“And you say all the rest of the special dish prepared for you was disposed of after the dog died?” Shayne asked with interest.

“You can be sure of that. By the time I called the police, and the detectives got there… not a smidgen of chicken left. Not even the pot it was cooked in. All washed clean as a whistle. And the dog already taken out by Charles to be buried so the detectives couldn’t even look at it. And still your chief of police can’t see anything suspicious in all that. And if something isn’t done by this time tomorrow by the funeral, it’ll be just too late. Because John will be burned up and there’ll never be any proof he was poisoned by the woman he married and the men she’s been carrying on with right under his nose in his own house.”

“Will Gentry,” said Shayne thoughtfully, “is hedged in by a lot of official rules and regulations. Even though he were personally suspicious, there’s hardly any official action he could take.”

“But you’re not,” she said tensely.

“I’m not hedged in by anything except my own conscience,” he conceded with a wry grin.

“Chief Gentry intimated as much… when he advised me to consult a private detective if I wasn’t satisfied with the official investigation made by his men.”

“Gentry sent you to me?” Shayne asked in surprise.

“Not in so many words. I did ask him to recommend a private detective and he refused. But I’ve read about some of your cases, of course, in the papers, and when I asked him point-blank whether even half of the things they say about you are true, he laughed and said just about half. But I got the impression he would be personally pleased if I did come here.”

“We have worked together in the past,” Shayne agreed. He leaned forward to mash out the very short butt of his cigarette in a tray, and asked abruptly: “Exactly what do you want me to do, Miss Rogell?”