His wide shoulders slumped a little, and he turned and slouched out of Gentry's office.
SEVENTEEN: 11:27 PM,
There was an air of elegance, a feeling of almost oppressive luxury about the huge lobby of the Roney Plaza Hotel on Miami Beach. At this hour of night and before the winter season had officially opened, the lobby was none-the-less quite well filled with gay couples in evening dress, coming and going from the bank of elevators to the cocktail and dining rooms where late supper was being served and dancing was in progress.
Michael Shayne made his way among the milling guests to the wide expanse of desk where two clerks were still on duty. He waited behind a fat man wearing a scarlet cummerbund and white jacket with midnight blue evening trousers, who was complaining bitterly to the clerk about the length of time it had taken room service to deliver two rye highballs to his suite earlier in the evening.
The clerk was a tall, lean, middle-aged man with a very thin black mustache and a pained expression of solicitude on his face as he listened patiently to the complaint. He agreed soothingly that it was a shocking state of affairs when a guest at the Roney had to wait more than fifteen minutes for delivery of a drink, and gravely promised to give the matter his personal attention and see that the offending waiter was reprimanded harshly. He then turned his tired eyes on Shayne and lifted his upper lip a quarter of an inch in what was supposed to pass for a smile, and inquired, "And what can I do for you, sir?"
"Do you have a Barnes registered? Charles Barnes from New York."
"If you'd care to inquire at the house telephone, sir?" The clerk flipped a white hand toward a row of phones at Shayne's right.
The detective started to protest but, realizing he'd get faster results by observing protocol, went to one of the phones and asked the same question.
A pleasant female voice repeated the name and said almost immediately, "Twelve-ten. Would you like me to ring them?"
Shayne said, "Please." He let the phone ring six times before replacing it.
He returned to the desk and said, "Barnes in twelve-ten? Can you tell me anything about him?"
The eyebrow-like mustache lifted superciliously. "I'm sure I don't know. If the telephone doesn't answer-"
Again, Shayne hesitated, and again he turned away with a slight shrug. He stepped back from the desk and lit a cigarette, looking around the lobby carefully.
He spotted a youngish man wearing a double-breasted blue serge suit leaning negligently against one of the pillars and apparently completely disinterested in everything that was going on about him.
Shayne threaded his way to him and asked, "Is Jimmie Curtis still in charge of Security?"
The young man looked at him stonily for a moment, then his face relaxed in a pleased smile. "You're Mike Shayne, aren't you?"
"That's right. Jimmie around?"
"He's not here any longer. Hasn't been for months. Mr. Gerdon took his place."
"And where," asked Shayne, "can I find Mr. Gerdon?"
"I'll take you to his office." The young man detached himself from the pillar and to Shayne's faint surprise it remained standing. He led him beyond the desk into a corridor, around a comer and down another with closed office doors on both sides.
He stopped near the end at a door marked "Private," knocked and then opened the door. He stepped inside and said smartly, "Mr. Gerdon. This is Mr. Shayne from Miami."
Shayne followed him in to a large room with a very thick carpet on the floor. A totally bald man with sunken cheeks and slightly protruding eyes sat behind a highly polished mahogany desk.
He said, "Shayne?" and rose slowly as his bulging eyes studied the rangy detective from across the bay. He nodded and said, "All right, Rawson," and held a hand out to Shayne without noticeable cordiality.
"Heard a lot about you, of course. Is this social or business?"
"Business." Shayne sat in the chair he indicated. "A man named Barnes in twelve-ten."
"No trouble, I hope." Gerdon turned in his swivel chair to a card filing cabinet and drew out a long drawer. He flipped through the cards and withdrew one, placed it on the desk in front of him.
Shayne said, "I'll know better when you give me the dope."
"Mr. and Miss Barnes from New York. Brother and sister. Twelve-ten is a two-bedroom suite," Gerdon explained. He read the New York address on East 63rd Street. "Credit rating A-1. They checked in sixteen days ago. Everything regular. Paid the first week's bill with a New York check that cleared." He looked up with a frown.
"What are their first names?"
"Charles and Mary."
Shayne leaned back in his chair and blew smoke at the ceiling. "Nothing else on their card, huh?"
"No notations of any sort. That means run-of-the-mill so far as any observations go."
Shayne said, "Can you get someone in who can describe them both to me?"
Gerdon hesitated. "If you'd tell me what you have in mind-?"
Shayne said, "A man carrying Charles Barnes's wallet was pulled out of the bay tonight. Dead. First time 1 knew he had a sister." His gaze was withdrawn, his voice speculative.
Gerdon sucked in his lips. He pressed a button on his desk, leaned forward to speak in a low tone into a small microphone on a stand in front of him on the polished mahogany. Then he leaned back and said, "We'll have the room-maid in. And the night-boy who serves that floor. Dead, eh? An accident?"
Shayne shook his head. "Murder." He moved the side of his hand across his throat expressively. "There's some question about the identity of the body-whether Barnes is dead or may have done the job himself. Would you work on the desk and switchboard? Try to find out about their movements tonight. Phone calls in or out?"
Gerdon's face indicated polite disbelief that any guest of the Roney Plaza could possibly be mixed up in anything as sordid as being a murderer or the victim of one.
However, he spoke into the microphone again at some length, and settled back as there was a light tap on his door. He called, "Come," and a pretty, plump girl dressed in a maid's uniform entered hesitantly. She looked quickly from Shayne to Gerdon, and then moved to stand in front of the desk with downcast eyes.
Gerdon glanced at a notation he had made and said, "It's all right, Irma. This gentleman would like to ask you a few questions about twelve-ten."
"That's Mr. Barnes and Miss Mary," she said ques-tioningly, turning to Shayne. "Real nice, both of them, I'm sure."
"I'm glad to hear that, Irma," Shayne reassured her.
"First, I wish you'd describe them to me the best you can."
"Miss Mary is real pretty. A little thing. Young-like. About twenty, I guess. She's got real blonde hair and- and, well, she's real nice. A lady. You know. She always says thank you. And tips me when she wants something; extra. I do hope nothing's wrong."
Shayne said gravely, "I hope so too. Now, about her brother. Does he-have a scarred face?"
"Oh, no." Irma looked shocked by the question. "Real nice-looking he is, too. Some older than Miss Mary, I guess, but not really if you know what I mean."
"You're sure about the scar?"
"Of course I'm sure. I've seen him plenty, being in and out like I am."
Shayne sighed. "About how tall? What weight?"
"Just medium, I'd say. Shorter than you by inches. I don't know how much men weigh. But he isn't fat-nor thin either. Just medium-like."
Shayne didn't show his disappointment. He said, "I know you're a smart girl, Irma, and you girls are trained to notice all sorts of things about your guests. Now think hard and see if you can remember anything in particular about the Barnes. Anything you overheard or noticed."
"Well, they- I'd say they had plenty of money and were used to nice things. Their clothes and all. And they acted like they were having a good time. Miss Mary in particular, she loved swimming and went in twice most every day. Mr. Barnes went out more than she did. And he-well, he had a sort of way about him." She drooped her head and a slight color crept into her cheeks.