“For the dog?” asked Shayne with interest.
“Of course not for the dog. For John. That young whippersnapper she brought in and foisted on my brother after old Doctor Jenson died two months ago. I warned John against him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Oh, no! The only person he listened to was Anita.”
“The death certificate?” said Shayne patiently. “Did it specifically state a heart attack?”
“Naturally. What else would you expect a widow’s lover to say about her husband’s death? Would you expect him to suggest an autopsy… knowing full well it must be poison?”
“Let’s get back to the dog,” said Shayne patiently. “When did it die… and how did it come to eat your food?”
“Because I fed it to him out of my plate, that’s why.” Henrietta Rogell’s voice was grimly triumphant. “At supper last night. After I had spoken my mind to them plainly, and I could see they were frightened. I told them right out that I knew John had been poisoned by one or all of them, and I intended to prove it. I warned them I was going to force an autopsy on John before he was cremated tomorrow, and I could see they were frightened. So I had this premonition when the buffet supper was served. It was such a perfect opportunity to get rid of me that I was suspicious. And when I tasted my creamed chicken I knew. And I slipped some on a saucer to her nasty little dog and he lapped it up. And ten minutes later he was dead. And your efficient and honest chief of police says that’s no proof,” she went on bitterly. “Just a coincidence, he says… or an accident. And he says his hands are tied because the chicken was all thrown down the garbage disposal and there’s nothing left to analyze. Why not the dog? I asked him. And I ask you. Wouldn’t that be proof that they tried to kill me? But dear little Daffy is already buried and can’t be disturbed. Why not? Because he was the darling of Anita’s heart and she just can’t bear to think of his sacred remains being desecrated by some bad, old doctor making a stomach analysis. And your Will Gentry says he can’t legally do a thing if she refuses permission to dig him up.”
When she stopped long enough to catch her breath, Shayne said mildly, “Let’s go back to supper last night and exactly what happened. You spoke of them several times… saying you warned them you were planning to have an autopsy on your brother before his body is cremated. Exactly who is ‘them’?”
“Anita and that no-good brother of hers, and Harold Peabody and Dr. Evans,” she said promptly. “I’m sure they’re all in it together. That is, I think Harold planned it all and put her up to it… and then with Doctor Evans twisted around her little finger the way he is, it was in the cards for him to cover up for her. And I wouldn’t be surprised if that chauffeur and Mrs. Blair were mixed up in it too,” she added darkly. “The way I’ve seen Anita looking at the chauffeur and rubbing against him when she thought nobody was looking. And even Mrs. Blair is changed since John married her. I always thought that she and John… well.” She shook her head and shrugged and continued briskly:
“So I made sure all of them were there when I told them right out that the wool wasn’t pulled over my eyes. Those four sitting there guzzling John’s liquor with his funeral tomorrow, and Mrs. Blair coming in and out from the kitchen fixing the table, and Charles lolling out in the kitchen listening to every word that was said. Any one of those six could have slipped the poison into my little chafing dish of creamed chicken because they were all having a casserole of curried shrimp and I’m allergic to seafood and every one of them knew the creamed chicken was just for me and no one else would touch it. So it was safe enough, and I wouldn’t be here to tell you about it if I hadn’t thought to try it out on her dog first.”
“And you say all the rest of the special dish prepared for you was disposed of after the dog died?” Shayne asked with interest.
“You can be sure of that. By the time I called the police, and the detectives got there… not a smidgen of chicken left. Not even the pot it was cooked in. All washed clean as a whistle. And the dog already taken out by Charles to be buried so the detectives couldn’t even look at it. And still your chief of police can’t see anything suspicious in all that. And if something isn’t done by this time tomorrow by the funeral, it’ll be just too late. Because John will be burned up and there’ll never be any proof he was poisoned by the woman he married and the men she’s been carrying on with right under his nose in his own house.”
“Will Gentry,” said Shayne thoughtfully, “is hedged in by a lot of official rules and regulations. Even though he were personally suspicious, there’s hardly any official action he could take.”
“But you’re not,” she said tensely.
“I’m not hedged in by anything except my own conscience,” he conceded with a wry grin.
“Chief Gentry intimated as much… when he advised me to consult a private detective if I wasn’t satisfied with the official investigation made by his men.”
“Gentry sent you to me?” Shayne asked in surprise.
“Not in so many words. I did ask him to recommend a private detective and he refused. But I’ve read about some of your cases, of course, in the papers, and when I asked him point-blank whether even half of the things they say about you are true, he laughed and said just about half. But I got the impression he would be personally pleased if I did come here.”
“We have worked together in the past,” Shayne agreed. He leaned forward to mash out the very short butt of his cigarette in a tray, and asked abruptly: “Exactly what do you want me to do, Miss Rogell?”
“Why… it seems obvious to me. Have the dog’s body dissected and analyzed at once. Even Chief Gentry agreed with me that if it were proven my creamed chicken was poisoned he would feel that was sufficient evidence for ordering an autopsy on John.”
“You say the dog is already buried?”
“Oh, yes. Anita saw to that. She had Charles remove it at once and take it out to bury it on the grounds. Last night while the detectives were there, they asked Charles where the grave was, and he refused to tell them after Anita ordered him not to. I really think the detectives would have dug it up for examination if they’d known where to find it, but I guess they felt they had no authority to force him to tell them.”
“Neither have I,” said Shayne bluntly. “Without the dog’s body, I don’t see what I can do.”
“Find it,” she shot at him grimly.
Shayne shrugged. “It may be difficult… particularly if the chauffeur is as intimate with Mrs. Rogell as you imply.”
“Take my word for it, he is,” she told him sharply. “But you call yourself a detective and I assume you plan to charge me an outlandish price for your services… so I suggest you start detecting. Finding the day-old grave of a little dog on the grounds of our estate should not be a superhuman task.”
Shayne grinned at her suddenly and rumpled his red hair. There was something damned likable about the old girl and her unshakable convictions. He said cheerfully, “All right. I’ll start detecting. But there’s the small matter of a retainer first.”
“How small a matter?” she demanded, gimlet-eyed.
“Say five hundred. You can leave a check with my secretary on your way out.”
“Isn’t that somewhat… excessive?”
He met her gaze coldly. “It all depends on your point of view, Miss Rogell. As I explained before, my secretary will be happy to furnish you with a list of investigators who will charge between thirty and fifty dollars a day.”
Her clear, blue gaze locked with his for a number of seconds. Then she arose composedly and said, “I will be happy to leave a check with your secretary.”
Shayne arose with her. “One final thing,” he said as she neared the door. “If you’re serious in believing someone at the Rogell house tried to poison you yesterday, I’d move out of the house fast.”
She turned with her hand on the knob and smiled for the first time since she had entered his office. It was a wintry smile, but a smile none the less. “I am not a complete fool, Mr. Shayne. I took that elementary precaution last night. For the time being, I am occupying a suite at the Waldorf Towers. Where I shall remain until I can return to the house I have lived in for thirty years without fear for my life.” She opened the door and went out with a queer sort of dignity in her mannish stride.
Shayne frowned and went thoughtfully to the water cooler where he withdrew two paper cups and nested them inside each other. Then he opened the second drawer of a steel filing cabinet and lifted out a bottle of cognac, wrestled the cork out with his teeth and poured a moderate portion of amber fluid into the inner cup.
Lucy Hamilton came through the door with flushed cheeks as he returned to his desk and took a tentative, pleasurable sip of cognac.
“I took notes over the inter-com, Michael. Why did you insist that she give you such a large retainer? Do you
