Chapter one

The night was hot, humid, and still in Miami. Clad only in pajama bottoms, Michael Shayne lay spread-eagled on the double bed, hoping for a vagrant breeze to cool his rangy body. For hours he tossed restlessly, and at last fell into a fitful sleep.

A slight sound awakened him. He opened his eyes and lay motionless, listening. The dim light of a waning moon shone through the open windows. He wondered what time it was and how long since he had fallen asleep. He turned on his side, and yawned groggily. He was about to close his eyes again when he saw the rectangle of yellowish light coming through the bedroom doorway.

A shuffling, slithering sound reached his ears. Wide awake now, and alert, he swung his long legs cautiously over the edge of the bed and stood up. Two steps took him to the bedroom doorway. The living-room door was ajar, and the light from the hotel corridor faintly outlined objects in the room.

Leaning against the doorjamb, Shayne observed a sexless, shapeless figure seated in a chair near the wall. The figure was bent double, fumbling with something on the floor. Then it stood up, and hands caught at the hem of a garment, raised it; and when the garment was removed, the slender, curvaceous form of a woman stood before him. Her hair had fallen over her forehead. She tossed her head to fling it back, ran fingers through it, and glided noiselessly to the living-room door.

Briefly, her body gleamed like ivory in the yellowish glow. She eased the door shut. There was a slight click. She turned the knob, made certain the latch had caught, and then turned toward the bedroom guided only by the moonlight from the open windows.

Shayne took a quick step backward, frowning in deep perplexity. He felt a strong desire to stride forward, grab her, and demand the reason for her intrusion; but he did not move. He watched her glide past the door and go on to the bathroom a few feet farther on. She went in, closed the door, and snapped on the light.

Stepping forward again, Shayne stood for a moment watching the rim of light under the bathroom door. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw, and he rubbed it meditatively. In all the years he had been a detective this, he decided, was the most fantastic thing that had ever happened to him. Passion, anger, astonishment, and curiosity intermingled in him as a grin spread his wide mouth.

He crept back to the bed and stretched out on one side. As he waited for the woman’s next move, he tried to identify her silhouette, tried to figure how and why she had gained entrance to his apartment. He looked at the luminous dial of the electric clock on the bedside table. The time was 2:20.

Listening to the trickle of water in the bathroom, he concluded that he had never seen her before. He had no female acquaintances who would act in this manner, and there were no keys to his apartment in circulation among any persons of either sex.

Yet, this woman seemed to know her way about. She had ignored his open bedroom door and gone straight to the bathroom. She acted, in fact, exactly like a wife who had returned from an extra-marital assignation and did not want to awaken her husband.

Shayne’s body tingled again. He would be less than human, he told himself, if he were not intrigued by the situation. He found it extremely pleasant to lie there, in the dark with the knowledge that a naked woman was within a few feet of him, and that, in a few minutes she probably would slip quietly into his bed.

Shayne didn’t have long to wait. He heard the bathroom door open, the click of light, and the slow tread of bare feet coming toward him. His muscles stiffened involuntarily, and through half-closed eyes he watched her go around the bed. With difficulty, he kept his breathing deep and regular.

She smoothed the pillow on her side, then eased herself onto the far edge of the mattress. For a while she lay motionless, flat on her back, her arms circled above her head.

Presently she stirred, turned toward him and moved nearer. He heard the softly whispered word, “Darling,” and her finger tips trailed lightly across his chest.

Shayne gave up all pretense of sleep. He reached out a long arm, clamped a palm on her bare flank, and said, “Hi.”

Her muscles contracted convulsively under his grip. She raised herself on one elbow, and cried out in surprise and fright, “You’re awake!”

“How long did you expect me to keep on sleeping under these circumstances?” Shayne said in an amused voice.

She screamed, and leaped from the bed.

“You’re not Ralph!” she shouted in alarm.

“No,” he agreed. “I’m not Ralph.”

“Then who are you? What are you doing here?” she gasped, backing away. With one arm and hand she tried to cover her breasts, while with the other hand, she attempted to conceal the spot that Eve once covered with a fig leaf.

“Why shouldn’t I be here in my own bed?” Shayne demanded reasonably.

“But this is Ralph’s room. Where is he? What kind of trick is this?” The woman moved around the foot of the bed as she spoke. Her voice was strained with fright and anger. She grabbed at the top sheet to cover her nakedness, but it was firmly tucked in and did not give.

