ONE

MICHAEL SHAYNE BREATHED a low-toned “Shayne talking” into the telephone. He snuggled the receiver closer to his ear and listened without further comment. A scowl creased his forehead. His angular features became tight and hard. His gray eyes gazed anxiously through the open bedroom door, and the scowl maneuvered itself into a grin when he saw Phyllis watching him.

Placing his mouth close to the instrument he interrupted the flow of words coming over the wires. “Hold it. I’ll go down to my office and get the rest. Tell the operator to switch you downstairs.” He wiped beads of sweat from his corrugated brow as he gently cradled the telephone, then hesitated for the briefest instant before turning on his heel and striding through the bedroom door.

Phyllis Shayne stood in the midst of an array of packed luggage in the living-room. Her own dressing-case and hatbox were closed, but Shayne’s Gladstones gaped open, waiting for the force of his weight to close them.

Phyllis was flushed and panting from her exertions and from the hot, humid breeze blowing through the east windows at the end of a long sunny August day in the semitropics. She wore a gray tailored traveling-outfit, and moist ringlets of black hair framed her expectant young face. The dancing happiness in her dark eyes changed to an expression of wary speculation when her husband entered the room meditatively massaging the lobe of his left ear between right thumb and forefinger.

“Who was it, Michael? Not anything that will interfere?”

Shayne shook his head with a grin that was intended to be reassuring. “I have to go down to my office for a minute. There’s nothing to get upset about, angel.”

“Then why are you tugging at your ear?” She moved swiftly to stand between Shayne and the door. “Don’t you dare get mixed up in anything. You promised me—”

“Sure, I promised you.” He put both his big hands on her shoulders, and the grin stayed on his lips, but his eyes were bleak, and they looked past her. “It’ll only take a minute, Phyl. You get everything ready and be all set for the take-off.”

“Michael! I’ll die if anything happens now to spoil our trip.” Her lips trembled, and her eyes were frightened.

“What can happen?” Shayne asked cheerily. His hands tightened on her shoulders and he bent his head swiftly to brush his lips across her damp forehead. He released her with a little shove and made for the door in long, swinging strides.

“The train leaves in fifty minutes.” The words came with a rush from behind him. “No matter who or what it is, Michael, you say no.”

“Sure, Phyl.” He closed the door without looking back and went hurriedly down the hall past the elevators to a rear stairway and down one flight. Halfway up the hall below he stopped and unlocked the door to the suite which had served him as bachelor quarters before his marriage to Phyllis Brighton. He maintained the small apartment now for conducting official business.

There was a preoccupied expression on the detective’s face as he went directly through the living-room to a tiny kitchenette where he put ice cubes in a tall glass, filled it from the faucet. He came back and set the glass near the telephone which was insistently ringing. He let it ring while he went to a wall cabinet and took down a bottle of cognac and a wineglass.

He filled the glass as he stood in front of the desk, emptied it slowly and pleasurably. Refilling it, he sat down and lifted the telephone.

He said, “Hello. Yeh… I’m in my office now. I couldn’t talk freely upstairs. Now, what the hell are you trying to tell me, Marsh?”

His right hand reached out to encircle the slender glass as he again listened. He took a sip of cognac, washed it down with ice water, then said harshly, “Damn it, Marsh, you’ll have to pull your own chestnuts out of the fire. My train leaves for New York in forty minutes, and I’m going to be on it.”

He listened further, then exploded. “What the hell? Are you going into hysterics over a rumor? Sure, Stallings is liable to pull a fast one. You knew what you were up against when you went into this election.”

He emptied the cognac glass while the voice went on, then interrupted angrily. “Of course I want you to win the election. Not that I think you’re any better than Stallings, but because I’d hate to see Peter Painter go in as police chief on the Beach. God knows he causes me enough trouble as chief of detectives, but I don’t see what I can do by staying here.”

Shayne paused, scowling at the wall before him. “No. I’ve been promising my wife this trip for months. We’ve made reservations—”

He let himself be interrupted again while Jim Marsh’s voice droned on persuasively.

“I’d stay over a day if there was anything you could put your finger on,” Shayne said with finality. “I don’t run away from trouble. Hell, Jim, there’s nothing I can do now. The chips are down and the voters go to the polls day after tomorrow. This mysterious information of yours doesn’t mean a damn thing. I’ll hear the results in New York.”

Shayne listened again, then barked, “What? She’s already on her way over here? That’s just too bad, because I won’t be here to listen to her story.”

He pressed the instrument down, cutting off Marsh’s final words. The telephone rang immediately. Shayne scowled, hesitated, then lifted the receiver to his ear.

The perturbed voice of the clerk downstairs said, “There’s a girl on her way up to see you, Mr. Shayne. She’s — well, she acted very queer. Drunk, I guess. Thought I’d better warn you.”

Shayne said, “Thanks,” and dropped the phone. He strode to the door and out just as the elevator door clanged shut. He darted a glance in that direction as he started to turn toward the stairway. He stopped in mid-stride and stared at the wavering figure of the girl who had got off the elevator.

She was young and slim and expensively gowned, but wore no hat over a wealth of honey-colored hair that was mussed and fell forward, obscuring her features as she bent forward. Her knees appeared to be rubbery, and she swayed against the wall for support, putting out both hands and groping, as though she had suddenly gone blind.

She staggered and went to her knees while Shayne watched in deep perplexity. She lifted herself with great effort and managed three more uncertain steps which brought her close to Shayne’s door.

Shayne reached out a long arm to catch her when she started to fall again. She clung to his forearm with both hands and steadied herself, lifted her head slowly so that the disheveled hair parted and fell back to reveal an imploring face which should have been beautiful but was not.

Her complexion was grayish except for ghastly blobs of carmine rouge. Her forehead was tightly wrinkled into a questioning grimace and her lower jaw sagged open. Her eyes were greenish, dull and unfocused, and she blinked wrinkled lids up and down slowly, as though she marshaled all her waning strength and intelligence to force vision to her vacant orbs.

Watching her futile efforts, Shayne gave first aid by slapping her hard on the cheek. Her head jerked sideways, then turned slowly back. The pasty flesh of her cheek held the colorless outline of his fingers.

A spark of life came into the greenish eyes. The girl closed her mouth awkwardly, then mumbled, “’Re you — Mist’ Shayne?”

Shayne said, “Yeh.” He jerked his arm from her lax fingers and caught her by both shoulders and shook her violently when she would have fallen.

Her head bobbed back and forth lifelessly. When he stopped shaking her she cringed away from him, ducking her head to avoid another blow.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he told her harshly. “I’m Shayne. What do you want?”

