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

When a fast application of cold water from the bathroom tap brought Tim Rourke around so that he could sit up on the floor and then in a chair and demand a glass of brandy, Shayne knew that no real damage had been done.

“Who was it?” he demanded then.

“He was behind me all the time,” Tim Rourke explained. “I never even got a look at him. Anyway I think from the way his voice sounded that he probably had either a mask or a stocking over his head. And no, I didn’t recognize the voice.”

“You keep saying ‘he’,” the big detective said.

“That’s right, I did. Funny. I suppose it might have been a woman disguising her voice, but I just don’t think so. It was a man, Mike. Don’t ask me why I’m so dead sure.”

Mike Shayne wasn’t that sure, but he listened while his friend went on to tell what the mail had said, and repeated the offer of the two hundred thousand dollars.

“That’s a lot of money to offer in such a hurry,” Rourke said. “Particularly when I’ve really got nothing at all to sell. I may have seen the killing, but I sure didn’t recognize the killer. He didn’t even ask me that. I’d have told him fast enough if I had the chance.”

“I don’t think you could have convinced him no matter how hard you tried.”

“I know that, Mike, but I’d have liked a crack at it anyway. He was in, an awful hurry to give away that two hundred grand though.”

“That’s what he wanted us to think,” Mike Shayne said. “I don’t think that whoever it is about pass out that much cash. But if he’s trying to trap us, maybe we can use it to our advantage. I’d like to try it Rourke — if you don’t mind joining me as bait.”

Rourke grimaced. “Well, I seem to be bait anyway. Might as well go along for the ride.”

On their way-out of the big house they encountered Della Peckinbaugh at the front door. She was looking regal and widowed at one time in a three thousand dollar Paris “creation” in black linen and pearls. Three servants were busy carrying bags out to the long black Rolls which waited, complete with chauffeur by the steps.

Sam Hill was with Mrs. Peckinbaugh, but he broke off his conversation to greet the two friends. “You boys on your way back to Miami?”

“That’s right,” Shayne greeted the Sheriff and Mrs. Peckinbaugh. “I figure if you haven’t found anything down here, then I won’t either.”

“I take that as a compliment — coming from you,” Sheriff Hill said. “Anyway there won’t be much action here after another hour. It looks like everybody’s clearing out all at once.”

“I see you’re going too, Della,” Rourke said to the widow. “Are you headed back to your home in the west?”

“Not right away, Tim,” she said. “Naturally I want to stay in touch with Sheriff Hill here until he finishes his investigation. After what happened the other night this place gives me the chills, so I’m going to Miami for a little while. The Peterses and Miss Dawn will be in Miami too. We have to have at least one business conference before we all separate.”

Shayne looked surprised.

“Bill Buzby insists on it,” Della Peckinbaugh explained. “We’re all in Harvey’s will you know, one way or the other. He says we should talk things over amicably instead of letting the lawyers mess it up. Besides, I think he wants me to authorize some sort of advance payment to Slim Peters.”

“That’s interesting,” Shayne said.

“Oh yes,” Della continued, “I suppose you know by now that’s the big reason Slim and Sally came to this party. They wanted to talk some sort of business deal with Harvey. Now I suppose it will be with me instead. Whatever it is, I think I’ll probably agree. I’ve always liked Slim.”

Shayne noticed that she didn’t say Sally or even Slim and Sally.

Della followed Shayne and Rourke partway down the steps. “Remember, Mr. Shayne,” she said in a low voice that Sam Hill couldn’t overhear, “you’re still working for me. I’ll contact you as soon as I get settled in Miami.”

VIII

Tim Rourke and Mike Shayne drove straight on up the stretch of U.S. Highway One known as the overseas highway to the tip of mainland Florida and then on through an endless wall of bars, restaurants, car sales lots, realty offices and advertising signs to Miami itself.

Shayne stopped first at his apartment hotel near the mouth of the Miami River to leave his bag and pick up a few things he needed. Then he drove them on to Tim Rourke’s high rise condominium.

Unlike his detective friend, who hadn’t changed his address in years, Rourke lived in the most flashy and extravagent of the lofty new buildings that had gone towering up on the near-in northeast side of the central city.

The place had everything, including an oversized swim pool and a boat dock and turning basin for nautically minded tenants, of whom Tim Rourke was not one.

The apartment also had a wide, railed balcony looking east over Biscayne Bay to the shining white towers of Miami Beach. It was here that the two friends took their tall, cold drinks and sat down for a talk while they waited for the killer to contact them with a repetition of his offer.