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.”
3
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.
Nothing happened for what seemed to her a long interval, and her courage slowly ebbed away while she waited. During the years she had been Michael Shayne’s secretary and only employee, she had successfully carried out many difficult and some dangerous assignments to help him on his cases, but this one today, she felt, was the most weird and bizarre she had ever attempted.
She was in such a state of bemusement that she could not repress an open start of nervousness when the right hand door swung open silently.
A sullen-faced maid stood on the threshold of a long, dim hallway facing her. The girl wore a neat, black uniform with white lace at the wrists and neck, and she had pouting lips and wary eyes.
She said, “What is it, Ma’am?” in a sing-song voice that contrived to convey a faint impression of insolence.
Lucy said, “I’d like a moment with Mrs. Rogell.”
The maid tightened her lips momentarily and said, “Madame is not at home to anyone.”
Lucy smiled pleasantly and said, “I think she’ll see me,” with a lot more assurance than she felt. She unsnapped her bag and took out the cardcase, extracted the square of white cardboard and offered it to the maid. “Please take her my card.”
The girl pressed her hands against her sides and said primly, “I couldn’t disturb Madame while she’s resting.”
Lucy Hamilton lifted her chin arrogantly and said, “I didn’t come here to argue with servants. Take my card to Mrs. Rogell at once.” She took a step forward as she spoke, thrusting the card into the girl’s face so her hand lifted instinctively to take it. She backed away, saying sullenly, “You wait here and I’ll see.”
Lucy said, “I have no intention of waiting on the doorstep,” and moved into the hall, closing her bag and pressing it to her side under her right elbow.
The maid gave way reluctantly, closing the door and moving aside to an archway with drawn portieres, drawing them aside ungraciously and muttering, “You can wait in here then, if you insist.”
Lucy went in to a large, square, sombre room lined with dark walnut bookshelves laden with books in dark leather bindings. There were massive leather chairs in the room, and a man stood in the far corner with his back turned to her. He was bent over a portable bar, and Lucy heard the clink of a swizzle-stick against glass. He wore light tan slacks and a red and yellow plaid sport jacket, and when he swung about to face Lucy with a highball glass in his hand she saw he was a fair-haired young man of about thirty with a wispy mustache and suspiciously high color in his cheeks for a man of his age.
He smiled quickly, showing slightly protruding upper teeth, and exclaimed, “By Jove, there. You’ve arrived just
