Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

Shayne gave her a sharp glance. “When they return, Salvadore will have an announcement to make. I’ve got a hunch it’s the reason he’s pitching this—”

“I don’t think so,” said Lucy.

“How come?”

“There’s something about her. She has more than marriage to Salvadore Aires on her mind. It’s something — something she hasn’t told him. She’s telling him now. Didn’t you notice how she didn’t want to come over here and meet us, at least not immediately? She wanted to talk to him first. She has something very heavy on her mind.”

A houseman with a silver tray of drinks approached. The redhead plucked a fresh cognac from the tray. He nodded to the blonde Jo still penned by the four men. He laughed gently. Jo couldn’t get her eyes off the door that hid Salvadore Aires and Melody Deans.

“Hopes dashed,” said Lucy. “It happens to every girl sometime in life. Even those with cleavage. But we all recover. You watch.”

Shayne found himself keeping an eye on the closed door too. He wasn’t sure why the door bothered him, except that he knew Salvadore Aires seldom disappeared for long when he was a host.

“Would you like to go over there and open that door and find out what is going on?” Lucy asked after awhile.

Shayne countered, “Would you?”

“I’m dying.”

The redhead laughed, inventoried the room. “Well, our lady of the cleavage has switched horses.”

The white blonde had a new arm to lean on. It belonged to a stumpy, fat man who obviously was proud of a thick beard.

“Maybe we should leave, Michael. Maybe Salvadore would like to have all of us leave. Perhaps we could start it.”

Shayne looked at his watch. Twelve-twenty-five. “Yeah, maybe,” he agreed.

Suddenly across the room the closed door opened and Melody Deans and Salvadore Aires re-entered. No one, Shayne noticed, seemed to pay any particular attention to them. But he was curious.

Melody Deans looked distraught, her mouth a tight line, skin coloring gone, and she moved straight to the corridor door and disappeared. Salvadore watched her. He wasn’t the Salvadore Aires that Shayne knew. This Salvadore’s juices had quit flowing. Suddenly. He looked as if he had been hit with a wet fish and couldn’t believe it.

Salvadore moved through the people.

“Trouble, pal?” Shayne asked.

Salvadore seemed to gather himself slightly. “What?”

“You and Miss Deans.”

“Oh. No. That was just a little misunderstanding, Mike.”

“She’s an attractive woman, Sal. Looks as if she’s got savvy.”

“Mike, can we drop it?”

“It’s dropped. Grab yourself a drink. We’ll have it and then Lucy and I are going to cut.”

“What for?”

“We work for a living, stiff.”

Salvadore tried on a grin. “Insurance bums don’t, huh?”

“If the rates I pay are a guide, they don’t have to.”

“You ever figure how those rates got where they are, Mike?”

Shayne felt better. Salvadore’s juices seemed to have started again. At least, he suddenly was hep to the one-upmanship game.

Salvadore became himself, the gracious host, the party man, fun and games. It seemed as if he had put Melody Deans out of his mind. The blonde Jo attempted to hitch up anew, but Salvadore put her off politely and she proved intelligent enough to return to her stubby friend. Shayne’s opinion of the blonde bomb went up a notch.

Then Lucy said, “Michael, it’s after one o’clock.”

They left the protesting Salvadore, rode the silent express elevator down to the elegant lobby and walked outside to Melody Deans’ death plunge.

Uniformed cops swooped down. They finally were followed by plainclothed detectives. Red police car lights swirled, creating weird glows across the front of the hotel. Clusters of people continued to surge forward toward the body, then fell back with murmurs of distaste. Presently a small, aggressive man, impeccably dressed, moved in beside Shayne who remained on one knee near the corpse.

Shayne looked up. The small man moistened an index finger and stroked a threadlike black mustache. It was one of the few times in his life that Peter Painter, chief of Miami Beach detectives, had the opportunity to tower over Mike Shayne. The two men shared an inborn animosity toward each other that neither ever was able to explain.

Painter snapped, “I might’ve known. What are you doing here?” His small black eyes glittered.

Shayne stood, looked down on the detective chief. “I live over there in Miami, remember?” he said.

“Point,” Painter replied coldly.

“I have a friend staying at the Cassandra. Lucy and I were visiting.”

“You two just happened to stumble across this diver, huh?”

“She was no diver, Painter.”

“She fell?”

“She was thrown or dropped.”

“Oh, God,” breathed Painter. He looked around as if seeking condolence.

“Smell her,” Rasped Shayne.

“Huh?”

“Melody Deans stinks of chloroform.”

Painter jerked.

“And a diamond wristlet is missing. I saw her wearing it earlier,” the redhead said.

III