him and stabbed viciously at the elevator button, frustrated rage mingling with the realization that he had been utterly childish in his handling of the situation.
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.
