Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

“Three years ago, a bit before I retired. Me’n Clara went out there, spent five weeks. We was looking for a warm place to sorta hang up the harnesses, you know? Found out Las Vegas wasn’t it. We came here. Who is this Perkins woman? What’s she got to do—”

“She could have been a friend of Melody’s.”

“Never heard of her. Never met no friends of Melody’s named Perkins.”

“Melody worked in a hotel. Do you recall the name?”

“The Trout. Odd name, ain’t it?”

“Who were Melody’s friends here in Miami, Miami Beach?”

“Didn’t have none. It was why she come down here, to get away, to spend some time alone.”

“Do you know a man named. Salvadore Aires?”

“I heard his name. This Painter, he said—”

“But you never heard your sister mention his name?”

“No.”

“I think she and Salvadore Aires were thinking about marrying.”

“I doubt it,” Deans said bluntly. “Melody went too long without marrying. She got set in her ways, lived like she wanted to. And she always seemed satisfied. How come she’d change?”

“Maybe Salvadore was the first right man to come along for her.”

“I doubt it.”

Shayne sat forward. “Okay, Mr. Deans, leave your phone number with Miss Hamilton in the outer office. She’ll want to know a few other odds and ends. It’s all for bur records.”

Deans stood. “You’ll call me tonight about Melody?”

“I’ll call you when I have something significant,” Shayne said.

He waited until Deans was out of earshot and then he snapped up the phone and called his longtime friend, Will Gentry, chief of Miami police. Gentry had already heard from Peter Painter, and the Miami cops had already searched their files.

“A hotel man who packs chloroform for ready use is a little different, Mike,” Gentry said, “but we didn’t turn up anybody.”

“I need a rundown on an Albert Deans, Will. Says he’s a brother of the dead woman.” Shayne filled in with particulars, then added: “Is he legit, that’s all I need to know.”

“What are you, an Armchair Eye these days?” Gentry wanted to know.

Gentry’s voice was gruff and Shayne had a mental image of the bulky man chomping down hard on the stub of a black cigar. He grunted. “Got a lot of miles to travel.”

“Okay, okay.” Gentry grumbled. “I’ll put a bloodhound on Deans. How long’s he got? An hour?”

“He can have the entire morning,” Shayne grinned.

Then the police chief wiped the grin from the redhead’s face. “Just where in hell does your friend Salvadore Aires fit in all of this, Mike? Painter is hot on the guy.”

“He’s involved,” Shayne said grimly. “Somehow, he’s involved. That’s what I’m up against. I’ve got to get how out of him. Maybe this morning. If he got any sleep, he might feel differently, think differently. I’m figuring on doing a little leaning on him.”

But when Shayne telephoned the Cassandra he discovered that Salvadore Aires had checked out of the hotel.

Had Salvadore cleared out of the Cassandra to get away from the gawkers, checked into another hotel somewhere on the Beach, or had he cleared out of town? Why was he running?

Shayne sat low on his spine, a huge fist thumping the edge of his desk as his thoughts churned. Did Painter know Salvadore had hiked? If he didn’t know, should he be told?

His intercom buzzed. Lucy Hamilton said, “Peter Painter is on the line, Michael.”

Shayne sat up. Painter’s voice was flat. “Earlier this morning, shamus, you mentioned a diamond wristlet. Was the woman wearing any other jewelry?”

“No.”

Painter hesitated and Shayne envisioned the stroking of the tiny mustache. “She was thoroughly cleaned out. We didn’t find a dime. Incidently, your friend Aires has returned to Detroit. He called, said he had pressing business. I didn’t buy it, but I gave him an okay. I can find him when and if I want him again. Oh, yes, he also said he had dispensed with your service.” Painter paused to take a breath, then snarled, “You stay the hell out of my hair on this one, Shayne!”

Shayne said, “I’ve been retained by Albert Deans.”

“Goddamnit—”

The line went dead.

Salvadore had left town, and Painter had let him go? What the hell was going on? Painter didn’t let murder suspects trot out from under his thumb.

Shayne went to a window, stared outside.

And Gentry had just told him Painter was hot on Salvadore. So how come he let Salvadore Aires leave town? Was Painter suddenly playing some kind of cute game?

He thumped his thigh viciously, returned to his desk. Damn, he’d wanted to lean on Salvadore, get some answers. He yelled at Lucy to look up the number of a Detroit contact. Then he phoned Leo Peterson.

“Got a tail job for you, Pete,” he told the Detroit man. “Salvadore Aires, the insurance guy. You know him?”

“Not on sight, Mike, but I can round up a photo.”

“He may be coming in on a commercial flight from Miami sometime today. I said may. He could switch flights in midstream and not show. But keep an eye, huh? And if you pick him up, stay on him. I want to know where he goes. Let me know soonest. If you can’t get me here, phone Lucy. She’ll give you the numbers.”