Die Like a Dog

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 in the nick of time to save me from a fate worse than death. Drinking alone, you know? And long before the sun has swung over the yard-arm.” His voice was thin and a trifle high, but he exuded friendliness like a stray mongrel who has just received his first kind word in weeks.

He advanced toward Lucy, his smile becoming a beaming welcome. “Whatever you’re selling, I’ll take a lot of. Provided, of course, that you have a drink with me first. My name’s Marvin Dale, you know. How long has it been since anyone has told you how gorgeous you are?”

Lucy couldn’t refrain from smiling. “I’m Lucy Hamilton to see Mrs. Rogell. It’s a little early for a drink, and I have nothing at all you’d want to buy.”

“Let me be the judge of that.” He stood close to her and she saw that his eyes were greenish-blue and had a ferrety gleam in them as they travelled down audaciously from her face over trim bosom and neat waist, hovered approvingly over nicely-rounded hips and then moved downward to well-fleshed calves and slender ankles.

“Ve-ry nice. Every bit of it if you’ll allow me a snap judgment with so many clothes intervening.” He took hold of her left elbow and firmly led her toward the bar. “Of course it’s a little early for a drink, but never too early. Wasn’t it Dorothy Parker who said, ‘Candy is dandy; but liquor is quicker?’”

“I think it was.” Lucy struggled with a desire to giggle. This must be the ne’er-do-well brother Henrietta had mentioned so disparagingly, and Michael had told her to keep her eyes open and learn as much about the different members of the family as she could. Marvin, she realized, was already slightly drunk as well as being more than slightly amorous, and she decided to indulge him to the extent of one small drink.

“If you could make me a gin and tonic,” she agreed hesitantly. “A very light one. I have a business matter to discuss with your sister,” she added as stiffly as she could.

Marvin released her elbow and beamed at her as he whisked a gin bottle from a shelf beneath the bar, and opened an ice bucket to deposit two cubes in a tall glass. He uncorked the bottle and started to tip it over the rim of the glass, but Lucy took it away from him firmly, saying, “I mentioned a light one, remember? Very light.” She picked up a jigger and poured it less than full, while he remonstrated:

“So many people do without really meaning it, you know. Say they want a light one, I mean. I always feel the hospitable thing is to…”

“Ply your women with liquor,” Lucy carried on for him pleasantly. “But I’m not Dorothy Parker. Tonic, please.” She held the glass out and he reluctantly filled it to the brim with fizzing liquid.

“I can see you’re not. If you’re holding back on the intake, however, because you hope to discuss business with my dear sister today, you may as well relax and have a decent slug.”

“I’ll settle for this one,” Lucy told him, retreating to the depths of a leather-upholstered chair. “I know Mr. Rogell’s funeral is tomorrow and I don’t like to intrude on her grief, but I did hope to have a moment of her time today.”

“Oh, it isn’t dear John she’s grieving about,” Marvin told her with a tight, unpleasant smile. “We’ve all been expecting that for months. It’s her darling Daffy.”

“Her Pekinese?” queried Lucy. “Sombre Daffodil Third.”

“Sombre Daffodil Third,” he agreed, taking a gulp of his drink and slouching into another leather chair near Lucy’s with both long legs draped over one arm of it. “Why not try this position?” he demanded suddenly with something very close to a leer. “It’s the only comfortable way to sit in one of these chairs.”

“And not very ladylike,” said Lucy primly, taking a sip of her mild drink.

“Who asked you to be ladylike?” His leer became more pronounced. “You know what the male cricket said to the female grasshopper?”

“No,” said Lucy. “I don’t know and I’m not interested.”

“Well, he said… Oh, I say,” Marvin interrupted himself as the maid entered through the portieres, “do you have to intrude just now, Maybelle? Miss Hamilton and I are just getting cozy over a drink and I was about to tell her a very funny story.”

Lucy got to her feet quickly and set the glass down as she faced the girl questioningly.

Maybelle made the pretense of a curtsy and said, “Madame will see you in her upstairs sitting room, Ma’am.”

