Shayne did. Briefly.
“And this Aires is where now?”
“Try Suite 1745.”
“Michael,” Lucy Hamilton interrupted in a soft voice, “Salvadore is coming out of the hotel. Someone must have phoned upstairs.”
Salvadore Aires was allowed a quick look at the body. He turned aside and vomited. When he had recovered, Painter said, “Can we talk now?”
Salvadore said he had known Melody Deans for almost three years. He occasionally traveled to Las Vegas, maybe every six weeks or so. He liked to gamble. He also had found Melody Deans attractive. They had dated often in the last eighteen months. A few weeks ago, Melody had told him that she was going to take some time from her job as a social hostess at a hotel-motel-casino; she was going to come to Miami Beach for relaxation. He had made arrangements to be in Miami Beach at the same time. He even had made the hotel reservation for her, to be sure she got a suitable suite.
“What floor are you on, Mr. Aires?”
“The seventeenth.”
“Front?” Chief Painter looked up.
“Yes.”
“Miss Deans?”
“Seventeen, front.”
“Next door?”
“No.” Salvadore Aires lit a cigarette. Shayne noticed the shaking hands.
“Painter, as you should know, hotel accomodations in Miami Beach are not the easiest obtainables. I desired adjoining suites. Such was not available. The Cassandra management, I thought, was quite accomodating when Melody and I were put on the same floor.”
Painter shifted in thought. “Tell me, Aires, would you say you and Miss Deans were close?”
“Yes.”
“Intimate?”
“That depends on what you mean.”
“I mean, were you expecting to sleep together?”
“Why would I reserve two suites? People don’t sneak around anymore, Mr. Painter. Haven’t you heard?”
“Did you kill her?”
“Kill?” Salvadore Aires suddenly looked confused. He shot a look at Shayne.
Shayne said flatly, “It looks like murder, pal.”
“But I supposed—”
Salvadore didn’t finish his thought. He crushed the cigarette under the toe of his shoe. His brow was furrowed. Presently he said, “You believe she didn’t commit suicide, Mike?” He sounded subdued.
Shayne countered, “You know of any reason she might have?”
“No,” Salvadore said quickly. “I just assumed—”
Painter interrupted, “Do you know any reason she might’ve been killed?”
“No.”
“How about if we take a look at her room?” Shayne suggested.
“Not you, shamus,” Painter said quickly. “You aren’t involved in this. You don’t have a client and, even if you did, this is Miami Beach. You can bull your way with Will Gentry in Miami all you want, but over here—”
He cut off the barrage as Salvadore Aires took out a coat pocket wallet. He removed a dollar bill from the wallet and thrust it at Shayne.
“Shayne is hired, Mr. Painter,” he said in a flat voice. “I’m paying him to find Melody’s killer.”
“That doesn’t mean a thing, Aires,” Painter snapped. “He doesn’t get into the room.”
“Nor do you,” Salvadore countered, “without the proper papers. It is my room. I paid for it. I—”
“This is a murder investigation,” Painter snarled, anger curling the edges of the words. “I don’t need papers!”
“Try going up there without my permission and see how fast you and your city are sued. It may not stop you, admitted, but we are going to make some choice headlines in the next few days. I believe Shayne has a friend, Timothy Rourke, who is a Miami newspaperman and who—”
“Aires,” Painter cut in coldly, “I’m going to concede to you for one reason only. I have some more questions to ask Shayne. Let’s go upstairs.”
He stomped away. Shayne shot Salvadore Aires a glance. Salvadore was grim, his mouth a thin line.
Painter collected an assistant hotel manager and a key at the desk and they rode the express elevator. But they found they didn’t need the key when they arrived at what had been Melody Deans’ room. The door was ajar.
Shayne scowled as Painter held everyone back with outstretched arms while he stared at the door. Light in the room showed through the door crack, but no sound came from inside.
Shayne looked at Lucy. Her lips were pursed, eyes bright. He started to reach across Painter’s shoulder, then the small man put up a hand and with one extended finger pushed the door until they all could see inside the suite.
The main room was vast and expensively furnished. There was light everywhere. On the opposite side, the french doors were wide open, exposing the balcony. A breeze blew in, but the breeze did not clear the smell of chloroform or right the general disarray. The room looked ransacked.
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.