Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 34, No. 5, April 1974

Rourke laughed. “Yeah, Harvey P. had a temper. Lucky for him, the manager’s doing a twenty year stretch right now. Anyway,” he went on, his voice becoming serious. “Everybody’s being held down here for the night and probably most of tomorrow morning. We got Sam Hill, the Monroe County Sheriff himself, half his deputies and a couple of police from Peckinbaugh’s home ground all nosing around. And last night, some nut put a note in my pocket, claiming that I witnessed the murder, but he’ll pay me to keep quiet.”

“Did you tell Hill?”

“You better believe it! Hiding something down here right now would be impossible. So he wants me to hang around awhile longer. Which is trouble for me. But at least I’m getting an exclusive. And Della, that’s Mrs. Peckinbaugh to you, shamus, hinted that she’d like to have a private investigator of her own to keep track on the locals. Naturally I thought of you.”

“Natch, friend.” Shayne grinned.

“So if you get down here by morning, you can nose around a bit and see what’s going on, and then drive me back to Miami.”

“What happened to your car?”

“I rode down with Peckinbaugh. And he’s in no shape to drive me back. So if you hop to it, you can have the pleasure.”

Shayne grunted as he stood up. “Okay, I’ll be there soon as possible.”

“And shamus,” Rourke said, “Better bring a gun. Looks like the murderer is still around. We might have breakfast with him when you get here.”

“I’ll cross my fingers,” Shayne said.

II

Mike Shayne was starting to dress almost as fast as he hung up the phone.

He called his beautiful assistant, secretary and right-hand-woman Lucy Hamilton at her apartment and told her about Tim Rourke’s early morning call.

“I’m not sure what it’s all about,” he told her, “but Tim thinks I’d better get on down to Key Paradiso. If I can’t do anything else, at least I can drive him back to Miami.”

“If somebody thinks he witnessed the killing of Mr. Peckinbaugh, Tim could be in trouble,” Lucy Hamilton said. “So could you, Michael. I suppose you have to go down there, but please take care of yourself.”

“Don’t worry about me, Angel,” Mike Shayne said.

Even though he wasted no time, it was nearly daylight before Shayne could reach Key Paradiso. He had to pack his bag and then get his car out of the garage where he kept it and make a drive of more than two hours duration south on U.S. Highway One.

Late at night as it was, there was still a surprising amount of traffic on the narrow bridges spanning the water between the Keys.

Key Paradiso itself was off the main road, lying about a quarter of mile out to the East in the Atlantic. It was actually a small island with only about twenty acres of land above high tide mark. Harvey Peckinbaugh had bought the entire Key, erected houses, recreation facilities and even built a private causeway out from the main road. It was the sort of estate that only a man who was many times a millionaire could afford.

There was a gatehouse and swinging gate at the Key Paradiso end of the causeway. When Mike Shayne pulled up there was a private security guard in a fancy blue and white uniform standing by the gate.

With him was a uniformed Sheriff’s Deputy that Mike Shayne had known when he had been on the City of Miami police force some years back.

“Hi there, McGee,” the big redhead said. “I didn’t know you were working for Sam Hill these days. How are things?”

“Well, well,” McGee said, “If it isn’t Sherlock Holmes in person. Still setting the private eye business on its ear in Miami, Mike?”

“Not at the moment,” Shayne said easily. “Right now I’ve got a client up at the big house, on the Key here.”

“I don’t know about that,” The private guard said self-importantly. “Right now we got orders to keep the public out of here. I don’t think we can let you through.”

“Oh come off it,” the deputy, McGee, told him. “This here ain’t press or general public. Mike Shayne’s an old friend of my boss. Practically on the force himself, so to speak. Swing that gate up and let him by.”

“If you say so,” the guard said. He opened the gate reluctantly and let Shayne drive onto the island.

From there on it was only a short drive through scrub mahogany and wild lime tree groves to the big house on the seaward side of the Key. Dawn was breaking with the beautiful, translucent pearly light peculiar to the Florida Keys. The sea lay still and flat as a mirror.

The Peckinbaugh mansion was a sprawling two story structure with gables and big porches. There was a huge Olympic swimming pool off to one side and a dock big enough to moor a dozen large boats. A deepwater channel had been dredged to the dock, and there was also a sizeable artificially constructed turning basin for the boats. At the moment there was only one yacht moored, Peckinbaugh’s own HARVEY II, and a much smaller sport fisherman.