When the chief’s heavy voice rumbled over the wire, Shayne said pleasantly, “Hi, Will. How big a cut do you expect out of my fee from Miss Rogell?”

Will Gentry chuckled, “So the old girl came to you, did she?”

“After our tax-paid police force turned her down. What is the dope… confidentially?”

“Are you actually taking her case?”

“I’ve got her check for five C’s as a retainer,” Shayne told him equably.

“Did she bleed while she wrote it?”

“I gather she does hate to part with money,” said Shayne cautiously. “But, damn it, Will, I sort of like the old biddy. Give me the dope on her brother’s death.”

“There just isn’t anything to go on, Mike. We checked it out from A to Z. John Rogell was sixty-eight years old and has had a serious heart condition for years. Been under the care of Doctor Caleb Jenson for many years until the doc kicked off himself a couple months ago. Since then, a Doctor Albert Evans has been seeing the old boy twice a week. Evans has a good reputation, and he signed the death certificate without the slightest hesitation.”

“Henrietta says she’s in love with him.”

“Plus everything else wearing pants that ever came to the house,” snorted Gentry. “Hells bells, Mike! If Anita Rogell were servicing every man Henrietta accuses her of, the woman would have to be a nympho to end all nymphos.”

“Is she?” asked Shayne equably.

“I haven’t met the girl.” Gentry paused, and went on more seriously, “Donovan and Petrie covered the whole deal. They do say the girl is put together right and has what looks like hot lips and a roving smile. But, hell! She’s in her early twenties and Rogell was sixty-eight, so what can you expect?”