She mumbled, “Got to — shee Mist’ Shayne. Got to — tell ’im — tell ’im—” Her chin sagged open, and her mumbling wavered into silence.

A door opened down the hall and a group of laughing people stepped out and came toward them. Shayne kicked his door open, thrust the girl inside his office, and slammed it shut. He was breathing heavily and sweat stood on his corrugated brow. Still holding the girl on her feet by a firm grip on her shoulder, he groped with his free hand for the half-filled glass of ice water, dashed it into her face.

The shock brought a momentary gleam of perception to her greenish eyes. She put a wondering hand to her slapped cheek where the marks were faintly tinged with pink.

“It’s—’bout — Burt Stallings,” she whispered. “He’s — I got something that — knock — props — out—” Gray lids closed involuntarily over eyes which had gone vacant and lifeless again. Her jaw worked convulsively and sagged open. She fell face forward on the carpet without putting out her hands to break the force of her fall.

Shayne swore and hurriedly kneeled beside her. He turned her over and pulled an eyelid back. She had gone out like a candle in a tropical hurricane.

Picking her up, he carried her into the small bedroom, dumped her onto the unused bed, and stood back for a moment staring down at her face. A Mickey Finn, he guessed. Perhaps a couple of them. There was no use hoping for an explanation until she slept it off.

He was turning away when he heard a hesitant rap on the outer door and Phyllis’s clear young voice calling, “Mike, may I come in?”

He reached the bedroom door in three long strides, went through, and closed it softly behind him. “Sure, Phyl,” he called cheerfully. “I was just coming.”

Phyllis entered and glanced around the office, then lifted dark, surprised eyes to his when she saw him alone. “Oh, there’s no one here. I thought perhaps—”

“My client just left.” Shayne grinned reassuringly. He saw her looking at the water glass and the wet splotch on the carpet near the desk. “The guy was drunk,” he explained hastily. “Knocked over my chaser as he was leaving.”

“Oh.” Anxiety gathered in her eyes as she watched him pick up the glass and remnants of ice cubes from the rug. “You took so long,” she said, “and the train leaves in twenty minutes.”

Shayne took the bottle of cognac from the desk and carried it to the wall cabinet. With his back turned toward her, he took a long time adjusting the bottle in the proper niche, then turned slowly, went to her, and put both hands on her shoulders. Looking into her upturned face he said, “As a matter of fact, angel, I can’t go with you. You’ll have to catch the train alone. Something has come up—” His gray eyes were bleak and there were deep hollows in his gaunt cheeks.

“Oh, no!” Tears covered her eyes and choked her voice. She clung to him, crying passionately, “I knew it would be like this. Why does our trip have to be spoiled?”

“God knows, I’m sorry, Phyl.” He held her tight against him, pressed his cheek against her smooth black hair while he spoke rapidly and persuasively. “It’ll only be for a couple of days. You go on. I should have known I couldn’t get away before election. Marsh is up against something that means defeat if I don’t pull him out.”

“Does the election matter so much?” Phyllis sobbed. “Suppose Marsh is defeated?”

Shayne made a wry face over her head. “If he’s defeated it means I’m through in Miami, Phyl. I’ve backed him publicly. Everybody realizes it’s a fight between Painter and me. If I let Marsh go under, it’ll be the end of a lot of things.”

Phyllis stiffened in his arms and lifted a tear-wet face to him. “Then I’ll stay, too. You can cancel the reservations.”

Shayne shook his head. “You’ll help more by going on. It’s going to be dirty below-the-belt fighting for the next two days. You’d only be in the way.”

She studied his face for a long moment, saw the grim look of determination she knew so well. She sighed and relaxed against him, knowing that this was something apart from their lives together, something she could never share with him, a part of Michael Shayne which he would not relinquish to marriage. She had secretly known it would be like this when she stubbornly pursued him and forced herself into his life.

Her eyes cleared and she stood on tiptoe to kiss him. She said, “We’d better get started. We haven’t much time.”

“You’re a nice person, angel,” he said gravely.

Phyllis laughed. That was the compliment she liked best from her husband. She checked the time on her tiny wrist watch and exclaimed, “Gracious! I’ve got to hurry. I came down here to get my gray hat, Mike. I can’t find it anywhere upstairs and thought I might have left it here.” She started for the bedroom.

Shayne’s nostrils flared with a sharp intake of breath. He was stricken with panic as she moved toward the bedroom door.

“Wait — Phyl!”

She half turned, poised to go on. “What?”

“That gray traveling-hat? You mean the dinky one with a bow on the side? The one that makes you look like a demure imp about to sprout wings?”

“That’s the one. It must be down here.”

“I know right where it is,” he lied hastily. “It’s way back on the shelf in the big closet upstairs.”

Phyllis’s eyes clouded with concentration. “I felt on that shelf and couldn’t find it. I’ll just take a peek in the bedroom to be sure.”

“Good Lord, Phyl, you’ll miss the train.” Sweat streamed from his face. He caught her when she was two feet from the bedroom door and urged her toward the outer door. “Come on — I’ll get that hat for you. I can see on that shelf.”

Phyllis’s reluctant feet stopped suddenly and she pulled back. “Why didn’t you want me to go in that room?”

He lifted her through the door and slammed it shut. Outside, he said, “If you must know, I had to put my client to bed. He passed out completely and I’m holding him until he comes to and spills his information. It’s important.”

“In that case, I might as well have looked for my hat,” she argued as his arm lifted her up the stairs. “It’s the one I wear with this suit.”

“You’ve six minutes to catch the train,” he reminded her when they entered the living-room. Shayne strode to the bedroom closet and returned triumphantly bearing the gray hat. Tossing it to her with a command to put it on in a hurry, he swept up the bags and preceded her to the waiting car.

Taking a back-street route to the station, Shayne sat moodily beside her. Presently he said, “This is the first time for us to be separated, angel.” He frowned, recalling many hilarious jokes about husbands getting rid of their wives and wondered if the time would come when he would feel that way.

“You’re to take the first train to New York when the election is over,” she said flatly. “If you don’t, I’ll take the first one out of New York.”

Shayne grinned widely and stepped on the accelerator. The train was ready to pull out when he rushed her up the steps and kissed her good-by. Stepping back on the cinder path he watched the long train roll slowly northward while a strange admixture of relief and desolation roiled through him.

