Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine Annual, No. 3, 1973

He turned suddenly and fixed Salvadore Aires with a stony look. “Who is Flora Ann Perkins, Mr. Aires?”

Salvadore Aires blanched, took a step backward.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t understand any of this.”

Painter was cruel. “Don’t give me that crap, Aires! You’re sleeping with a woman! Don’t stand there and tell me—”

“I don’t know a Flora Ann Perkins!”

“But you do know why Melody Deans was going to travel under that name.”

“I do not!”

“You’re lying, Mr. Aires.”

Salvadore wriggled, then seemed to gather himself. He stood tall. “Mr. Painter, I can sue you for—”

“Knock it off,” Painter snarled. “I’m no longer impressed. A woman was killed here tonight, a woman you have been intimate with. I want to know why the hell that woman was going to Madrid, Spain, under a false name!”

Salvadore Aires stood taut about five more seconds, then bent under the onslought. “I can’t tell you,” he said in a tone that was just above a whisper. “I simply do not know if Melody planned to go to Spain, I do not know why she had a passport and an airline ticket in the name of Flora Ann Perkins. All of this is a mystery to me.”

Shayne knew his friend was continuing to lie. He also knew Painter knew Salvadore Aires was lying.

“Sal?” he said, cocking shaggy eyebrows.

Salvadore persisted. “I don’t know, Mike.”

Shayne drew a deep breath. He wished his friend would square with them. But he decided to go along with Salvadore for the moment. He said, “Sal didn’t kill the woman, Painter. He didn’t leave his party.”

“Not while you were there, maybe,” Painter said coldly. “He could’ve run down here after you left.”

“The chloroform?” Shayne countered. “Do you think he used chloroform?”

“Mike,” Salvadore Aires put in softly, “I didn’t leave my guests. You can check. I’ll give you names.”

“Get him the hell out of here,” Painter said with a sudden wave of an arm. “I have to get this place dusted. But Aires don’t go running back to Detroit — or anyplace else.”

“I don’t have any reason to run, Mr. Painter,” Salvadore Aires said.

Leaving the suite, Shayne stopped to check the door lock. It wasn’t scratched. No jimmying, but that didn’t have to mean anything. He caught up with Lucy and Salvadore Aires in the corridor.

“Got any of the cognac left, pal?” he asked.

“No, Mike,” said Salvadore, sounding defeated. “Not tonight.”

Shayne turned hard. “You lied in there, Sal. Who is Flora Ann Perkins? Melody Deans needed a birth certificate to get the passport. She could fake out the rest of it, but she needed a birth certificate from someone near her age. And why was she going to Spain incognito? Was that what you two were arguing about when she came to your suite?”

“Mike, give me back my buck.”

Shayne stared for a moment, then passed the dollar bill.

“You have no more interest,” Salvadore Aires said flatly. “You no longer are employed. I can handle Mr. Painter.”

“I can help, pal. Painter can be a bastard.”

“No. It’s finished.”

“What’s finished?”

“I’m returning to Detroit in the morning.”

“Painter isn’t going to like that.”

“Mr. Painter will know. I won’t be running. I won’t be hiding.”

“Sal, like Painter said, someone killed Melody Deans. Aren’t you the least bit interested in who that person was and why he killed her?”

“I am not.”

“Then you’re hiding something.”

“Am I? Good night, Mike. Good night, Lucy.”

IV

Tuesday Morning glowed, promised heat before the day was finished. Mike Shayne was unimpressed as he sat staring out a window of his office. His brow was deeply furrowed, bushy red-tinted eyebrows pulled together. Sleep in the earlier hours had been fitful. He felt out of sorts with the world and with Salvadore Aires.

Lucy Hamilton buzzed the intercom from the outer office. “There’s a Mr. Deans to see you, Michael.”

“Deans? Husband?”

“Brother.”

Albert Deans was round in head and in body. He was fifty-five or so, Shayne guessed, bald and out of dress in native Miami sportswear. He looked as if he would be comfortable in laborer’s clothing.

“I own farms,” he said bluntly. “Three of them in Iowa. My sons are operating them. I am retired, Shayne. I’ve lived in Miami for two years now. Widowed. Mother died about a year ago. Of course, I go back to Iowa every so often, to see that things are going as they should. But my boys are good boys. They know how to farm. Melody should have stayed there. She never should have left home. She wouldn’t be dead this morning.

“Who killed her, Mr. Shayne? I heard on the radio you were over there in Miami Beach last night, I heard you and this man Painter are investigating what happened. I went over there this morning, but I didn’t get any satisfaction out of Painter. He’s kind of a snotty little runt. I don’t like him. Treated me like he thought it was impossible that Melody could have family, especially here in Miami.