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

“Oh thank God you’re alright, Mike Shayne,” she said. “I was afraid you’d been injured last night. Of course you can have all the help and cooperation I can possibly give you. Just tell me what I can do.”

“I’ll have to see you in person,” he said. “I’ve got a long standing rule not to trust phones with the really important conversations. Can I come to the hotel?”

“Of course you can. I just woke up though and I’ll have to bathe and dress and have some breakfast. Suppose you come at twelve noon. I’ll be expecting you then.”

Shayne said: “Fine. I’ll be there,” and hung up.

Tim Rourke looked at him across the desk with a quizzical expression. “So you think you know who killed her husband?” he said. “Come on, boy, and let me in on the secret. Don’t forget he’s trying to kill me too.”

“And me,” Shayne said. “I wish I really did know, but I’m afraid that was mostly bluff for the beautiful widow’s benefit.”

He picked up a copy of the Miami Daily News which Lucy Hamilton had put on his desk. “I see our little bombing spree didn’t hit the front page.”

“It’s on page two of section B,” Lucy told him. “Will Gentry didn’t give out much to the reporters. Just a couple of mystery explosions in North Bay. The police are looking into it. That sort of thing. A couple of the teevy stations didn’t even use the item at all.”

“He didn’t give out our names?”

“I suppose he thought you didn’t want the publicity,” Lucy said. “Frankly I’m glad. Let the bomber worry about what happened to you.”

“That’s funny,” Shayne said. “The widow P. was afraid I’d been hurt last night.”

“She must know more than she’s supposed to then,” Rourke said. “That’s obvious.”

“It is. What I’d like to know is how she found out about danger to me.”

The phone rang again. This time it was the gentle voice of Dolly Dawn.

“Mr. Shayne? I thought you’d be interested to know that Della Peckinbaugh has invited us all to a meeting in her hotel suite this evening. Something about both the murder and the estate. Do you think you could possibly arrange to be there? Anyway I feel you should know about it.”

“I’m going to arrange to be there,” Shayne said. “Thank you for calling anyway.”

“Don’t thank me. I know you were working on the matter of poor Harvey’s death. I want his killer brought to justice too, you know.”

“I appreciate that,” Shayne said.

Dolly Dawn hesitated for a moment. “I don’t know if I should mention this. I didn’t see anything in the papers... but I think I ought to say there’s a rumor that someone tried to kill you and Mr. Rourke last night. I hope you’re both alright.”

“We are,” Shayne told her. “Whoever it was bungled badly. I’m interested in how you heard about it. Can you tell me?”

“Of course I can. The Peters are staying at the same hotel I am and we had breakfast together in the coffee shop. Slim told me he’d heard a rumor about it. Well, I hope I see you at the meeting tonight.”

Shayne put the phone down.

“Tim,” he said. “It looks like our little ruckus last night is about as secret as this morning’s weather report.”

The hotel where Della Peckinbaugh had her suite was just a couple of blocks up Biscayne Boulevard from the intersection of Flagler Street, so Mike Shayne decided to walk over at noon.

Since the hotel was a part of the Peckinbaugh real estate holdings, the family always used the top floor penthouse when they were in town. Only one of the elevators went all the way up, but it also made stops at all the other floors. Like the rest of the bank it was of the self service type and the riders pushed buttons for their floors.

Shayne got on in the lobby. When the elevator stopped to pick up a passenger on the mezzanine he had a good view of the entrance to the bar on the other side of the balcony. A man and woman with their backs to him were going into the bar. Shayne thought he recognized the man as Bill Buzby. The woman was a redhead. She was ahead of the man and he got only a fleeting glimpse of her, but he thought he recognized Sally Peters. Then the elevator door closed and his view was cut off.

The penthouse had its own private lobby. Shayne got out of the elevator and rang the bell, to the apartment door and a uniformed personal maid let him in.

“Mrs. Peckinbaugh is just finishing dressing,” she told the detective. “She says will you please wait in the living room.”

Shayne complied. The room was beautifully furnished and had a huge picture window looking out over Biscayne Boulevard to Bayfront Park and then across the Bay to the coast of Miami Beach.

It was fully ten minutes before Della Peckinbaugh appeared. She was wearing a chic and expensive linen slack suit and a necklace of magnificent matched pearls. Nothing about her appearance suggested a bereaved widow.

“It’s a beautiful morning,” she smiled at Mike Shayne. “I just couldn’t stand the idea of wearing black.”

“I understand.”

“But that wasn’t what you came to talk about, Mr. Shayne. Do I understand that you have evidence to show who murdered my husband?”