He stood there for several minutes, until the train vanished from sight and the whistle sounded for a distant crossing. Unconsciously, the problem of the drugged girl in his office bedroom was a depressing one, while consciously he meditated on the ease with which a man succumbs to pleasant habits. A little more than a year ago he had not known that Phyllis existed, and now he was wholly dejected without her. The way he had rushed her off, one would think he was glad to be rid of her.

During his bachelor years he had taken his women in his stride. They had been a part of the bold, rough life he led. Was it possible that he was the victim of a subconscious urge which he wouldn’t even admit to himself, in spite of a year of marriage to a girl like Phyllis? He didn’t honestly think so. Yet, what man ever really knows his inward motivations?

He became conscious of the movement and commotion around him, the rattling of express carts on gravel, the puffing of engines and clanging of bells, the milling throng of people. He shrugged off a baffled sense of irritation and went to his car.

The sun was setting in a gray-blue mist as he stepped on the starter. He remembered suddenly that he had not locked the door of his office in his frantic haste to get Phyllis away from the scene. He slipped the car into gear and pressed the accelerator to the floor board, driving the six blocks to his apartment in four minutes. He parked at a side entrance just in front of a drawbridge over the Miami River.

He went through the private entrance and up the service stairs with a queer feeling of elation which shamed him. He had done this often in the past — before Phyllis — when every feminine face was a challenge, every meeting in his bachelor apartment holding the promise of an assignation.

He whistled a gay off-key melody as he approached the door. He ran water over a glass of ice cubes in the kitchen, poured a glass of cognac from a bottle in the wall cabinet, then went into the bedroom with a glass in each hand.

Twilight darkened the room, but not enough to hide the grotesquely twisted posture of the girl on the bed. He bent over her, spilling cognac on the floor.

Sightless eyes stared up at him. One of the girl’s stockings was tightly knotted about her throat.

Shayne stepped back and emptied the glass of cognac down his dry throat. He hesitated only an instant before going to the telephone. He picked it up and said, “Police Headquarters,” but the clerk’s excited voice broke in on the line.

“Mr. Shayne! I thought you’d left town. I just told Chief Gentry you had. He and another man are on their way up there. They’re waiting for an elevator now.”

Shayne cut off the connection.

TWO

SHAYNE WHIRLED ABOUT and ran to the death room. With swift precision of movement he stripped the sheet and bedspread from under the girl, drew them up to cover her clothed body. Leaning close, he pressed her head sideways so that her cheek was on the pillow and turned away from him. He crooked her right arm upward, spreading the flaccid fingers out to coyly cover her upturned cheek, then tucked the spread down tightly about her neck to hide the knotted stocking that had throttled her.

Stepping back he surveyed the bed and body searchingly, nodding with grim satisfaction as he unbuttoned his coat and vest, stripped them off, and dropped them to the floor beside the bed. He loosened his soft collar and jerked his tie awry, then ran for a bottle of cognac. He splashed liquor from the bottle on the spread near the girl’s face.

Heady, pungent fumes roiled up from the liquor. He put the bottle to his lips and drank as an authoritative knock sounded on the outer door.

He didn’t hurry to answer. He made his grim features go lax and practiced staggering to the bedroom doorway. He lolled against the threshold in view of the outer door, holding the bottle by the neck, calling thickly, “Yeh? Who th’ hell izh it?”

The outer door opened, and Will Gentry advanced solidly into the room, followed by a tall, lean man with deep-set cynical eyes.

The chief of the Miami detective bureau was a burly man with heavy features and a slow impassive manner. He had been a close friend of Michael Shayne’s for many years, and the two had worked together with congenial expediency.

Gentry frowned and raised grizzled eyebrows at Shayne. “I thought you and Phyllis had left town on the five-forty.”

Shayne grinned idiotically and defensively. He waggled a long forefinger at Chief Gentry. “Phyl caught the train. I shtayed here. Rizhness — y’know — ol’ shaying — bizhness ’fore pleasure.” He drew himself erect slowly, putting his left hand against the wall for aid. He narrowed his eyes at the two men, fought for a moment to attain a dignified posture, then advanced stiffly, with the exaggerated tread of a man who is very drunk and conscious of his condition.

Behind Gentry, Timothy Rourke laughed shortly. “Drunk as a coot,” Rourke marveled. “Damned if I ever thought I’d see the day you couldn’t hold your liquor, Mike.” Rourke was another old and trusted friend, reporter on the Miami Daily News and recipient of many exclusive headlines from the redheaded detective.

“I’m holding it now,” Shayne announced belligerently. He swayed a little, holding out the bottle to Gentry. “Have a shnort with me.”

Will Gentry shook his head, folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. “Not this time, Mike.” There was a sharp edge of contempt in his rumbling voice.

Shayne grinned loosely and tilted the bottle toward Rourke. He pleaded, “Take one with me, Tim. Y’know — moral shupport.”

Some of the amber fluid spilled from the tilted bottle. Rourke grabbed it and swore as he set it down on the desk. There was genuine concern in his eyes. “What the hell are you pulling off, Mike? I never saw you go to pieces this way before.”

Shayne giggled. Curiously, his drunken mirth had an obscene sound before the hostile glares of his two friends. “M’wife’s gone to the country, hooray, hooray,” he burst forth tunelessly. He rounded his eyes into an owlish stare, swayed, and put out a hand to Gentry’s shoulder for support.

Gentry elbowed him aside. Shayne stumbled and collapsed into a chair, frowning. “You both ac’ like — like shompin’ wash wrong,” he complained.

Gentry thrust both hands in his coat pockets and stared at him. “Where’s the body?”

“Body?” Shayne blinked his eyelids down and peered at Gentry through narrow slits. “Whatcha mean — body?”

“Just what I said.” Gentry pounded the words at him in an effort to penetrate the alcoholic stupor of the detective’s brain. “We just had an anonymous tip that a murder was being committed in this apartment.”

Shayne laughed thickly. He shifted his narrow gaze to Rourke, then let it wander around the empty office. “I don’ shee a body. You shee a body?” He fixed his wavering eyes on Rourke again.

Chief Gentry stood on widespread legs in front of Shayne and shook his head at Rourke. “Damned if I would have believed this if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes. Thank God, Phyllis isn’t here to see him.”

“She must have cramped his style more than any of us guessed,” Rourke commented sagely. “Looks like he sent her out of town just so he could go on a binge.”

Shayne reached for the cognac bottle and missed it. Rourke handed it to him with a disgusted snort. “Go ahead and pass yourself out.” He turned to Gentry. “Looks like that phone call was phony, chief.”

Both men spoke without regard for Shayne, as though he had ceased to count as an animate human being.

Shayne showed no objection to being openly discussed. He sat slumped in the swivel chair behind the desk with his eyes closed, holding the bottle rigidly with both hands.