Shayne sat up and propped both pillows behind him. “This,” he told her coolly, “has been my apartment and my bedroom for more years than I like to remember. I’m turning on the light,” he warned. “Let’s see who you are and what this is all about.”

The woman sprang through the doorway as the light came on. Shayne glimpsed a heart-shaped face framed in brown hair, and a slender, youthful body only partly concealed by arms and hands.

“Please, please stay in there until I can get some clothes on,” she begged. “I’ll only be a minute. There has been a terrible mistake. I thought you were my husband. Please stay there.”

“Like hell I will,” Shayne grated. “And let you run out on me before I find out what this is all about?”

“No! I tell you it’s all a horrible mistake!” her voice was sincerely pleading. “I’ll get dressed in the bathroom and then I want an explanation. I don’t understand any of this, but I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

“I could do with an explanation myself,” Shayne growled. He glanced at the clock again. The time was 2:26. He was amazed that only six minutes had elapsed since he last noted the time. He retrieved his pajama top from the floor where he had tossed it earlier and pulled it over his tousled red hair. Then be lit a cigarette and leaned back comfortably against the pillows.

Shayne crushed out his cigarette, got up, and padded into the living-room in bare feet where he turned on the ceiling light. A black suède slipper and a gossamer bit of blue nylon lay on the floor beside the overstuffed chair where the vision had sat a short time ago. He picked them up, strode to the bathroom door, and knocked. “Don’t you dare come in here!” she screamed.

“I wouldn’t intrude for the world,” he retorted amiably. “You overlooked your brassiere and a shoe. Open the door a crack and I’ll hand them to you.”

She opened the door a trifle. Her hand groped through the aperture and he put the apparel in it. She drew back hastily, saying, “It was so dark out there.”

“Then why didn’t you turn on the light? You seem to know your way around pretty well.”

“I still think this is Ralph’s apartment,” she snapped angrily, “and that you’re playing some sort of—”

“Trick,” Shayne supplied ironically. “You’re beginning to sound like a broken record, baby. Get dressed and get out here, and we’ll talk about it.”

Shayne strode to the front door, opened it, and examined the lock carefully. There was nothing to indicate that it had been tampered with. He clicked it shut and went into the kitchenette where he switched on the light and tried the door leading to the fire escape. It was securely locked, and the key hung on the nail where he always kept it.

Shayne’s mouth was grimly set and his eyes were puzzled. His thoughts flashed back to several occasions when his apartment had been opened by police, or by Chief Gentry, himself. A few times both the front and back locks had been forced by criminals who had left plenty of evidence. He swore under his breath and muttered, “And now, bygod, a dame opens my door with a key, strips herself, and crawls into my bed.”

Shaking his red head savagely, he went to the refrigerator, took out a tray of cubes, and carried it to the sink. While tepid water ran over the bottom of the tray, he took two glasses from the china cabinet and set them on the drain-board; twisted the plastic container and spilled ice cubes into the sink. Then he filled the two glasses with ice.

“I just don’t know what to say,” said a girlish voice from the open archway behind him. “I’m completely confused. I’ve never seen you before in my life, but I know this is the right apartment.”

Shayne turned slowly and studied her for a moment. He said, “I’ve never seen you before, baby, but you look good.” His steady gaze went over her body. “Even with clothes on.”

“How dare you!” she exploded. There was maturity and courage in her uplifted chin and in the dark eyes that met his with angry challenge.

“Hold it,” Shayne ordered. “Stand where you are and let’s have a better look at you in the light.”

She wore a tailored suit of light material, beige or sun tan in color, that fitted her trim figure well. A vivid-yellow scarf was fluffed out under her chin. Her brown hair was tousled, giving her a youthful appearance.

“Well, what have you to say for yourself?” she asked curtly.

“Just this. My apartment is number one-sixteen. I live here. I don’t know your Ralph and I don’t know you. Have a drink?”

“I–I could use one,” she stammered.

Shayne’s back was turned while he filled the glasses with water. He swung around with them in his hands.

“How could there be a mistake?” she stormed. “The key fitted your door perfectly. The whole place is exactly the way it was described to me. It must be Ralph’s place.”

