Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Peter Painter took time to establish order at the death scene, rid the area of gawkers and have the body covered before he thumbed Mike Shayne and Lucy Hamilton to an unmarked police car. “Okay, shamus, explain how you know the deceased.”

Shayne did. Briefly.

“And this Aires is where now?”

“Try Suite 1745.”

“Michael,” Lucy Hamilton interrupted in a soft voice, “Salvadore is coming out of the hotel. Someone must have phoned upstairs.”

Salvadore Aires was allowed a quick look at the body. He turned aside and vomited. When he had recovered, Painter said, “Can we talk now?”

Salvadore said he had known Melody Deans for almost three years. He occasionally traveled to Las Vegas, maybe every six weeks or so. He liked to gamble. He also had found Melody Deans attractive. They had dated often in the last eighteen months. A few weeks ago, Melody had told him that she was going to take some time from her job as a social hostess at a hotel-motel-casino; she was going to come to Miami Beach for relaxation. He had made arrangements to be in Miami Beach at the same time. He even had made the hotel reservation for her, to be sure she got a suitable suite.

“What floor are you on, Mr. Aires?”

“The seventeenth.”

“Front?” Chief Painter looked up.

“Yes.”

“Miss Deans?”

“Seventeen, front.”

“Next door?”

“No.” Salvadore Aires lit a cigarette. Shayne noticed the shaking hands.

“Painter, as you should know, hotel accomodations in Miami Beach are not the easiest obtainables. I desired adjoining suites. Such was not available. The Cassandra management, I thought, was quite accomodating when Melody and I were put on the same floor.”

Painter shifted in thought. “Tell me, Aires, would you say you and Miss Deans were close?”

“Yes.”

“Intimate?”

“That depends on what you mean.”

“I mean, were you expecting to sleep together?”

“Why would I reserve two suites? People don’t sneak around anymore, Mr. Painter. Haven’t you heard?”

“Did you kill her?”

“Kill?” Salvadore Aires suddenly looked confused. He shot a look at Shayne.

Shayne said flatly, “It looks like murder, pal.”

“But I supposed—”

Salvadore didn’t finish his thought. He crushed the cigarette under the toe of his shoe. His brow was furrowed. Presently he said, “You believe she didn’t commit suicide, Mike?” He sounded subdued.

Shayne countered, “You know of any reason she might have?”

“No,” Salvadore said quickly. “I just assumed—”

Painter interrupted, “Do you know any reason she might’ve been killed?”

“No.”

“How about if we take a look at her room?” Shayne suggested.

“Not you, shamus,” Painter said quickly. “You aren’t involved in this. You don’t have a client and, even if you did, this is Miami Beach. You can bull your way with Will Gentry in Miami all you want, but over here—”

He cut off the barrage as Salvadore Aires took out a coat pocket wallet. He removed a dollar bill from the wallet and thrust it at Shayne.

“Shayne is hired, Mr. Painter,” he said in a flat voice. “I’m paying him to find Melody’s killer.”

“That doesn’t mean a thing, Aires,” Painter snapped. “He doesn’t get into the room.”

“Nor do you,” Salvadore countered, “without the proper papers. It is my room. I paid for it. I—”

“This is a murder investigation,” Painter snarled, anger curling the edges of the words. “I don’t need papers!”

“Try going up there without my permission and see how fast you and your city are sued. It may not stop you, admitted, but we are going to make some choice headlines in the next few days. I believe Shayne has a friend, Timothy Rourke, who is a Miami newspaperman and who—”

“Aires,” Painter cut in coldly, “I’m going to concede to you for one reason only. I have some more questions to ask Shayne. Let’s go upstairs.”

He stomped away. Shayne shot Salvadore Aires a glance. Salvadore was grim, his mouth a thin line.

Painter collected an assistant hotel manager and a key at the desk and they rode the express elevator. But they found they didn’t need the key when they arrived at what had been Melody Deans’ room. The door was ajar.

Shayne scowled as Painter held everyone back with outstretched arms while he stared at the door. Light in the room showed through the door crack, but no sound came from inside.

Shayne looked at Lucy. Her lips were pursed, eyes bright. He started to reach across Painter’s shoulder, then the small man put up a hand and with one extended finger pushed the door until they all could see inside the suite.

The main room was vast and expensively furnished. There was light everywhere. On the opposite side, the french doors were wide open, exposing the balcony. A breeze blew in, but the breeze did not clear the smell of chloroform or right the general disarray. The room looked ransacked.