“There must have been some basis for that phone call we received,” Gentry contended. “Maybe he had a fight with his wife before she left. Someone might have heard them battling in here and thought it was murder.”

“Sounds reasonable. God knows, he couldn’t have got this way in the short time since the train left. He must’ve been working up to this for several hours.”

“And he’s the man who always claimed he worked best with a couple of pints in him.”

Rourke’s keen eyes bored into Shayne’s slumped body. “Funny thing is,” he said slowly, “he always has.” A note of speculation sounded in the newshound’s voice. “If he was going on a bat I’d have thought he’d wait until the election returns were in. He’s got a heavy stake in Marsh’s winning.”

“As far as I’m concerned, I don’t give a damn,” Gentry put in sourly. He started toward the kitchen with a heavy tread. “I’ll take a look around before I go.”

Shayne’s head came up with a violent jerk. “Hey! Whatcha want in there? I’ll fix a drink if thass what you want.” He came to his feet waveringly, steadying himself with one hand on the table.

“Save the drinks for yourself,” Gentry growled, continuing into the kitchen. “I just want to make sure you haven’t slapped Phyllis down. When a guy like you gets drunk there’s no telling what he’ll do.”

A cunning leer spread over Shayne’s rugged, unhandsome features. He mumbled, “Wheresh your shearch warrant? You can’t shearch a man’s housh ’thout shearch warrant. ’Shnot legal. Man’s housh hish cashtle.”

Gentry deigned no reply as he emerged from the kitchen. He glanced into the bathroom on his way to the bedroom door.

Shayne staggered forward and got in his way before he reached the door. He put a bony hand on Gentry’s chest with his weight behind it. “’Shnot legal,” he reiterated. “Man’s private affairs hish own bishness.”

“Get out of my way,” Gentry roared. Thoroughly angered, the chief knocked Shayne’s restraining hand aside. He opened the door of the bedroom and looked in, then drew back with a black scowl on his heavy face. He turned a look of loathing on the redhead and muttered, “So, that’s what the score is.”

Shayne grinned and waggled his head from side to side. “Tol’ you not to — not to look in.”

Rourke’s long legs brought him to the door hastily. “What is the score, Will?” He stopped in the doorway and whistled shrilly, sniffing the cognac-laden air and grimacing. “You certainly didn’t lose any time after getting rid of Phyl.”

“Shesh nish gal,” Shayne protested. “’Shnot what you think.”

“By God, this breaks it,” Gentry roared angrily. “I’ve stood up for you in a lot of tough places, Mike, but it was because I thought you had a streak of decency in you. I thought marrying a girl like Phyllis would bring it out. Damn it, I even encouraged her to marry you.” He thumped a big fist into his beefy palm and turned away. “And you can’t wait for her to get on the train before you have another woman in your bed.”

“Don’ be shore at me,” Shayne pleaded, his voice catching in his throat. “You know I love Phyl better’n anything. What she don’ know won’t hurt ’er”

Gentry stopped in the outer doorway and turned, planting both hands on his hips.

“Get this straight, Mike,” he rumbled. “If you’re not too drunk for it to sink in. I hate the guts of a man who two-times a swell wife like Phyllis. Your morals aren’t my affair, but from now on don’t look for any favors from me. I won’t tell her, if that’s what you’re afraid of, but I’ll never be able to look that girl in the eye again. God damn it, you lug, that girl loves you. The next time you meet a skunk get down on your belly and shake hands. You both smell the same to me.”

He went out, slamming the door behind him with a bang.

Shayne stood very still, staring at the closed door. He took one step forward to follow Gentry, but checked himself. His back was turned to Rourke and the reporter couldn’t see his face. In a stifled voice, Shayne said, “I suppose you feel the same way, Tim?”

“Sort of,” Rourke admitted wearily. “I don’t know your wife as well as Gentry does, but hell! You know what all the boys think about her. Nobody thought anything about it when you had a different floosie in your bed every night before you married Phyl, but this is different. It stinks.” Rourke lit a cigarette, and Shayne dropped heavily into the chair at the desk.

“It just goes to show,” Rourke went on, “what damn fools we all are when we pretend to be so tough. You and Phyllis were a symbol of some Goddamned thing or other around this man’s town. While you stayed straight it proved to all of us that the love of a decent girl meant something — and that was good for us. Every man needs to believe that down inside.” Rourke was talking to himself now, arguing aloud a premise which his cynicism rejected.

“That’s what distinguishes a man from a beast. It’s what we all cling to. There’s the inward conviction that it isn’t quite real — that it doesn’t mean anything — that we’re marking time until the real thing comes along — like Phyllis came along for you. And when that illusion is shattered before your very eyes — like with you today — it’s ugly, Mike. It’s a shock. It doesn’t laugh off easily.”

Shayne sat slumped with his chin resting on his chest. Rourke did not look at him to see the laugh crinkles deepening at the corners of his eyes or the way he clamped his big mouth shut. When Shayne said nothing, Rourke burst out, “Hell! I ought to rent a pulpit. Well, sorry to have interrupted your merry twosome.” He ground out his cigarette and started for the door.

Shayne’s sudden laughter filled the room. He jumped up from his chair and caught Rourke’s arm. His laughter went as abruptly as it had come. He said solemnly, “You’re not running out on me, Tim. I’m in one hell of a spot.” Rourke whirled to face him. “You’ve sobered up in a hurry,” he said wonderingly.

“Hell, I haven’t been drunk, Tim. I was never soberer in my life.”

“By God, I believe you.” He hesitated, then said slowly, “I get it. You were putting on an act for Gentry. You knew he’d find that girl in your bed and you hoped he wouldn’t blame you so much if he thought you were cockeyed.”

“Yeh,” Shayne said tonelessly. “I knew he’d find that girl in my bed. What was the tip-off that brought you and Gentry here?”

“One of the neighbors heard a struggle and a scream. He said he tried the door and it was locked, then he called in. We came right up because we both thought you’d left for New York with Phyllis and maybe somebody had taken advantage of your absence to do a murder here. With the election day after tomorrow it would be swell publicity to defeat Marsh.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is what I’m thinking, too.” He gestured toward the bedroom. “Take a good look at the girl. Don’t be afraid of waking her up. She won’t.”

Rourke stared at him for half a minute, then swung on his heel and went to the bedroom. He lowered the window shades and snapped on the bright ceiling lights. When he reappeared in a few minutes, Shayne did not look at him, but sat with hunched shoulders and closed eyes.

