“It wasn’t when he first showed it to me. There’s no grass under the tree, and he had smoothed it down so it didn’t show very much, but I got him to break off a couple of switches and stick them at each end of the grave so I could find it easily next time I came. I said he might not be around to show me. And that’s when I think he started getting a little suspicious. He made a couple of nasty remarks while he was marking it that didn’t sound un suspicious.”
Shayne nodded and drew a deep breath. “You’re terrific, Lucy. If we pull this off and the dog was poisoned, remind me to give you the entire fee we earn from the case as your Christmas bonus this year.”
“I’ve never had a Christmas bonus, Michael.”
“Haven’t you?” He stared at her. “Why the hell not?”
She laughed softly. “Aren’t you going to ask me what happened after he showed me Daffy’s grave?”
Shayne said, “No. You’ll tell me some day. And, after I’ve met Charles, I’ll be better able to understand why it hit you so hard.” He leaned over and lovingly rumpled her brown curls. “I’m sorry I haven’t the ability to make you feel like a virginal maid of sixteen, but I’ll take some lessons from Charles and maybe…”
“Michael!” She blushed and turned her head to press her cheek against the back of his hand for a moment. “It wasn’t really as bad as I said. It’s just that for a little moment out there alone under the cypress tree with Charles…”
Shayne said gruffly, “Forget it. Right now, we’ve got to find some way of equating your paces with mine.” He stood up from the railing and moved back against the wall near the outer door. “You start here,” he directed her, “and walk straight through the door into my office to the opposite wall. Count how many steps you take.”
Lucy did so, and reported, “Fourteen.” Shayne stepped the same distance in his longer strides and made it eleven of his paces.
“Eleven of mine to fourteen of yours,” he muttered. “That ought to make some kind of equation. Let’s see if I remember my algebra from high school.” He got a sheet of paper and wrote down: “11:14 = X:?” He stopped and asked Lucy, “How many of your steps from the top of the stairs to the place where you turned off at right-angles to the tree?”
She looked at her paper. “Fifty-eight.”
Shayne completed his equation by replacing the question-mark with 58. He studied it for a moment with a frown, and then multiplied 11 times 58. He wrote down: “14X = 638,” and then divided 638 by 14 and announced triumphantly, “Forty-five and eight-fourteenths of my paces equal fifty-eight of yours. What was that other distance you paced from the grave to the path?”
“Eighteen. I didn’t know you could do algebra, Michael.”
“One of my minor accomplishments,” he told her with a wave of his big hand. He multiplied 18 by 11 and divided the result by 14 and said with satisfaction, “Just a trifle over fourteen of my steps from the path to the grave. Perfect, Lucy. A licensed surveyor couldn’t have done better. How far is the boathouse, approximately, from the garage?”
“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.”
5
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.”