Lucy followed her out quickly without looking back at Marvin.

The maid led her down the vaulted hallway to a wide stairway curving upward to the right, and up the stairs to another wide hallway where she knocked lightly on a closed door before opening it and announcing, “Miss Hamilton.”

The boudoir was chintzy and feminine, and the temperature was like that of a hothouse devoted to the propagation of tropical flowers in contrast to the pleasant coolness of the rest of the big, stone house.

And the girl-woman facing Lucy, propped up against fluffy, silken pillows on a chaise-longue was not unlike a rare orchid. There was a look of cultivated fragility, of almost ethereal beauty, in the delicate, finely-drawn features of Anita Rogell. Her violet eyes appeared enormous and had a look of haunting melancholy about them which, Lucy realized on closer inspection, had been artfully attained by the skillful use of purple eyeshadow combined with a dusting of gold powder on carefully shaped brows. Her hair, tightly drawn back from cameo-like features, was the exact color and texture of cornsilk with the morning sun glinting on it, and it displayed a wide forehead and tiny, shell-like ears that lay flat against her head.

Only the mouth was a discordant note in the carefully-wrought perfection of Anita Rogell’s face, and the shock-effect of that feature, Lucy knew immediately, had been carefully and unerringly calculated as a vivid contrast with the overall effect.

It was a large, coarse mouth with full, pouting underlip daringly accentuated with heavy lipstick that had a violent orange tinge. It was hard to describe the effect that garish mouth had against the background of cold fragility that was the dominant characteristic of Anita’s face. It was a bold and shameless promise of fire and lust that lay beneath the otherwise placid exterior, a flagrant and provocative flaunting of sexual precocity which would have remained otherwise concealed.

At least, that’s the way it struck Lucy as she stepped into the overheated room. She had no way of knowing how it would appear to a man who looked at Anita for the first time, and the fleeting thought crossed her mind that she would give a great deal to get Michael Shayne’s reaction to the woman in front of her.

But she said composedly, “I apologize for intruding like this, Mrs. Rogell, but when we at Haven Eternal learned of your bereavement we felt morally obligated to bring to your attention certain of our unique services which have lessened the pangs of grief of other pet-owners and which we sincerely hope will partially assuage your own.”

It was a speech she had learned by rote, and she delivered it glibly and with what she hoped was a commendable show of sincerity.

Anita had her card between the thumb and tapering forefinger of her left hand. She glanced down at it with a tiny frown puckering her smooth forehead as Lucy spoke her lines, and said, “I don’t think I understand exactly what you want from me.”

Her voice was unexpectedly husky and deep, with a rich resonance that seemed to vibrate in the silence after she finished speaking.

“It isn’t what we want from you, Mrs. Rogell,” Lucy told her. “It’s what we feel we can do for you that counts with us. Is it possible that you haven’t heard of Pet Haven Eternal?” She made it sound as though such abysmal ignorance on the part of Anita was utterly unthinkable, and the woman nibbled at the bait by saying, “The name does sound familiar, but I really don’t know…”

“This little booklet will explain much better than I can if I talked for hours,” Lucy interrupted her, opening her bag and extracting the brochure. “It will only take a moment of your time to glance through it and determine which of our services you feel would be most suitable to assure your dear Sombre Daffodil Third that final peace and utter tranquility that every owner of a four-footed friend who was so devoted in life must desire for the canine soul that has passed onward over the Great Divide to enter the realm of peace that passeth understanding.”

Lucy noticed a peculiarly wary, almost frightened glint in Anita’s eyes as she completed this remarkable speech and pressed the booklet into the woman’s somewhat reluctant hands, and she thought, “Oh, dear. Did I overdo it that time? I don’t think this gal is as dumb as I anticipated. Watch your step, Lucy Hamilton, and get down off your cloud.”

Aloud, she said, “By merely glancing through this you will see that we have one of the finest plants in the United States. And I assure you our charges are extremely moderate. We are incorporated as a non-profit organization and our greatest desire is to be of real help to all those who have suffered the inconsolable loss of a devoted pet.”