“It isn’t,” he said shortly, moving toward her. She stepped aside to let him pass into the living-room where he set the glasses on the battered oak desk. “Sit down and make yourself comfortable. Maybe we can make some sense out of this if we work at it over a drink. Cognac all right for you?” he added on his way to the liquor cabinet.

“Anything. Anything at all.” She crossed to a chair near the desk and sat down. “I haven’t got over my fright yet. I — you — well, you can’t expect me to be calm after finding myself in bed with a perfect stranger.” Her lips trembled and her hands were clenched together tightly in her lap.

Shayne’s brows quirked upward, and his gray eyes were wary. He padded to the desk holding a bottle of Croizet, gave her a crooked smile, and said, “It must have been quite disconcerting, if you’re telling the truth.” He began pouring cognac into her glass, and added, “Say when.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw her stiffen.

“What do you mean?” she flared. “Of course it’s the truth. Do you think I intended to go to bed with you?” Her glass was full to the brim. He filled his own glass and said amiably, “It would be a flattering assumption. I confess no woman has ever been so smitten with my charms that she forced entrance to my bedroom, but I can be optimistic, can’t I? If I hadn’t opened my big mouth so fast there in the beginning, maybe—”

“You — you beast!”

Shayne lifted his glass, held one out to her, and said, “Skip it. Let’s drink to what might have happened.”

A flush spread over her cheeks and she lowered her eyes as she took the glass in a trembling hand. “I’d have known,” she stated flatly. “Before you spoke a word, I sensed it wasn’t Ralph. But I kept telling myself it had to be. Don’t you see? Even when you said ‘Hi’ in a voice that sounded strange, I was so sure in my own mind—”

“Your drink,” Shayne interrupted. “It’s spilling. Suppose we drink to your husband. Then,” he went on firmly, “you can start at the beginning and tell me how you came to mistake my apartment for his.”

She took a drink, sputtered and coughed, reached quickly for the ice water, and gulped a mouthful. She regained her composure after a moment. The cognac seemed to ease her tense muscles. “I don’t know,” she murmured, “just where to start, because I still don’t understand. I was definitely told apartment one-sixteen. And the key fitted. Everything here is just the way I expected it to be — the kitchen door there, the bathroom, and bedroom.” She looked around with, wide, wondering eyes.

“Someone told you that your husband would be asleep here tonight?” Shayne asked patiently. “Someone gave you a key to my apartment so you could slip in? Why? I don’t know anyone who’d play a trick like that. Was your husband supposed to be expecting you?”

“Oh, no,” she answered hastily. “He didn’t know. That was the whole thing, don’t you see?” She took a small sip of cognac, and set the glass on the desk. “That’s why I undressed so quietly in here. I didn’t dare turn on a light for fear of wakening him. I knew that if I could just, you know, get in bed with him before he knew I was there, he’d have to—” She paused, her face crimson. “Can’t you see I had to do it?” she burst out. “Because I know he still loves me. It’s just his crazy pride. I had to have a chance to break it down, and show him that nothing is really different — that he’s still my husband, and I’m still his wife. You do understand, don’t you?” she ended, leaning tensely toward him.

“Hell, no,” said Shayne curtly. He took a sizable drink of cognac, leaned back in his swivel chair, and lit a cigarette. “Now, start at the beginning. What’s your name?”

“Nora Carrol. Mrs. Ralph Carrol.” She glanced down at a plain platinum wedding band and a diamond solitaire. She turned the rings on her finger as she continued, “We live in Wilmington. That is, we did, until Ralph came to Miami a few weeks ago to establish residence for a divorce.” Her shoulders sagged, and she lapsed into silence.

“And?” Shayne questioned sharply.

She lifted her face. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Shayne got up, padded into the bedroom, and returned with a handkerchief. Flipping it from a square, he tossed it in her lap. She wiped her eyes and face, drew a long breath, and expelled it with a tremulous sigh.

“I suppose I have to tell you all of it. You’ll never believe me unless I do. Well, we’ve been married less than a year. We were terribly happy. Ralph was so sweet, at first.

“Then he started getting those anonymous letters accusing me of the most dreadful things. He didn’t believe them, of course, but when they kept coming he began wondering. He started spying on me. That made me angry, because he didn’t love me enough to have faith in me.

“So, I did a dreadfully foolish thing. I began flirting to get back at him. And then, there was a week-end party and I–I drank too much.” She jerked herself erect and added in a stricken voice, “Well, I made a damned fool of myself.” She covered her face with Shayne’s handkerchief.

