“I just got the autopsy report, Mike.”
“And?”
“John Rogell died of heart failure.”
The tenseness went out of Shayne and he clawed at his red hair unhappily.
“No question about it?”
“None whatever. Doc Higgins did a complete and careful job. Rogell’s heart just stopped beating… as Doctor Jenson had warned him it might do if he married a young woman at his age and with his heart condition.”
Shayne said, “Then why in hell did someone try to feed Henrietta strychnine… and kidnap Lucy to try and prevent the autopsy?”
Gentry said soberly, “Forgive me for kidding about it, Mike. He did die because his heart stopped beating… on account of he ingested at least a teaspoonful of tincture of digitalis within half an hour before he died.”
Shayne said, “Goddamn it, Will…”
“All right. I apologized. I know how worried you are about Lucy. Still nothing on her?”
“I had a telephone call from her last night… to say she was okay and would be okay if the autopsy weren’t done and the funeral went off without any hitch.”
“Do you believe it, Mike?”
“As much as I believe any goddamned kidnapper.” Shayne’s voice was harsh with strain. “Who knows about the autopsy?”
“Doc Higgins and I… and the undertaker.”
“You know the undertaker personally?”
“Not personally, but it was put to him in no uncertain terms last night that no one was to suspect the body had left his place. He’ll be in court charged with hampering a homicide investigation if it leaks out… and he knows it. I think we’re safe on that score, Mike. Rogell is back in his coffin and there’s no reason on God’s earth why he shouldn’t be cremated at noon with no one being the wiser.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will.”
“Hell, I’m as worried about Lucy as you are. On the other hand, Mike… now we’ve got definite proof Rogell was murdered by someone in the house that evening. We’ll work as quickly as possible, but…”
“Tell me about the digitalis,” Shayne interrupted. “Isn’t that a regular medicine for the heart?”
“Sure. Rogell had been on the stuff for years. A daily dose of twelve drops had been keeping him alive. Doctor Jenson prescribed it first, and the new fellow… Evans… kept the dosage the same. Everyone knew he had to have his twelve drops daily, and that’s probably why they used the stuff to kill him… hoping the extra amount wouldn’t be noticed if there was an autopsy.”
“How many people would have known a teaspoonful would be deadly?”
“Probably everyone who had anything to do with his care. Higgins says they would have been warned the dose had to be measured very accurately… that an excess amount would be dangerous to a man in his condition.”
“And the manner of death?” queried Shayne sharply. “Would that match Evans’ diagnosis and his death certificate?”
“Exactly. Higgins admits he would have signed the death certificate himself under those same circumstances. He attaches no blame to Evans.”
“How could they get the old man to take so large a dose?”
“That was the easiest part of it, Mike. Here’s the complete picture as we have it now. His wife always administered the twelve drops personally about midnight before he went to sleep. She gave it to him in a cup of hot chocolate milk which the housekeeper prepared in the kitchen each evening and put in a thermos jug downstairs before she retired. This would have been common household knowledge, of course. The medicine bottle was kept in the bathroom shared by Rogell and his wife. Anita could have poured an extra teaspoonful in his milk on that particular night… or just about anyone else in the house could have got hold of the bottle and slipped it into the thermos jug downstairs.”
“That leaves it nice and wide open,” said Shayne bitterly.
“Right. Now I want to know what in hell you’re doing about Lucy.”
Shayne said, “I’ve got to talk to you, Will. Don’t make a move until I see you. And can you have the detectives on tap who went out to Rogell’s that night?”
“I will. But, Mike! Don’t expect me to sit on this. We’ve got a poisoner who has killed once, and made a second attempt.”
“And he or she has got Lucy,” Shayne reminded him grimly.
Gentry said with heavy finality, “I’ll be waiting for you in my office,” and hung up.
As the result of a telephone call, Timothy Rourke met the detective at a side entrance to police headquarters. They paused outside while Shayne briefly explained the latest developments to Rourke, and then they went in to Gentry’s private office together.
The Miami Chief of Police was a solid man, with square, rugged features that were the color of raw beef. He had a thick black cigar in his mouth, and he bit down on it hard when he saw the redhead’s companion. “What the hell, Mike? I thought you were anxious to keep this thing quiet.”
Shayne said, “Tim’s got to be in on it. He already is. He dug up Daffy last night and was with me when I got Bud Tolliver’s report. And he knows about Lucy, too. He won’t print anything.”
“It’s up to you,” Gentry conceded. “Now, what is this about Lucy? Give it to me straight.”
Shayne got out the two sheets of yellow paper and laid them in front of Gentry. “These were delivered to me and Miss Henrietta about midnight last night. By a messenger who’d picked them up at a Miami Avenue bar.” He went on to describe their visit to the Shamrock Bar while Will Gentry read the two notes.
“I went straight to Lucy’s place, Will, and found she’d been there a couple of hours during the evening… probably after dinner… and had left hurriedly. I’m sure she didn’t know why she was leaving because there was nothing left for me. Then there was the phone call from her later that I told you about.”
Chief Gentry had curiously rumpled eyelids which he habitually raised and lowered much in the manner of Venetian blinds. He leaned back in his chair and folded them up as he demanded:
“Who out at the Rogell place knew you had dug up the dog’s body. How did they know you did it… and how to get at Lucy?”
Shayne lit a cigarette and briefly recounted the ruse he had employed to discover where Daffy was buried, and how he and Tim had gotten possession of the body.
“They guessed why I was there at night, of course,” he concluded, “and after I left with Dr. Evans somebody must have checked Daffy’s grave. How they knew how to get to Lucy, I don’t know. But someone was desperate enough to kidnap her to try and stop me from having the dog’s stomach contents analyzed.”
“The chauffeur sounds most likely,” rumbled Gentry.
“I know. The two notes sound like him. But I knocked hell out of him, Will, and Mrs. Blair swears he went to bed at once in his own room over the garage with a sedative strong enough to put him out for eight hours.”
“The widow and her brother?” demanded Gentry.
“I swear I don’t know. The brother appears weak, and was pretty drunk. Anita is… capable of anything. On the other hand, Henrietta plugs for Harold Peabody as the mastermind. And I wouldn’t put anything past the coldblooded bastard,” Shayne went on angrily. He described his brief visit to the broker’s apartment. “I suppose the party gives him a sort of alibi, although I wouldn’t suspect him of personally pulling a snatch anyhow. I think he’s perfectly capable of arranging such a job though. But guessing is no good,” he went on somberly. “Someone has Lucy put away on ice, and all we can hope right now is that they think I’m sufficiently scared to not have the dog analyzed.”
Gentry leaned back with a sigh and rolled his sodden cigar from one corner of his mouth to the other. “You think she’ll be safe as long as they think that?”
“Until after the funeral anyhow.” Shayne met his gaze squarely. “If you don’t upset the applecart by doing anything to indicate the Rogell case is being reopened.”
“And after the funeral?”
Shayne shook his red head and said doggedly, “If it goes off all right and the killer thinks Rogell is safely cremated and all proof of murder has gone up in smoke, I think there’s a chance Lucy will be released.”
“Or?” asked Gentry significantly.
