“He didn’t give out our names?”
“I suppose he thought you didn’t want the publicity,” Lucy said. “Frankly I’m glad. Let the bomber worry about what happened to you.”
“That’s funny,” Shayne said. “The widow P. was afraid I’d been hurt last night.”
“She must know more than she’s supposed to then,” Rourke said. “That’s obvious.”
“It is. What I’d like to know is how she found out about danger to me.”
The phone rang again. This time it was the gentle voice of Dolly Dawn.
“Mr. Shayne? I thought you’d be interested to know that Della Peckinbaugh has invited us all to a meeting in her hotel suite this evening. Something about both the murder and the estate. Do you think you could possibly arrange to be there? Anyway I feel you should know about it.”
“I’m going to arrange to be there,” Shayne said. “Thank you for calling anyway.”
“Don’t thank me. I know you were working on the matter of poor Harvey’s death. I want his killer brought to justice too, you know.”
“I appreciate that,” Shayne said.
Dolly Dawn hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know if I should mention this. I didn’t see anything in the papers... but I think I ought to say there’s a rumor that someone tried to kill you and Mr. Rourke last night. I hope you’re both alright.”
“We are,” Shayne told her. “Whoever it was bungled badly. I’m interested in how you heard about it. Can you tell me?”
“Of course I can. The Peters are staying at the same hotel I am and we had breakfast together in the coffee shop. Slim told me he’d heard a rumor about it. Well, I hope I see you at the meeting tonight.”
Shayne put the phone down.
“Tim,” he said. “It looks like our little ruckus last night is about as secret as this morning’s weather report.”
The hotel where Della Peckinbaugh had her suite was just a couple of blocks up Biscayne Boulevard from the intersection of Flagler Street, so Mike Shayne decided to walk over at noon.
Since the hotel was a part of the Peckinbaugh real estate holdings, the family always used the top floor penthouse when they were in town. Only one of the elevators went all the way up, but it also made stops at all the other floors. Like the rest of the bank it was of the self service type and the riders pushed buttons for their floors.
Shayne got on in the lobby. When the elevator stopped to pick up a passenger on the mezzanine he had a good view of the entrance to the bar on the other side of the balcony. A man and woman with their backs to him were going into the bar. Shayne thought he recognized the man as Bill Buzby. The woman was a redhead. She was ahead of the man and he got only a fleeting glimpse of her, but he thought he recognized Sally Peters. Then the elevator door closed and his view was cut off.
The penthouse had its own private lobby. Shayne got out of the elevator and rang the bell, to the apartment door and a uniformed personal maid let him in.
“Mrs. Peckinbaugh is just finishing dressing,” she told the detective. “She says will you please wait in the living room.”
Shayne complied. The room was beautifully furnished and had a huge picture window looking out over Biscayne Boulevard to Bayfront Park and then across the Bay to the coast of Miami Beach.
It was fully ten minutes before Della Peckinbaugh appeared. She was wearing a chic and expensive linen slack suit and a necklace of magnificent matched pearls. Nothing about her appearance suggested a bereaved widow.
“It’s a beautiful morning,” she smiled at Mike Shayne. “I just couldn’t stand the idea of wearing black.”
“I understand.”
“But that wasn’t what you came to talk about, Mr. Shayne. Do I understand that you have evidence to show who murdered my husband?”
“I have evidence that’s just about good enough to convince me,” Mike Shayne said. “I’m afraid it’s not enough yet to take to a jury, but I’m pretty sure I can get that within another twenty-four hours. With your help, that is.”
“Splendid,” she said. “Now I believe you’re as good as they told me you were. Who do you suspect and how can I help?”
“You can help by inviting me to your conference this evening and letting me bring Tim Rourke and Chief Gentry of the Miami Police as guests. By that time I think I can name the killer.”
“Consider it done,” Della Peckinbaugh said. “You know I’ll do anything you ask. Can’t you tell me who it is though? You know you can rely on my discretion.”
“I know I can,” the big man said gravely. “But I’d rather not accuse anyone till I have a few more facts. I haven’t told anyone yet, and I won’t till I’m absolutely sure.”
“Excuse me a moment,” she said then. “I think the private phone in my bedroom is ringing.”
She was gone only a few moments. “Sorry,” she said on returning. “It was my hairdresser making an appointment for tomorrow. Now, what else can I do to help?”
“Just a couple of questions,” the big man said. “Is there anyone outside of those I’ve met who could have a real interest in your husband’s will? Any other heirs?”
“As far as family is concerned there are only distant cousins,” she replied. “My understanding is they are provided for by generous personal bequests and by income from a family trust. None of them would have gained anything by murder. Then there are large bequests to three charities, but of course they wouldn’t...”
“Of course not,” Shayne agreed. “Just one more thing. Could anyone but you or your husband draw on your bank accounts?”
“Only Bill Buzby,” she said, “but one of us had to add a second signature to any check he wrote.”
Shayne excused himself then after promising to be at the meeting that evening.
Della Peckinbaugh went with him to the foyer and waited until the elevator arrived. It was empty. Shayne said a last goodby and stepped in. The heavy metal doors slid shut.
There was a movement — a bare flicker of movement caught by the corner of his eye. He couldn’t pin it down. Just a movement where there should have been no movement at all.
Another man wouldn’t have noticed it, or would have hesitated and died. Mike Shayne had the keen, instant reflex of a big jungle cat. He jumped by instinct to flatten himself against the wall of the elevator cage, even as his right hand flashed to draw the big Colt’s forty-five.
By the sound, the gun was a thirty-eight. The shot came from above his head and the bullet struck the floor below where his head had been just a split second before.
By the time Shayne managed to look up, the metal panel in the roof of the elevator cage, placed there so passengers would have an emergency escape hatch, had slammed shut. There was a quick scrape of feet on the roof and then silence.
Shayne jumped for the escape hatch, but it was wedged shut from above.
He knew that this was the top of the elevator shaft. There would be a balcony and exits both to the roof and to a stairwell alongside the elevator shaft. Both were provided for the convenience of maintenance and repair men.
By the time Shayne could get into the shaft the killer would have made an easy escape either down the stairs or out across the roof.
Instead of wasting time on futile pursuit, the big man dug the bullet that had been fired at him out from under the thick carpeting. The slug had flattened out of shape on the metal flooring. He dropped it in his pocket and then pushed the button for the lobby floor.
Once safely down Shayne took a lounge chair in the lobby where he could watch the elevator bank and stairs. About twenty minutes later Slim and Sally Peters came down the stairs from the mezzanine where the bar was located. They were laughing and talking.