Anita glanced at the pastel-colored cover and arched her golden eyebrows slightly. “A pet cemetery? I’ve heard they are quite the vogue around New York, but didn’t realize there was one in Miami.”

“We all felt you must be unaware of our existence when we read the newspaper item this morning concerning the departure of your Daffy. We don’t ordinarily solicit business, Mrs. Rogell, but we did feel it our duty to offer you an opportunity to avail yourself of our help and our trained personnel.”

“Do sit down while I glance through this,” said Anita absently. “Even though it’s too late now to help my Daffy.” She paused on the second page. “Really? A crematorium just for pets? Such a wonderful idea! If I had realized all this…”

“It’s never too late, Mrs. Rogell. We can arrange any service you desire with the utmost promptness. After all, it was just last evening, I believe…?” She paused delicately, and Anita nodded without looking up, turning to the next page with pictures and descriptions of individually designed grottos for those who could afford the tariff.

“Yes. It was just last night. Very suddenly and unexpectedly. But I have a thing about death in any form, Miss Hamilton. An inner horror. A sort of instinctive repulsion that is practically a complex with me.” She lifted sorrowful violet eyes to Lucy, closed the booklet and gently tapped it against her knee with a sigh. “I’ve always felt that purging by fire is the only decent way to dispose of one’s mortal remains, and I would so much have liked to have that for Daffy, but I didn’t realize it was possible and so I had the little darling buried immediately here on my own grounds overlooking the bay.”

“But that was less than twenty-four hours ago,” suggested Lucy tactfully. “There’s no physical reason… that is, if you truly desire cremation there’s nothing to prevent it even yet. Our attendants are most discreet and understanding. You can be assured that Daffy will be… er… disinterred with the utmost loving care and taken directly to our crematorium for the… uh… final purging by fire which you desire.”

“You mean… dig her up now?”

“Well, yes.” Lucy wanted to add that she didn’t believe Daffy would mind one tiny bit, but she bit back the words and went on persuasively. “A single telephone call is all it requires. Within an hour we can have a trained attendant here driving an unmarked car who will attend to all the details with the utmost circumspection.” She hesitated a moment and then played what she hoped would prove to be her trump card: “And the cost is so very moderate. You simply won’t believe it when I tell you the truly infinitesimal sum that will be required to reduce Daffy to a handful of fire-purged ashes in a Grecian urn of your own choosing… or even an individual design hand-crafted by one of our specialists.”

She stopped and waited, holding her breath while she calculated swiftly how low a sum she should quote if Mrs. Rogell rose to the bait. She hadn’t the faintest idea what the normal charge of Haven Eternal would be for such a deal. Probably in the hundreds of dollars, she guessed. She’d keep it under a hundred, she decided. Ninety-seven-fifty sounded like a nice, enticing figure.

But Anita Rogell shook her head decidedly. “I couldn’t do that. I haven’t the heart to disturb Daffy now. I’m sure she’s comfortable and happy in the spot Charles chose for her final resting place. It would be a desecration to disturb her now.”

“I don’t see that at all. It’s often done… you know… with human beings. After all, circumstances change…”

“No.” Anita closed the booklet and held it out to her. “I do appreciate your coming here and all the information you’ve given me. I’ll be sure to mention Haven Eternal to any of my friends who might be interested. But it is too late now to be any help to Daffy.”

“Perhaps it isn’t, Mrs. Rogell.” Lucy Hamilton was thinking fast and extemporizing as she went. “We have a very special service that isn’t even mentioned in our regular booklet. It’s… something we have inaugurated recently for pet owners who feel they will be happier if their loved ones are buried close to them. You definitely must have a marker for Daffy. A… a headboard at least. Something very simple and inexpensive, if you think best. We even have plastic markers today, though we do think that plain granite or marble is more appropriate. And we also do individual landscaping of your own private burial plot,” she rushed on, “and provide perpetual care if you wish it. Or you can have one of those cunning grottos built right here on your own grounds over the spot where Daffy is already interred.”

