Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

No one said anything for several seconds; then Painter dismissed the unhappy assistant manager. Shayne moved around the room, looked through two open interior doorways. Each revealed a bedroom and each bedroom had been pawed thoroughly. In one, two new suitcases were open on the bed and feminine clothing was scattered everywhere. The suitcases had been cleaned out. A sliding closet door across the room had been pushed or left open. It revealed three hanging dresses, a pant suit and another dress on the carpeting.

Shayne continued to inventory the room. He spotted a passport and an airline ticket envelope on a dressing table. He looked inside both and scowled. The passport contained a photograph of Melody Deans but it was made out in the name of Flora Ann Perkins. The detective found a one-way ticket to Madrid, Spain, in the airline envelope. The ticket was made out to F. Perkins.

“What have you got, Shayne?”

He turned on Painter’s barked question. The dapper man crossed the room swiftly, took the passport and ticket. He studied both, then grunted. “Who the hell is Flora Ann Perkins?”

Shayne shrugged.

“But this is Melody Deans, isn’t it?” Painter said, holding up the passport picture.

“Yeah.”

“So what was she doing? Scooting out of the country under a false name?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne answered. He was remembering what had seemed to be a mild argument between Salvadore Aires and Melody Deans at the party, remembering how Salvadore and the woman had closeted themselves.

“Sal?” he called out.

But Salvadore Aires did not provide an answer. He seemed deeply puzzled as he stared at the passport and ticket.

“I can’t help you,” he said.

“There’s a bag purse in the outer room,” Painter said, looking around. “On the floor and open, like these suitcases, everything scattered. I didn’t spot money or travelers checks. It looks like she was cleaned out. You said she flew in tonight, right?”

“Yes. The flight was due in at International around eleven. It must have been on time, perhaps even a bit ahead of schedule. If you will recall, Mike, it was around midnight when she arrived at my suite.”

Shayne nodded. He also remembered that Melody Deans had not stayed more than thirty minutes, which meant she had returned to her suite around twelve-thirty if she had come straight back. And it had been one-twenty when she had come plunging down the seventeen flights to die against the sidewalk. That put her in the room for just slightly under an hour, plenty of time in which to be attacked by a hotel burglar.

But something was wrong. Something other than the scattered clothing, the lingering smell of chloroform, the suite was spotless, no cigarette butts, no used glasses or cups, no magazines, newspapers.

Shayne went to the bath between the two bedrooms, snapped on a light. It was spotless, the paper band on the toilet still intact. No damp towels or wash clothes, no water on the tile floor, the shower curtain hanging straight and clean, the two wash bowls glistening in the light.

Painter snapped, “What’s eating you, Shayne?”

“The place is too damn clean.” The redhead explained swiftly. Painter nodded in agreement and Salvadore Aires wore a deep frown.

From the doorway, Lucy Hamilton added, “A woman wouldn’t sit in a chair for almost an hour, Michael. She’d smoke a cigarette, wash her hands, fiddle with her hair, turn down a bed, unpack. A woman would do something.”

“So would a man,” Shayne mused. “Okay, it means Melody Deans didn’t stop here after checking in. She probably had the bags sent up while she went straight to your place, Sal. It also means she did not return directly here after leaving the party, or she returned and found someone ransacking, was subdued with the chloroform and dropped from the balcony.”

“Michael,” Lucy put in again, “she should have screamed if she walked in and found—”

“We’ll check that out,” Painter interrupted.

“There’s also the possibility,” Shayne said, “the burglar had latched the door, heard her key in the lock, had time to get behind the door with his chloroform patch and got her before she could yell.”

“A burglar, huh,” Painter snorted.

Shayne’s look was hard “How are you figuring it? I told you she was wearing a diamond wristlet. It’s gone and — hell, man, all you have to do is look at this place.”

“Just a run-of-the-mill hotel snoozer who uses chloroform — and kills.”

Shayne didn’t twitch muscle against Painter’s near-sneer.

“He slaps here with chloroform,” Painter went on harshly, “puts her under. So he’s got all night to plunder. My God, Shayne, the guy’d have time to wallpaper the joint! So why kill?”

“I told you she screamed coming down,” Shayne said coldly. “Maybe the stuff didn’t work on her, or maybe he simply missed. Maybe he took a Swipe at her, missed, and then shoved—”

“The missing wristlet?” Painter interrupted again, and this time the sneer was genuine.

“Stripped from her in a struggle.”

“Shayne,” Painter said, suddenly sounding as if he was seeking patience, “it isn’t that simple. Flora Ann Perkins.”