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

Another group, mostly older men already wearing dark business suits suitable for a plane flight, were Harvey Peckinbaugh’s business and political associates.

These men ate little and talked Jess. They looked alert and harrassed. Shayne assumed that every one of them had something at stake as a result of the murder.

The servants, too, looked nervous and even frightened. They moved about quickly as if unsure of themselves, hesitated before touching anything, and tried to keep an eye at all times on a small group of men at the head of the big table.

Mike Shayne recognized these as Sheriff Sam Hill and some of his top grade plainclothes men. That was where the big private detective headed at once.

Sam Hill was busy eating and trying to talk with his mouth full. He didn’t see Shayne and Rourke coming at first. When he did he sat back in his chair and eyed them while his jaws worked on a mouthful of ham and biscuit.

“Hello Sam,” Shayne said. “You got this thing all wrapped up already?” He dropped the basket with its grisly contents on the table in front of the Sheriff.

Sam Hill took two swallows to get his mouth clear. When he did, he said, “What in the blazing noonday sun are you doing here, Shayne? And what’s this thing?”

“I just happened to be down this way,” Mike Shayne said easily, “so I stopped by to give Tim here a ride back to Miami. I figured after what happened the festivities would be fizzling out pretty quick down here. But then Rourke and I found this. Served up with breakfast.”

“Oh Lordy,” Sam Hill said. “I don’t know what we got here. Old Peckinbaugh didn’t die of no virus of course, but we don’t know even where he was killed. Now there’s a skiff missing. Was he killed here and did somebody row him out and tip him into the Gulf Stream? Or did he row out himself and meet somebody who knifed him? And now these threats. I got to question everybody on this place.”

“Speaking of that, Sam,” Shayne said, “when do you think you’ll be through with Tim?”

Sam Hill turned to Tim Rourke and said, “Okay, Shayne, you can have him any time you want. Don’t be in too much of a hurry though. We could maybe use your help.”

“Great,” said Rourke, “I’m only too glad to get off this place. I’ll leave my little friend in your hands. Glad it’s your job, not mine!”

“Yeah,” Sheriff Hill grunted.

At that moment a younger man came hurrying across the big room to where the sheriff sat. He was darkly handsome in a curiously stereotyped way. His sports jacket and slacks were casual, but his manner put him with the business-suit men rather than the Miami social set.

Mike Shayne’s hunch that this would be Bill Buzby, the late Mr. Peckinbaugh’s confidential man, was confirmed as soon as he spoke.

“Sheriff, when are you going to begin letting people out of here? Some of Mr. Peckinbaugh’s business associates are very important people. They want to get back west, you understand. Pick up the chips that the old man’s death has scattered.”

“I have to ask some questions before I let everybody go,” the Sheriff protested.

“Of course. Of course,” Buzby said. “We all understand that. On the other hand you can’t just hold all these people indefinitely as if they were ordinary joes. Why, one of them is Lieutenant Governor of our State. Another is the third or fourth biggest car dealer West of the Mississippi. That sort of people... Can’t you just take a brief statement from them and let them go? Men like that are easy enough to locate if you need them later on. You know that.”

“Easy to locate,” Sam Hill said, “and hard as the devil to extradite if I let them out of my jurisdiction. Still, there’s something to what you say. The question is — did any of these men have reason to want Peckinbaugh dead? Answer me that.”

“That’s easy,” Bill Buzby said. “They all wanted him dead. Everybody who knew Harvey Peckinbaugh wanted him dead.”

IV

“That makes it interesting,” Sam Hill said. His tone said; well, I’ll be damned, but he didn’t put that part into words.

“I mean it,” Bill Buzby said again, “I really don’t think there’s a man in the lot of his associates who isn’t glad the old man’s dead. He was rough and tough to deal with. You did it on his terms if you did it at all. He was greedy. That old man had money to burn, but he wouldn’t put a cent in any deal that didn’t guarantee — and I mean guarantee — him a clear forty percent profit before he started. His forty percent came off the top too, if you know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean,” Mike Shayne said. “We’ve got a couple of characters like that right here in Dade County, Florida. Real prominent citizens, but there’ll be dancing in the streets at their funerals.”

Buzby gave the big redhead a direct look. “Do I know you?”

“This is Mike Shayne,” Sam Hill told him. “He’s a private dick from Miami and a real good friend of mine. You can trust him.”