Rourke went to the liquor cabinet and took down a bottle of Scotch and a glass. He brought them to the desk and poured four fingers in the glass. He drank it off, set the glass down, and shivered.

“Why in Christ’s name didn’t you tell Gentry? You let him go out of here hating your guts. You know he’s almost like a father to Phyllis.”

“Gentry’s a cop,” Shayne reminded the reporter patiently. “A cop is required to go through a certain routine when he discovers a murder.”

“But he’d listen to you. He’d give you a break.” Rourke flung his lean body into a chair and ran nervous fingers through his black hair.

“Sure. He’d listen to my story. He’d probably even believe it. But that wouldn’t change the routine, Tim. Gentry is still a cop. And the election is day after tomorrow.”

“Who is she? What’s it all about?”

“You guess awhile,” he answered wearily. “I found her like that when I got back from putting Phyl on the train.” In a few words he gave Rourke the facts in his possession.

“I threw her on the bed after she passed out,” he concluded grimly. “I figured she’d have important information when she woke up — something about Burt Stallings.”

“And somebody else figured the same thing,” Rourke guessed, his nostrils flaring with the scent of headlines, his slate-colored eyes gleaming oddly. “Somebody who didn’t want that information to get out.”

“Looks that way. Murdering her in my office was a nice stunt any way you look at it. The scandal would defeat Marsh at the polls.”

Rourke poured himself more Scotch. “What are you going to do with her?”

“I don’t know yet.” He straightened in the swivel chair and swung around to face Rourke squarely. His eyes were pin points of gray steel. “You’re not a cop, Tim,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?” Rourke leaned forward.

“We’ve been good friends a long time,” Shayne said softly.

Rourke said steadily, ““You know where I stand.” His eyes were alert, suspicious.

Shayne exhaled a deep breath. “Yeh. You won’t lose anything, Tim. You’ll get the real story instead of this phony.”

Rourke filled his glass again. “I’ve never lost anything playing ball with you, Mike.” They touched glasses and drank.

Shayne stretched out his long legs and lit a cigarette. He shifted his position, swinging the chair slightly off center with Rourke’s probing eyes. “All we know about the girl is that she was close enough to Stallings to get wind of something that stunk — something Marsh could use against him. That’s not much to go on.”

“We’re one up on them this way,” Rourke pointed out. “They must know the murder was overheard and reported. They’ll be sitting on the edge of their chairs waiting for the story to break. When it doesn’t they’ll be worried.”

Rourke’s enthusiasm brought involuntary relaxation to Shayne’s edgy nerves. “In the meantime,” he grunted, “we’ve got to get her out of my apartment. As soon as the killer finds out this tip went awry he’ll see that Gentry gets another tip — one that can’t be ignored.”

“What,” asked Rourke lightly, “is the maximum penalty for carting dead bodies around?”

Shayne grinned. “I don’t know. We’ll look it up after some disposition is made of her. What we need most is fingerprints, a complete description. If we can identify her we’ll have a start.”

Rourke reached for the whisky bottle as Shayne got up. “That’s your job,” Rourke said happily. “I’ll have a small one while you do your ghouling. Cadavers give me the creeps.”

“There’s another angle we’re overlooking.” Shayne hesitated, frowning. “She was drugged when she came here this afternoon. Too nearly passed out to talk. No one else can know that. Can’t know, that is, how much talking she did before she went to bed. That’s another trump we hold, Tim. Someone’s going to do a lot of worrying before this is over.”

The telephone rang. Shayne reached a long arm past Rourke to pick it up. He said, “Shayne talking.”

The clerk in the lobby said, “There’s a Mr. Stallings here to see you. That Miami Beach detective is with him — Mr. Painter.”

Shayne repeated, “Stallings?” aloud and grinned at Rourke. “Stallings and Painter, eh? Well, I’m receiving this afternoon. Send them up. Wait! Jack, did you mention the girl who visited me earlier?”

“Not a word. You know I never—”

“Sure, Jack. That’s swell. Forget you saw her and send the gentlemen up — but stall them off a couple of minutes.” He dropped the phone and grabbed Rourke’s shoulder, hauled him to his feet. “Stallings and Painter! Something’s up.” He propelled the reporter backward. “They’d better not see you here. Leave the bedroom door open a crack so you can hear what they say.”

“In there? With her?” Rourke struggled against Shayne’s powerful strength, his face a mask of horror. “Not in there, Mike! The kitchen — or the bathroom.”

“The bedroom is the only safe place. There’s no door to the kitchen and you never can tell—” Shayne dragged him inexorably toward the bedroom door and shoved him in. “She won’t mind,” he said, and closed the door lightly, leaving a half-inch opening.

“I’m not worrying about her feelings,” Rourke panted through the crack, “but I tell you I get the galloping creeps—”

“Shut up. They’ll be here in a minute. You’re sitting on top of the biggest story in your career. Don’t muff it.”

Shayne whirled, went to the wall cabinet, and took out two fresh glasses and set them on the desk beside the bottles of Scotch and cognac. The chair on which Rourke had been sitting he shoved against the wall and drew up two others. Then he shoved the desk forward to cover the wet splotches on the rug and by the time he had paced the length of the office and back again he answered the knock on the outer door.

Gravely he said, “Come in, gentlemen; this is an unexpected honor,” in a voice which brought a suspicious gleam to the small black eyes of Peter Painter.

THREE

BURT STALLINGS WAS a tall, commanding figure. Middle-aged, he wore his silvery-white shock of hair long, in the manner attributed to Southern senators. It framed a handsome, leonine face with arresting distinction, giving him an air of romantic grace attractive to women of all ages. Coupled with his good looks, the man possessed a magnetic personality which made him a favorite with men, too. A forceful orator and a successful, hardheaded businessman, this mayoralty campaign was his first foray into politics. The campaign had proved him as well adapted to vote-getting as to money-making.

Stallings entered the detective’s office with a firm, assured stride. He nodded to Shayne, but neither spoke nor offered his hand.

Behind him, Peter Painter entered aggressively. He always carried himself with an assertive air to compensate his lack of physical stature. He was a slender, small-boned man, meticulously groomed. He slanted glittering black eyes upward at Shayne as he passed into the office.

Shayne closed the door and said, “This is a surprise. Sit down and I’ll pour a libation.”

Both men remained standing. Stallings arched thick iron-gray brows at the detective and said dryly, “I imagine you expected us — or me, at least.”

“Not exactly.” Shayne moved to a corner of his desk and lowered one hip to it, swinging his foot casually.