Shayne took a long drink, lit another cigarette, and waited patiently.

Nora Carrol dropped the moist handkerchief in her lap and resumed. “I don’t really blame Ralph for being angry and leaving home before I could even try to explain and ask him to forgive me. But he left me such a curt note, I felt awful. He wouldn’t answer my letters, and he wouldn’t talk to me when I called him long-distance. So, I came to Miami. It was just too terrible for words! He wouldn’t let me go to his room! When I tried to talk to him in the lobby he cut me dead. Then, he checked out of the hotel that very night, and nobody knew where he went.”

Shayne said, “H-m-m. When was all this?”

“About two weeks ago.” Nora Carrol took a drink of cognac, washed it down with ice water, and continued. “I went back to Wilmington and talked to our lawyer there. He tried to help me and was very understanding, but he said there wasn’t a thing in the world I could do if Ralph was determined to get a divorce.

“You see, he had plenty of evidence from that horrible week-end, and he said I didn’t have a chance of getting alimony or anything.” She stopped talking suddenly. Her brown eyes were dull and inscrutable behind a mist of tears.

Shayne sipped cognac, smoked, and waited. When she showed no sign of continuing the story, he said bluntly, “But you didn’t give up.”

“No. I was just thinking. You see the lawyer told me there was one chance, a slim one, for me. I love Ralph so much I was ready to grab at anything. So, when he outlined the plan, I didn’t hesitate for a moment.”

“What sort of plan?” Shayne demanded.

“Well, he said that if I could find out where Ralph was staying, and if I could persuade him to come back to me for just one night it would be enough to nullify what I had done. It would do away with Ralph’s grounds for divorce — everything. There’s something in the law about it. I don’t quite understand, but it seems that if a husband takes his wife back after, well, after she’s made a mistake like I did, then the law says it doesn’t count and can’t be used against her as evidence later.”

Michael Shayne emptied his brandy glass. He nodded slowly, avoiding her eyes. “So that’s what you planned to do? Slip into your husband’s bed and use your sex appeal to win him back, at least for one night. After that, no matter how much he wanted to be rid of you, he wouldn’t have further legal grounds for a divorce action.”

“You make it sound depraved and indecent!” she flared angrily. “It’s not true. I do love Ralph, and I know he loves me. All I could think of was making him remember how much we loved each other so he would forgive me, and we could start all over again.”

“So, we come to tonight,” the redhead said casually. “Fill me in on that.”

“I can’t,” she said brokenly. “I can’t explain it at all. All I did was follow Mr. Bates’s instructions to the letter.”

Shayne’s eyes were very bright. He swiveled forward in his creaky desk chair and asked, “Who is Bates?”

“Why, he’s our lawyer in Wilmington. I just told you.”

Shayne creaked back and said, “Go on, Mrs. Carrol.”

“Well, he, Mr. Bates, suggested that we might get a detective in Miami to find out where Ralph had moved to. Then I could try once more for a reconciliation. It all seemed so simple and logical when we planned it in Wilmington,” she went on in the faltering tone. “A detective was to get a key to Ralph’s room. All I had to do was unlock the door and slip in sometime after midnight. I just knew it would work.”

“Sure, it would have worked. You would have had him right back if you’d gotten into his bed instead of mine. The question is, how the devil did you make such a mistake?”

“I don’t know,” she cried wildly, straining forward with her hands clenched. “Do you think I would have subjected myself to this — this inquisition if I had known? I flew down from Wilmington yesterday and checked in at the Commodore. Everything was arranged. There was a message for me from the detective, enclosing a key to Ralph’s room and a sketch of the apartment, so I could get around in the dark without waking him too soon. I was to wait in my room until the detective phoned that Ralph came in for the night. He called me about one o’clock. I waited awhile, until I felt sure Ralph would be asleep; then I taxied over here and slipped quietly upstairs. And that’s all.” She made a gesture of finality with her hands, reached for her cognac glass, took a long swallow, chased the liquor with ice water, and sank back in the chair as though exhausted.

Shayne tugged at his ear lobe, his gray eyes somber. He considered her story and wondered how much of it was true. Her words and her tone had the ring of sincerity, but it was impossible for him to understand how anyone could have mistaken his apartment for the one occupied by her husband, considering the years he had lived here and how well known he was to all the employees.

