Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 29, No. 4, September 1971

“On top of that,” Shayne continued, “he’d been viciously and brutally beaten and several major bones broken in the process. According to the coroner the beating alone could very well have brought about the death of a man that age.”

“Maybe there were three killers,” Rourke offered. He obviously didn’t care very much one way or the other.

“Next you’ll be claiming it was suicide,” Shayne said and drank the last of his coffee. “It’s an interesting case, but I’m glad this is one I’m not mixed up with.”

“You are,” Lucy Hamilton said. It was the first comment she’d made.

Shayne looked at her. The big redhead was still sleepy and the electric razor he’d used that morning had done a poor job on his face. He wiped sweat off his brow with the back of one big hand.

“I hope I didn’t hear that,” he said to Lucy. “I sincerely hope you didn’t say what I’m afraid you did just then.”

“You heard me right the first time, Michael,” Lucy Hamilton told him. “I’d just been waiting for the right moment to tell you.”

“Okay, Angel,” the big detective said. “I guess you better go right ahead and explain. I’ve got an awful feeling it’ll be just as much of a shock if I put it off.”

Lucy laughed at him. “Don’t look so huffy,” she said. “You know you could use a case right now, what with the inflation and all. It isn’t the first one I’ve got you either. Besides, Anna was so terribly upset. She really does need help and I just didn’t have the heart to tell her no. It would have been a cruel thing to do under the circumstances.”

“Of course it would,” said a highly amused Tim Rourke. “I agree with you one hundred percent.”

“Who’s Anna?” Shayne asked.

“Anna Wingren, of course,” Lucy Hamilton told them. “She’s the murdered man’s sole surviving relative. His granddaughter as a matter of fact.”

“Fascinating,” Rourke said. “You see now why you have to take the case, maestro.”

Lucy Hamilton ignored him. “Anna’s also a very old and very good friend of mine,” she told Shayne. “We were in college together. That was long before I met you or had any idea of moving to Miami. I ran into her here by accident a year ago and we’ve seen each other off and on since. So of course when she called me early this morning—”

“You went right ahead and signed up your boss,” Tim Rourke said.

“Shut up, Tim,” Mike Shayne said. “Lucy hasn’t had time to tell us about the missing treasure yet. Have you, Lucy?”

“What treasure?” Tim Rourke asked.

“How did you know?” Lucy asked.

They said it together, and it was Shayne’s turn to laugh at them. “The treasure,” he said. “When an old man who’s supposed to be rich lives like a miser and gets himself killed in the middle of the night in a big old house, there’s always a treasure involved. Usually it’s hidden some place on the premises. There’d be no point in knocking him off if his money was all safe in the bank, would there?”

“I suppose not,” Rourke admitted.

“Sure,” Shayne said. “Besides, if all this Anna Wingren wanted was justice, she’d wait for the cops to turn up the killer. If she wants me this early in the game, it has to be to find a missing treasure.”

“Which will pay your fee when you find it,” Lucy said.

“If I find it,” Shayne told them both.

II

When Mike Shayne drove up to the old Wingren home an hour later the police were still on the grounds. That didn’t stop the redheaded private detective from going on into the house. He’d been a close personal friend of Miami Police Chief Will Gentry for more years than either of them cared to remember, and the men on the force knew it. The uniformed officer at the door passed him in without question.

Sergeant McCloskey and a couple of men from the crime lab were in the big living room where the body had been found.

“Hello, Mike,” the sergeant said cheerfully. “How did you get mixed up in this one?”

“I’m representing the heir this time,” Shayne said. He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t have to.

“Another one of those hidden treasure deals, I suppose,” McCloskey said. He’d been in the business a long time himself.

“You know that would be privileged information,” Shayne said. “What happened here anyway, Mac?”

“We don’t really know very much about it yet,” the sergeant said. “You can see for yourself what a mess this place is. The other twelve rooms in the house are just as bad. Maybe worse. Anything hid in here could stay that way for a long, long time.”

McCloskey could have been right. The room they were in was full of furniture, bric-a-brac, miscellaneous property and just plain junk. There were four standing lamps on the big library table by the window. One was an antique designed to bum whale oil. Only one of the three electric fixtures had a bulb.

On the same table were old books, a Chinese rose medallion teapot, two bronze foo dogs, seven ashtrays full of cigar butts, a pile of Sunday newspapers dating back for years, and a carved soapstone Indian peace pipe.