But when Shayne telephoned the Cassandra he discovered that Salvadore Aires had checked out of the hotel.
Had Salvadore cleared out of the Cassandra to get away from the gawkers, checked into another hotel somewhere on the Beach, or had he cleared out of town? Why was he running?
Shayne sat low on his spine, a huge fist thumping the edge of his desk as his thoughts churned. Did Painter know Salvadore had hiked? If he didn’t know, should he be told?
His intercom buzzed. Lucy Hamilton said, “Peter Painter is on the line, Michael.”
Shayne sat up. Painter’s voice was flat. “Earlier this morning, shamus, you mentioned a diamond wristlet. Was the woman wearing any other jewelry?”
“No.”
Painter hesitated and Shayne envisioned the stroking of the tiny mustache. “She was thoroughly cleaned out. We didn’t find a dime. Incidently, your friend Aires has returned to Detroit. He called, said he had pressing business. I didn’t buy it, but I gave him an okay. I can find him when and if I want him again. Oh, yes, he also said he had dispensed with your service.” Painter paused to take a breath, then snarled, “You stay the hell out of my hair on this one, Shayne!”
Shayne said, “I’ve been retained by Albert Deans.”
“Goddamnit—”
The line went dead.
Salvadore had left town, and Painter had let him go? What the hell was going on? Painter didn’t let murder suspects trot out from under his thumb.
Shayne went to a window, stared outside.
And Gentry had just told him Painter was hot on Salvadore. So how come he let Salvadore Aires leave town? Was Painter suddenly playing some kind of cute game?
He thumped his thigh viciously, returned to his desk. Damn, he’d wanted to lean on Salvadore, get some answers. He yelled at Lucy to look up the number of a Detroit contact. Then he phoned Leo Peterson.
“Got a tail job for you, Pete,” he told the Detroit man. “Salvadore Aires, the insurance guy. You know him?”
“Not on sight, Mike, but I can round up a photo.”
“He may be coming in on a commercial flight from Miami sometime today. I said may. He could switch flights in midstream and not show. But keep an eye, huh? And if you pick him up, stay on him. I want to know where he goes. Let me know soonest. If you can’t get me here, phone Lucy. She’ll give you the numbers.”
After the call Shayne sat scowling for a long time. He needed a contact in Las Vegas and he did not have one. His lone tie had died six months ago. But he needed some digging done out there. For one thing, he wanted to know if a Flora Ann Perkins lived in Las Vegas, and if she and Melody Deans had been friends. He also wanted to know what kind of action Salvadore Aires liked when in Vegas. Had he ever left himself exposed to blackmail?
From Melody Deans, for instance.
Had she told Salvadore Aires to meet her in Miami Beach with cash? Had Salvadore attempted to haggle with her at the party? Was blackmail the reason she had a passport and an airline ticket to Spain in another name? Had she planned to collect and run?
Had Salvadore hired her murder because of blackmail? Had he set her up?
Lucy was on the intercom again.
“There’s a young man to see you, Michael,” she said, and the crispness of her voice alerted Shayne. “He says he has some information about Melody Deans.”
V
“So you’re Mike Shayne, the famous private eye,” the youth said with a half grin that didn’t mean a thing.
Shayne sat silent, waited. The youth occupied the chair in front of the redhead’s desk. He was a good looking kid in Bermuda shorts, tank top, barefooted, athletically trim, dark hair worn moderately long; maybe in his mid-twenties. He was the kind of kid, Shayne thought, who would impress women.
“I heard on the radio,” he said, “you’re involved in the death of this cat at the Cassandra last night, this dame who took the long step down from the balcony.”
“So far you’re wasting my time, fella,” Shayne said truthfully.
The youth shrugged. “Name’s Cal Stone. I’m a beach boy at the Cassandra. I figure what I got is worth a hundred clams to you.”
“There’s cops.”
“Cops don’t dole out government green, Mr. Shayne.”
“Okay, Cal, what’ve you got?”
“A hundred?”
“Depends.”
The youth debated and Shayne pressed, “Figure it this way, paclass="underline" there isn’t any other place to sell it. Whatever you get from me is tax-free bread.”
The youth bit his lower lip, then said, “Okay, you’re hanging me high, but I’m at the Cassandra last evening, entertaining a little northern mother who’s down for a little relaxation from her tycoon-type husband, and I’m leaving her around twelve o’clock, little before. I’m coming down in the elevator and crossing the lobby when I see this doll checking in at the desk. And I mean she’s a doll, Mr. Shayne. Very chic, very heavy, got lots of interesting things about her, including a beautiful, sparkling thing on her wrist.”
“It’s your dame, all right, the one who took the long step later, only I don’t know she’s gonna be dead inside a couple of hours, of course. All I know is, she’s a looker, checking in alone.”
“Anyway, I lay back, wait for her to go upstairs, then I’m gonna get the pitch on her from the desk clerk. The only trouble is a guy checks in right behind the Deans dame and I know the guy! I also know he’s on her tight, trailing her. Those kind of signs I can read in my sleep, Mr. Shayne, believe me.
“So I back off, stay out of sight. But I’m curious. I ain’t seen Ralph Bastone in town for maybe a year now. We used to work together at another hotel down the street from the Cassandra, the Silver Arms. We worked the beach for maybe six, eight months together, and I was glad to see him cut when he did. He’s a gunner, real competition.
“But, like I said, I’m curious. I ain’t seen Ralph in a long time, and I’d heard he was out of town, had gone out west some place. So I hang around. I can’t figure if Ralph is bringing the cat in, or maybe he’s just on her tail. Anyway, I check with the desk after he goes upstairs, and he’s signed in as a Bernard Anderson, San Diego.
“That smells lovers to me, Mr. Shayne. Ralph and the dame are playing cutsies, check in separately as if they don’t know each other from yesterday, but give ’em five minutes upstairs and they’ll be in the same bed. The only trouble is — the dame fell off a balcony. Maybe Ralph pushed her. Is that worth a hundred?”
“Cal,” Shayne said in a voice that grated, “if you’re manufacturing this for the buck, I’ll find you and grind you into little pieces.”
He let it hang for emphasis. It got results. For the first time, the youth squirmed and dropped his eyes. Then he said, “I’m not putting you on, Shayne. Bastone was there, and he was with her or trailing her, I swear.”
Shayne contemplated. “Where might he hang his hat if he still is in town.”
“I wouldn’t know, man. I only worked with the guy. And, like I said, that was a year ago, maybe a little less. All I know is, he’s a gunner with the dames. I figure it’s how come he split with his living-in companion. Too heavy on the gunning. Too many overtime hours, you know?”
“You don’t know anything about him, but you know he was married.”
“I didn’t say he was married, Shayne. He and this Debbie shared a pad, that’s all. I think they had a kid, too, but I ain’t sure about that. Anyway he and Debbie split. I do know that. I ran into her about a week, ten days ago. First time I’d seen her since Ralph cut. The only reason I know her, is she used to come around to the hotel sometimes, looking for Ralph. He didn’t like that. He’d blow. But she came around anyway. I guess she was real hung on the guy. Anyway, I never cooled it with them, ever. Away from the Silver Arms, I never seen Ralph or Debbie.”