Shrugging his wide shoulders, he swiveled forward and picked up the telephone, waited a moment until a hoarse and unfamiliar voice said, “Yes, sir.”

He frowned at the instrument and asked, “Is this Dick?”

“No, sir. Dick is sick and I’m substituting for him. Can I help you?”

Shayne hesitated, then asked, “Do you have a Ralph Carrol registered here?”

“One moment, please.”

Nora Carrol slid to the edge of her chair. “Please,” she pleaded, “oh, please don’t tell him.”

Shayne held up a broad palm for silence and covered the mouthpiece with his fingers. “Hold it,” he whispered. “Let me find out if your husband is in this hotel.”

He waited a moment.

“Mr. Ralph Carrol is in two-sixteen. Shall I ring him, sir?” the clerk asked.

Shayne hesitated, then said, “No, thanks. Skip it for now.” He slowly cradled the receiver and said, “Your husband is in two-sixteen, one floor directly above. Could you have mistaken the number?”

“No. That is, I don’t see how I could have. The key opened your door. The same key wouldn’t fit both of them, would it?”

“If it does,” Shayne growled, “the management is going to get hell in the morning. Let’s see that key.” He held out a broad palm and waited while she picked up a black suède purse. After a period of digging and fumbling she produced a flat brass key and handed it to him.

Shayne observed its shiny newness, turned it over and found that it had no room number stamped on it. Otherwise, it appeared to be a duplicate of the familiar one he had carried on his key ring for so many years. He shrugged, tossed it on the desk, and asked, “Do you want to go up one flight and try it on your husband’s door? He should be sound asleep now, and you should be able to seduce him without too much trouble.”

Nora Carrol sprang to her feet, and said angrily, “You’re insufferable! You make my wanting Ralph back sound cold-blooded and bitchy.”

“Maybe,” said Shayne moodily. “I’m sore at being wakened so enticingly and so futilely. Call me tomorrow and let me know how you make out.”

“Thanks for releasing me,” she replied acidly, “and I hope I never see you again.” She took a couple of steps toward the door, but stopped abruptly as heavy, measured footsteps sounded in the corridor.

A knock sounded on the door, hard and insistent. Running to Shayne, she breathed, “Do you suppose they called Ralph from the desk to say you’d asked about him? If he finds me here with you like this—” Her eyes were frantic, and her gesture indicated Shayne’s pajamas and bare feet.

Shayne was on his feet. “Whoever it is,” he said swiftly, “get into the bedroom and keep out of sight.” He picked up her two glasses as he spoke and shoved them into her hands. Nora sprinted into the bedroom and closed the door.

A louder knock came, accompanied by a gruff voice that ordered, “Open up.”

Shayne glanced over his shoulder to make certain the bedroom door was closed, then opened the front door.

He scowled at the florid-faced, bulky man who stood on the threshold.

“Thought I recognized your voice, Will,” he said casually. “Come in and tell me what the hell keeps you awake at this hour of the morning.”

Chapter two

Police chief Will Gentry had been Shayne’s friend and antagonist for many years, and a frequent visitor to the detective’s second-floor suite. He entered the room stolidly and glanced with interest at the glass of ice water and empty cognac glass on the desk.

“So you’re up, too,” he pointed out mildly. “Bad conscience keep you awake?”

Shayne closed the door and followed him to the center of the room while Gentry settled himself in the chair Nora Carrol had just vacated.

“Too hot to sleep,” the redhead replied. “My conscience is as pure as a lily right now.” He seated himself, picked up the cognac bottle, and said, “Drink?”

Will Gentry shook his graying head and took a thin black cigar from his breast pocket. “Too hot for drinking, too,” rumbled Gentry. He bit off the end of the cigar and lit it, then asked, “What do you know about Ralph Carrol?”

Shayne’s glass was against his lips. He held it very still, arched ragged red brows meditatively, and didn’t reply for at least twenty seconds. He set the glass down and asked, “Who was that again?”

“Carrol. Ralph Carrol.”

“Oh, yeh, Carrol. I thought that was what you said. What’s your interest?”

Gentry’s slightly protuberant eyes met Shayne’s in a level gaze. “I’m asking the questions right now, Mike. How well do you know Carrol?”

“I don’t,” said Shayne promptly.

“Don’t waste time lying to me. When did you see him last?”