“Why else would you put off your proposed trip?” Painter snapped. He caressed a threadlike black mustache with the tip of his forefinger. “You can’t get away with this, you know. Mr. Stallings is not a man to be intimidated by threats.”

Shayne queried, “No?” His gray eyes glinted mockingly. No flicker of expression indicated that he had not the faintest idea what Painter was talking about.

“No,” said Stallings forcefully. He moved backward and seated himself precisely erect in a chair. Painter remained standing. Always conscious of his slight stature, he was more at ease in that position while others were sitting.

“I have conducted a clean, hard-hitting campaign,” Burt Stallings began resonantly. “My slogan from the first has been ‘Let the best man win.’ I am prepared to abide by a free expression of the voters at the polls, but I demand that they shall be allowed that right. It is an inherent attribute of our democratic processes.”

Shayne held up a big knobby hand and grinned. “Save your stump speech. I don’t even vote in Miami Beach.”

Pin points of anger shone in Painter’s eyes. “That’s exactly the point. You’ve backed Jim Marsh because of personal animus toward me. You’re afraid to have me assume the post of police chief in Miami Beach, Shayne. You know I’ll use the added authority to see that you discontinue the practice of your so-called profession my side of Biscayne Bay.”

Shayne shrugged and leaned forward to pour a small drink. He muttered, “Sorry you won’t join me. All right, Painter. I’m perfectly willing to grant that I want to see Stallings defeated because you’re slated for the job of police chief if he wins. So what?”

“Just this, Mr. Shayne.” Stallings took up the discussion before Painter could form a suitable reply. “We’re not interested in your motives. We are interested in your methods. I’ll admit that Painter has warned me to expect dirty tactics from you when your cause appears hopeless. But I didn’t expect this, Mr. Shayne. This outrageous flouting of every law and decency. I have been prepared for a criminal attack on my person, but I did not feel it necessary to safeguard my family against you.”

Shayne laughed shortly and sipped from his glass. There wasn’t much he could say until he knew what the devil they were talking about.

“I’m not surprised,” Painter exploded. “You’ve pulled this sort of thing time and again in the past without paying the piper. But this time we’ve got you cold.” He hammered a small fist into a smooth palm. “You’ve gone out of bounds this time and you won’t wriggle out of it.”

Shayne wrinkled his nose at the detective chief from across the bay. “You’ve played that record before.”

“This time you’re really out on a limb, Shamus. Kidnaping is a federal offense. It’s not something you can cover up locally. You picked the wrong man to intimidate when you picked Burt Stallings.”

“Painter is absolutely right,” Stallings told him in a measured tone which carried more weight than Painter’s vindictive snarl. “I refuse to be intimidated. I owe a certain duty to my constituents and, no matter what my own feelings in this matter, the issue is larger than any mere personal consideration.”

“So?” Shayne mused. He gravely sipped from his glass, keeping his face impassively blank. “All right,” he said sharply, “you refuse to be intimidated. Where does that leave us?”

“It leaves you smack behind the eight ball,” Peter Painter exulted. “You took a long chance and failed.”

“I haven’t failed yet.”

“Oh, yes, you have. You’re through, Shayne. Washed up.” Painter’s words were clipped and exultant.

“If you’d shut up this little twerp’s yapping,” Shayne said to Stallings, “you and I might come to an understanding.”

Painter trembled with rage. He drew his lips back for a retort, thought better of it, and laughed coldly.

Stallings shook his silvery head. “We’re not here to sue for peace. I won’t even discuss terms with you until my daughter is safely returned.”

Shayne exclaimed, “Your daughter?” in a tone of complete surprise, caught himself up hastily, and scowled. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”

“My stepdaughter,” Stallings amended smoothly.

Shayne stalled for time. “I haven’t got your stepdaughter.”

Stallings smiled persuasively. “We hardly expected you to have her in personal custody. However, we’re quite sure a word from you will effect her release.”

Shayne parried, “What makes you so sure of that?”

“Quit beating around the bush,” Painter snapped. “You’re the only one in Marsh’s camp with the guts to engineer a snatch. As soon as Stallings came to me about it I told him you were the one to see.”

“It’s self-evident, Shayne,” Stallings interposed. “Jim Marsh has been a hard campaigner, but a gentleman through it all. I can’t believe Marsh would even condone such an act.”

Shayne emptied his glass and set it down. He lit a cigarette. “From all this talk I get the impression that your stepdaughter is missing; that you suspect she’s been kidnaped.” He addressed Stallings directly. “Do you want to retain me to get her back? It’s quite natural you should come to me for help when a nincompoop like Painter is running the Miami Beach detective force.”

Painter choked over a reply, but Burt Stallings did not allow his equanimity to be disturbed. “I expect you to arrange for her return, but there is certainly no thought of retaining you for the job. The terms set forth in your note are preposterous and I have no intention of meeting them.”

“My note?” Shayne echoed. He shook his head and looked vaguely amused. “I haven’t written you any notes.”

“Denying it won’t help, Mr. Shayne. Who else but you would demand that I withdraw from the mayoralty campaign as the price of my daughter’s life?”

“Who else, indeed?” Shayne murmured. A murky light of anger was slowly kindling in his gray eyes. “Is that what I’m accused of this time?”

Stallings spread out his strong, well-kept hands and smiled patiently. “We’re not wasting our time with accusations. We’re giving you to understand that your plot has failed. I have no intention of withdrawing from the campaign. Unless Helen is safe at home by noon tomorrow, this entire story will be given to the newspapers. I’m sure the voters will rise indignantly against such foul tactics and by their ballots effectively answer the threat you have made.”

Shayne frowned, lowering his eyelids to veil the blaze of violent anger in his eyes. “You seem positive that I’ve kidnaped your stepdaughter. What proof have you?”

“Isn’t your guilt self-evident?”

Shayne hesitated, choosing his words with care. “There is such a thing as a frame-up. Since I am so clearly indicated, don’t you see it’s possible someone else has taken advantage of that situation to throw the blame on me?”

Painter threw back his sleek head with a taunting laugh. “By God, it would be poetic justice if you were hooked in a frame-up — after engineering so many of your own in the past.”

“If you don’t shut up,” said Shayne savagely, “I’ll attend to it for you.”

“Let’s remain calm,” Stallings pleaded. “Helen’s safety must be our first consideration.” He took out a handkerchief and mopped his high forehead, tossed back his mane of silvery hair. “Poor child. Think of the agony she must be suffering.”

Shayne’s laugh was cynical. “I’m beginning to remember now. Helen Stallings was the girl who brought suit against you last month for mishandling her mother’s estate.”

