Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

The Gorgeous Murderer by Henry Kane

Neither the girl nor the man spoke the young bank teller’s language. They were from another world — a world of stark criminal violence and sudden death. And their game was Russian roulette.

I

When Oscar Blinney became acquainted with Evangeline Ashley, that delectable young lady was on the brink of losing one lover and murdering another, although, at the time, she had not the faintest premonition of the impending imminence of either catastrophe. And, of course, Oscar Blinney was totally unaware of the pertinent gentlemen involved or of the gradual gathering of the uneventful events which would culminate in such twofold tragedy. It was March in Miami, last scented breeze-swept month of the dying winter season of that warm, golden, riotous, luxuriant, ocean-lapped resort.

Blinney had come down on the first day of March, and had met Evangeline Ashley that same afternoon. And they had had their first actual conversation — initiated, in point of fact, by Miss Ashley, since it was not the wont of Oscar Blinney to address himself to any strange young lady no matter how delectable.

On the first of March, Oscar Blinney had descended as per reservation upon the Hotel Cascade in Miami Beach, ocean-front and fashionable, but not too expensive at end of season, although “descended,” usual as is such terminology, is woefully inaccurate as concerns Oscar Blinney, because, simply, Oscar Blinney never “descended” upon anything, anywhere. “Slithered” would be more descriptive but “slithered” also fails because Oscar Blinney was a muscular broad-shouldered six-feet-one and how can one apply “slithered” to a muscular broad-shouldered six-feet-one?

Let us put it this way: Oscar Blinney was shy, cautious, soft-spoken, and apologetic; his approach to anything, anywhere, always, was careful and diffident; it was as though the great bulk of muscular broad-shouldered six-feet-one trod tip-toe upon its own private carpet of foam-rubber; and it was always as though he were saying “Excuse me” before he said anything else. Carrying a battered suitcase in the great paw of his right hand, he egg-shelled to the ornate desk and said to the desk-clerk: “Blinney.”

“Pardon?” said the clerk.

“Blinney,” said Blinney.

“You have a reservation, sir?”

“I have,” said Blinney.

“Just one moment, sir,” said the clerk and rummaged amongst slips of paper and selected one and said, “Oh yes. Blinney, Oscar. Room 202. Please sign here.”

He slid a large square card in front of Blinney, but it was more than signing; it was like filling out a questionnaire that would serve as foundation for a cumulative dossier. Blinney dropped his suitcase with a thud, inspected the card, read the questions, meticulously inscribed the answers, and returned the card to the clerk who smiled frozenly and thumped a bell.

A wizened little bell-boy, who looked like a long-retired jockey, appeared, hoisted the bag, and accepted the key from the desk-clerk.

“Mr. Blinney goes to 202,” said the desk-clerk.

“What floor?” said Blinney.

“Two,” said the desk-clerk and puckered a rosebud mouth.

Blinney looked toward a wide marble staircase.

“Walk or ride?” he inquired.

“Whatever is your pleasure,” said the desk clerk and sniffed and turned to other matters.

“We ride,” said the jockey. “Like it’s a heavy bag you got here, Mr. Blinney.”

Blinney undressed, unpacked, showered and considered. Then decided to dress in his new sports clothes and see something of Miami Beach.

He did not use the elevator. Instead, he walked to the end of the corridor and down the stairs. He noted, at the foot of the stairs, that the staircase led directly to one of the entrance doors, and that it was completely out of the range of vision of the desk and the elevators. He grinned as he contemplated that, — wondering if the architect had so purposely constructed it. There was no doorman. It was perfect for the secret rendezvous of lovers. Was this staircase, so situated, one of the features of the Hotel Cascade, an undeclared, unadvertised, word-of-mouth inducement for the patronage of paying guests?

He grinned. It was a charming, practical gambit, a definite advantage to such of the paying guests who required such advantage, whether or not it was so purposely designed. And he stepped out, unseen, into the street.

The air was warm and scented sweet and there was a breeze from the ocean. He breathed deeply, filled his lungs, looked about. To his left, above an arched doorway, the glass tubes of unlighted neons spelled out in curlicued script: cascade tea room. It was a place to eat and he was hungry but he delayed it as though by presentiment.