“I never saw him in my life, Will. Not to my knowledge.”

“Why did you call down to the desk a few minutes ago to ask if he was registered here?” probed the chief.

Shayne hesitated, lowering his lids over the glint of excitement and interest in his eyes. Finally, he blurted out, “How the devil do you know that? It hasn’t been more than five minutes ago.”

“That’s why I’m particularly interested,” Gentry told him patiently.

“There could be a thousand reasons,” said Shayne lightly. “Maybe I had a date with his wife and wanted to be certain the guy was in bed and would stay put while I kept it.”

“Cut it, Mike. I just want one reason. The real one.”

Shayne sobered and said quietly, “I’m not sure I can give you the real reason without betraying a confidence. I certainly can’t without knowing your reason for asking.”

“If it’s any news to you,” Gentry rumbled, “Ralph Carrol is dead. You know better than to hold out on a murder investigation.”

Shayne’s eyes were hooded, his face expressionless, but he was thinking fast. In a sense, the chief’s statement came as no great surprise. From the moment Gentry asked his first question about Carrol, Shayne had realized that it must be something like this that placed the Chief of Police in the hotel at the same time Shayne made his query to the desk. The substitute clerk had relayed the information to the police, of course. A bad break for the detective which would not have occurred if Dick had been on the switchboard.

“In that case,” he said, after a short silence, “I think you’d better get your answers from the source, Will.” He strode across to the bedroom door, and opened it.

Nora Carrol jumped up from the edge of the bed, a question forming on her lips. Shayne led her into the living-room and said to Gentry, “This is Mrs. Ralph Carrol.” And to the girl he explained gently, “Will Gentry is our police chief. He tells me your husband has been murdered.”

She went white and swayed against him. “Murdered?” she gasped with a convulsive sob. Shayne put his arm around her waist and half carried her to a chair opposite Gentry and eased her onto it. He held his brandy glass to her lips. “Drink this,” he ordered.

Gentry had risen, his rumpled eyelids rolled high as he stared at the girl in complete bewilderment.

Nora Carrol stiffened. Resisting Shayne’s efforts, she seemed ready to spring from the chair. She looked up into Gentry’s agate eyes, then subsided meekly and drank the remaining ounce of liquor in the glass. A series of retching coughs came with her sobs. Shayne thrust the water glass into her hand and stood over her while she gulped it down.

“Get hold of yourself,” said Shayne swiftly. “Sit right where you are, and repeat your story to Chief Gentry. And tell all of the truth this time. If you lied to me in one single instance before, now is the time to change it.”

“I didn’t lie,” she protested, suddenly shaken from her shock and grief by his accusation. “Why should I?”

“I don’t know,” he growled. “But I’ll be getting some clothes on and I’ll leave the bedroom door open while you’re talking. You might just happen to remember something else, this time, that’ll be important.

“She’s all yours, Will,” he went on to Gentry. “When you’re through with her, you’ll know as much about this as I do.”

He turned away to the bedroom, and scowled heavily, as he listened to Nora Carrol’s tearful, anxious questions about her husband’s death.

Gentry parried them, giving her no more information than he had given Shayne. Ralph Carrol had been murdered and the police were in his apartment one floor up, investigating the affair, at the time the substitute clerk reported Shayne’s inquiry about the dead man.

In the bedroom, Shayne stripped off his pajamas and began dressing. Through the open door he heard the girl give Gentry the same story she had told him, with only minor and unimportant variations. Her voice broke several times when she spoke of her relationship with the dead man.

He finished dressing and strolled into the living-room buttoning the sleeves of a fresh white shirt as she completed her recital. He grinned briefly at the expression of open disbelief on Chief Gentry’s broad, florid face.

Circling the pair, he sat down in the swivel chair and refilled his cognac glass. He rocked back and listened with interest as Gentry asked the same question he himself had asked upon learning that Ralph Carrol was occupying the suite directly above.

“Could you have mistaken the number, Mrs. Carrol?” Chief Gentry asked. “Are you sure you were told to come to one-sixteen instead of two -sixteen?”

“I’m positive.” Nora Carrol was composed now, dry-eyed and tight-lipped. “It was written out in the instructions that were waiting for me at the hotel when I arrived yesterday; and distinctly repeated again over the telephone tonight.”