“An unfortunate error,” Stallings told him with a pained expression. “She has since regretted her action.”

“When was she kidnaped? And how?” Shayne demanded. “You’re putting it up to me to get her back by noon tomorrow. I can’t do much without the facts.”

“As if you didn’t know more about it than we do,” Peter Painter scoffed.

Stallings silenced him with a gesture. “It’s possible we’ve wronged Mr. Shayne in our assumption. I’m unwilling to withhold any information that may lead to Helen’s return. She disappeared shortly after lunch today. She was in a temper and drove away in her car without telling anyone her destination. The note demanding that I withdraw from the election was delivered at six o’clock.”

“What was she mad about?” Shayne demanded.

“That’s neither here nor there. She’s a flighty child, given to moods and tantrums, though her mother and I have always tried to be patient with her.”

“Then you haven’t any evidence against me at all,” Shayne told him coldly. “Yet you’ve got the guts to come here and openly accuse me of kidnaping a girl I’ve never seen. By God, I ought to throw both of you out on your necks.” He slid off the desk and stood up, big hands knotted into fists.

Painter took an involuntary backward step and assumed a pugnacious stance, but Burt Stallings remained calmly seated.

“I have reason to believe that Helen came directly to you after lunch. In her hysterical state she was obsessed with a desire to do me harm and she had misinterpreted a conversation she had overheard into something she believed could be used as a political weapon against me in the election. The facts are very plain — she contacted someone in the enemy’s camp.”

“So you think she came to me with the information — and instead of accepting it and using it against you, I kidnaped her.” Shayne was leaning slightly forward from the hips, his angry gaze riveted on Stallings’s handsome face. “You’re a Goddamned fool, Stallings.”

Stallings smiled evenly. “I believe you had perspicacity enough to recognize her so-called information for what it was, and that you seized the opportunity to hide her away for use as a lever against me. Not only do I believe that, Mr. Shayne, but I believe any jury will agree with me that the premise is sound.”

Shayne did not take his eyes from Stallings’s bland face. “And I suppose it never occurred to you, Mr. Stallings, that you could pull a dirty trick like this, have it headlined in the papers that Marsh and I had conspired to kidnap your daughter, and turn the tide in your favor at the polls.” His big fist crushed against his palm in a resounding blow. “Get out.”

“Very well.” Burt Stallings got up. He smiled, revealing a row of even and glistening white teeth.

Peter Painter came forward like a fighting cock with spurs and wings strutted. “I told Stallings he was wasting his time coming here. I’ve given him my word to wait until noon tomorrow to file a criminal information against you, but that’s the deadline.”

Shayne turned away from them and shakily refilled his glass with cognac. He kept his back turned until the door closed behind them. Then he strode to the bedroom door and kicked it open.

It struck Timothy Rourke on the side of the head as he crouched behind it with his ear to the crack. He rocked back on his heels and cursed Shayne, then groggily picked up his bottle of Scotch from the floor and followed the detective into the living-room, his lean face wreathed in a mocking smile.

“This,” he exulted, “gets better and better. How do you manage to wiggle yourself into spots like this?”

Shayne slumped into a chair and glared at the exuberant reporter. “Do you know Helen Stallings?”

“Hell, no. How’d I know a dame like that?”

“Your rag has run enough pictures of her on the society page,” Shayne growled. “Would you recognize her?”

“My deah young man—” Rourke grimaced and made a circle with left thumb and forefinger, holding it up to his eye like a lorgnette “—I nevah read the society page. Nevah! With so many of the nouveaux riches cluttering up the pages—”

Shayne said, “Go to hell,” and threw his empty glass at the grinning Irishman. “You’re going to start now,” he directed. “Go in there and take a good look at the corpse. Then beat it up to the News morgue and see if she’s Helen Stallings.”

“I don’t see why that’s necessary. It seems plain enough to me.”

“We’ve got to know.” Shayne was firm. “Then we can start figuring—”

“I don’t see what good it’ll do you,” Rourke interrupted cheerily. “If that is her — and I’m willing to lay a hundred to one it is — it’s a cinch you can’t deliver her home safe and sound by tomorrow noon. S-a-a-y, did you by any chance send that note to Stallings, taking advantage of a situation that dropped into your lap?”

“Get the hell out of here before I throw you out,” Shayne fumed. “I’ve got enough on my mind without thinking up answers to your pseudo wisecracks.” His eyes wandered to the bedroom door and stared thoughtfully. He held up his hand, detaining Rourke as he started for the door. “Wait — hold it. Before you go we’ve got to figure a way to get rid of the body.”

“We?” Rourke gasped. “Sweet grandmother! You don’t expect me—”

Shayne nodded, holding him with a shrewd, level gaze.

“To hell with that. You do your own figuring. There are certain limits I’ll go for a pal, but I draw the line—”

“Shut up and let me think,” Shayne demanded impatiently. He whirled about and strode up and down the room, muttering.

“The killer must be getting pretty nervous right now. He doesn’t know where the hell she is. He figured he had me sewed up tight when he sent you and Gentry up here — and he must have sent that note to Stallings at about the same time to clinch the kidnaping and murder on me. Now he doesn’t know what to think. He must know that both Gentry and Stallings have been here and gone away without finding the body. His natural thought will be that I found her before you and Gentry came, carried her upstairs to our living apartment, or hid her here in the building some place. He can’t tip his hand by forcing a further search until he knows where she is. He’ll be watching for me to make a break with the body.”

Shayne stopped suddenly before Rourke. Rourke backed away from the burning heat of his eyes.

“Tim, you’ve got to get her out of here,” he said slowly.

“Me? Nothing doing.” He took another backward step, holding up his hand as though to fend the detective off. “I’m not running any dead wagon.”

“You’re in this up to your neck already,” Shayne reminded him grimly. “Gentry knows you stayed behind when he left. If it comes out there was a body here and you connived with me to keep the fact covered up—”

Rourke shuddered and groaned dismally. “You do have the sweetest way of putting things. All right, I might as well be hung for one thing as another. How’ll we work it? What the hell will we do with her? Dump her in the bay?”

“Nothing like that.” Shayne resumed his pacing, rumpling his coarse red hair. “We want to keep her in storage where we can produce her as evidence later.”

Rourke brightened perceptibly. “That’s an idea, Mike. You got any close butcher friends?”

Shayne ignored him. “How about that fishing-place of yours below Coconut Grove?”

“Now look here, Mike, if you think I’m going to have her found on my—”

“That’s just the place,” Shayne interrupted. “No one ever goes there. Better not use your car, though,” he decided. “After you collect the pix from the News, rent a U-Drive-It and come back here.”