Anita shook her head firmly. “Not a grotto, I think. It seems ostentatious somehow. A simple granite stone, perhaps, suitably inscribed, of course…”

“Of course,” breathed Lucy sympathetically.

“And perhaps the grave could be marked with a border of flowers…”

“With a few carefully selected shrubs discreetly in the background for a perpetual and ever-green reminder that Daffy sleeps there in eternal peace,” Lucy went on enthusiastically. “Indeed, Mrs. Rogell, I do feel you are exactly right. It would be a sacrilege to disturb her now, and I know you will be more than happy to feel you have done all that can be done for her.”

“How much will that be?” asked Anita Rogell.

“We’ll have to give you an estimate. Make sketches, you know, and offer you several different plans at various prices. It will run… oh, from a minimum of twenty-five dollars up to… not more than a hundred I’d say, if you don’t wish to be ornate… and I can see that you don’t. We could get some preliminary sketches and estimates immediately if I could see the spot where Daffy is buried now while I’m here,” Lucy suggested matter-of-factly. “As soon as I have the physical layout clearly in my mind, I can start our men to work. It would save the cost of a second trip,” she urged.

“Yes. I can see that. But I won’t be under any obligation to go on with it until I’ve seen and approved the plans,” said Anita a trifle sharply.

“Indeed not. There is no obligation whatsoever.” Lucy laughed flutingly. She stood up. “If you can just give me directions so I can find the grave myself…?”

Anita said, “I haven’t inquired directly of Charles myself… for the exact spot he chose. I was so overwrought last night that I trusted his taste and good judgment.” She dropped a languid hand to an ivory-colored telephone handset beside her and pressed a button before lifting the instrument.

Lucy stood back unobtrusively and watched her closely as she spoke into the mouthpiece. It seemed to Lucy her husky voice had a definable lilt to it and the tight serenity of her features relaxed a trifle as she said, “Charles? Would you please come upstairs?”

She replaced the instrument and said, “My chauffeur will take you to poor Daffy’s grave. And I am pleased that you came to talk to me, Miss Hamilton. I think the work you are doing is perfectly wonderful.”

“We like to think so, too,” Lucy told her. “I find it very… rewarding.” The final word almost stuck in her throat but she managed to get it out. Suddenly the overheated room and the presence of Mrs. Anita Rogell was almost more than she could stand. “Dear God,” she thought to herself, “the things I do in the name of loyalty to Michael Shayne!” But when she had gotten safely away, she knew she would be glad she had come. Because if John Rogell had been murdered, and if this sex-mouthed child-bride of his had had a hand in his death, Lucy knew that she would be happy to move heaven and earth to see that justice was done. She didn’t know exactly why, but she did know she had never before met a woman whom she detested so swiftly and so heartily. And even as she thought that about Anita, the unbidden question flashed through her mind: “Would Michael agree with me? How would he react to that almost angelic beauty and that mouth that promises so much? How would any man react to Anita?”

There was a light rap on the door behind her and she turned to see it open and a stocky young man in dark, green uniform with polished leather puttees standing there. He had heavy, cleanshaven features, with piercing black eyes beneath thick brows that met above the bridge of a blunt nose. His chin was square and his lips were full, though somehow they conveyed a hint of cruelty. His manner was informally respectful without being servile, and his voice was a well-modulated baritone as he said, “What is it, Ma’am?”

“This is Miss Hamilton, Charles.” Anita lifted her left hand toward Lucy. “She is from the Pet Haven Eternal, and I want you to take her out and show her the spot where Daffy is buried. I may decide to beautify the grave.”

He looked at Lucy and nodded gravely without speaking, and stepped back into the hall. Lucy went to the door, saying brightly, “Thank you very much for the time you’ve given me, Mrs. Rogell. I’m sure you won’t be disappointed.”

She stepped gladly out of the hot room into the dimly cool hall, and followed the chauffeur who stolidly led her to a narrow rear stairway that led out to the back of the house.