Rourke started for the door, saying, “Well, so long, Mike. It was nice to’ve known you.”

Shayne reached out two long arms and caught his shoulders. Whirling him around, he continued. “I’ll leave the back door unlocked, and you can come up the fire escape. I’ll decoy any watcher away — and give him the slip — meet you out along the Tamiami Trail, say at the Wildcat.”

Timothy Rourke sighed lugubriously. “If I get a headline out of this I’ll earn it. Maybe I’ll have a chance to write up some firsthand prison stuff. I’ve always had a hankering for that.” He went to the door with a sickly smile that tried to be jaunty, waved his hand, and went out.

Shayne went to the bedroom and switched on the light. He bent over the girl’s body and gently drew her hand down from her face, studying the contorted features and impressing them on his memory.

He went out and got a clean glass from the kitchen, came back, and pressed the tips of her fingers against the glass, hesitated, then pulled down the sheet and spread to get at the other hand which was edged under her body.

He sucked in his breath swiftly and audibly when he saw the tiny beaded bag clenched between her fingers. It was very small and dainty, such as one might carry to a formal evening affair. He closed his eyes and visualized the scene that afternoon when she had come stumbling up the corridor to him. She did not have such a bag in her hand then.

He got a handkerchief from his pocket and dropped it over her hand and the bag, bent each finger back until he could lift it away.

In the living-room he opened it and examined the meager contents. A jeweled compact bearing the initials H. S. Lipstick and some small change, and a tiny mirror with an identification card on the reverse side. The identification card stated that the owner was Helen Stallings.

He called the Miami News office and got the morgue. Rourke came to the phone, and Shayne said, “You needn’t bother with the pix. It’s the Stallings girl, all right.”

“Hell,” Rourke exploded, “I’ve already collected a dozen back issues. How did you—”

“Bring them along anyway. I’m leaving right now. See you at the Wildcat in half an hour.”

“Mike,” Rourke yelled into the phone, “I’ve been doing some heavy thinking and—”

Shayne pronged the receiver with a bang. He went to the kitchen and found the door leading out to the fire escape already unlocked. He stared at it for a moment, shook his head, and turned away. After turning out all the lights, he took his hat and went out.

He stopped at the desk in the lobby to chat with the clerk, draping one elbow on the counter and letting his gaze roam around the interior while he talked.

“You’ve got me in the palm of your hand, Jack,” he said with a broad grin. “That girl who visited my office this afternoon — do you remember much about her?”

“What girl, Mr. Shayne?” the young man asked gravely, winking one eye at the detective. He was a well-groomed young man with sandy hair and freckles, a thin, intelligent face. An employee of the apartment hotel for five years, he had banked important largess from Shayne in the past, rewards for his inability to recall details which Shayne wished forgotten.

There were few people in the lobby. A couple of old ladies knitting, a giggling young couple partially hidden behind a potted palm, and a man who sat near the doorway reading the evening News.

Shayne said, “Swell,” out of the side of his mouth. “The girl is probably just an idle rumor.” He watched the man reading the newspaper by the door. The fellow was obtrusively uninterested in Shayne. He looked anemic. He was long of nose and short of chin. “Even if the girl’s body popped up in my room you wouldn’t have the faintest idea how she got there?” Shayne’s tone was extremely casual and low.

The clerk swallowed hard, displaying his Adam’s apple prominently. “N-No, sir. I — have such a beautiful forgettery.”

Shayne grinned and said, “Swell,” again. He turned his full attention to the clerk. “This is off the record. Did anyone ask for me while I was seeing my wife to the train?”

“No, sir.” The clerk was positive. “Mr. Gentry and that reporter were the first to come.”

“And you didn’t see any strangers going in or out who looked as though they might have lethal intentions?”

The young man’s eyes were wide and frightened now. He shook his head emphatically. “No, sir.”

Shayne nodded. “If you hear anything after a while — someone going up and down the fire escape to my office — don’t pay any attention and you’ll save the hotel some notoriety.” He lit a cigarette, then swung toward the door in a loose-limbed stride.

He passed within two feet of the man who was deeply interested in his newspaper. Glancing down, Shayne saw that the paper was folded back at the editorial page. The man impressed him as one who lacked the intellect to cope with a newspaper editorial page.

Going out the door without slackening his pace, Shayne glanced over his shoulder as he passed wide windows looking into the lobby. The anemic man was folding his paper and getting up.

Shayne continued to Second Avenue and swung around the corner where his car was parked. A small coupé was parked a discreet half block behind his shabby convertible. A man sat in the driver’s seat.

Shayne walked briskly on to his car, opened the door, and folded his long body in under the wheel. He adjusted the rearview mirror and watched with interest while the editorial reader hurried around the corner toward the coupé and got in beside the driver.

Waiting patiently, Shayne sucked on his cigarette, expelling great clouds of smoke through flaring nostrils. The coupé did not move away from the curb.

There was little traffic on Second Avenue. A lopsided moon and millions of brilliant stars shed silvery light upon the Magic City. A faint cooling breeze blew in from Biscayne Bay, salt-tanged and permeated with the perfume of flowers from Bayfront Park, bringing relief from the long sun-drenched August day.

Shayne threw his cigarette away and started his motor. He swung about in a U turn and drove slowly to Southeast Second Street. He smiled grimly when the coupé twisted away from the curb and made a U turn behind him.

He stopped wasting time watching the little car and angled over to Biscayne Boulevard. He drove north at a moderate speed, dragging in deep breaths of the cool, tangy air.

The coupé was a block behind him when he approached the traffic light at Seventy-Ninth Street. A line of traffic was piling up behind the little car trailing him.

Shayne gauged his speed carefully, reached the corner as the traffic signal changed from red to green, then pulled into a filling-station on the southeast corner of the busy intersection.

The driver of the coupé hesitated, slowed behind him. A furious medley of honking broke out as the drivers behind the coupé saw themselves about to be held up while the light changed.

Reluctantly, the coupé drove into the intersection, hesitated about turning right or left, drove on across and pulled to the curb half a block ahead.

A courteous attendant was standing smartly at attention beside the detective’s car. Shayne grinned at him and said, “Sorry, bud, I just remembered an important appointment. Guess I’ve got enough gas to make it. Back later.”

He slammed in the gears and drove on through the station into Seventy-Ninth Street, joining a stream of traffic flying across the northern causeway to the peninsula. He smiled happily when he saw, through the rearview mirror, that the coupé was taking a desperate chance to make a U turn on the boulevard and speeding back to the intersection to follow him.