“I suggested some such mix-up, too,” Shayne told Gentry moodily. “A sure way to check would be to try the key Mrs. Carrol has on her husband’s door. That’s it right there on the desk. I’m interested in finding out if a key made for two-sixteen also fits my lock.”

Gentry picked up the shiny new key and studied it. “All these Yale keys look alike to me,” he rumbled. “But we’ll have to leave the test to an expert, Mike. The first men who arrived here, after getting the report on Carrol, couldn’t get a duplicate key from the new man on the desk. He couldn’t find a master key, either. So they forced the lock of two-sixteen to get in, and it’s jammed. It would be impossible to make the test right now.”

Shayne thought for a moment, then said, “Look, Will, I’m damned anxious to know whether this is just a crazy mistake, or whether this woman was given a key to my room, and sent here for some definite purpose, while her husband was being murdered. Seems to me a lot depends on that. Let’s do this. Call upstairs and have the key to number two-sixteen brought down. If it doesn’t unlock my door, then we’ll know that this key couldn’t possibly unlock his.”

“Good enough.” Gentry reached for the phone and spoke into it briefly.

Shayne went into the kitchenette to replenish his glass of ice water. When he returned, he said, “I think it’s our turn to have a little dope from you, Will. When was Carrol murdered?”

The chief removed the soggy cigar from his mouth and aimed it at the wastebasket “There was a telephone call about two twenty-five. A man called. Didn’t give his name. He was excited, and all he said was that there was a dead man in room two-sixteen at this hotel, and then he hung up. A patrol car got the flash and got here a few minutes later.

“They wasted a few minutes trying to get a key, as I told you, then they broke in. The lights were out and everything in the room was in perfect order. Carrol’s body was naked, and he evidently died without a struggle. He had been stabbed with a sharp silver paper knife.” Gentry paused, his agate eyes regarded Nora solemnly. “Did your husband own a silver paper knife, Mrs. Carrol?”

“Why, y-yes.” Her composure wilted at the question, and she began to sob again. “I d-don’t know whether he brought it with him. He m-may have. He always opened his letters with it.” She stiffened abruptly and demanded, “How do you know it’s Ralph who’s dead? There must be some mistake, some kind of mix-up like the one that brought me to this apartment instead of his.”

“The body was identified as Carrol’s by the elevator operator and the bellboy,” Gentry told her in a kindly tone. “I’ll want you to make a positive identification, of course.” He rose heavily when a knock sounded on the door. “That’ll be the key of two-sixteen.”

He went to the door, followed by Shayne, opened it, and took the key from the young patrolman who stood there. Shayne watched with keen interest as Chief Gentry tried it in the lock. The key slid in about halfway and refused to go farther. “You want to try it?” he asked Shayne.

Shayne removed the key and examined it carefully. It was old and tarnished, and plainly stamped with the numerals 216. He tried it in the lock, and as before it stuck halfway and would go no farther. Shaking his red head, he admitted sourly, “No soap,” and handed the key to the waiting patrolman.

Gentry dismissed the young officer. “All right, Hagen. Take it back, and tell Sergeant Hale to stay there until I come up.”

He closed the door. “That knocks the accidental theory in the head, Mike,” he said. “If we can believe Mrs. Carrol, she was deliberately sent to this hotel, and to your apartment tonight, with a key that opened your door, at just about the same time her husband was being stabbed to death on the next floor. What I want to know now is why.” He sat down heavily and plucked a fresh cigar from his pocket.

“That is the question I want answered,” said Shayne grimly. “And I think we’d better ask the guy who sent her here. Who is he?” he demanded abruptly of Nora Carrol.

She jerked her head up, blinking tears from her eyes. “Wh-at? Who is whom?” she faltered.

“Who is the detective who located your husband in this hotel and told you he was in one-sixteen? Who furnished you with a key to my place, and telephoned you a little after one o’clock to say the coast was clear for you to attempt a reconciliation? What’s his name and where can we locate him?”

Nora Carrol’s damp brown eyes turned slowly from Shayne’s bleak and demanding gaze to Gentry’s set and uncompromising mouth.

“I think he’s quite well known in Miami,” she said. “His name is Shayne. Michael Shayne.”

Chapter three

Incredulous silence followed her quiet pronouncement of Michael Shayne’s name. Unaware of the bombshell she had exploded, she lowered her head to dab at her eyes.

Shayne recovered his speech first. “No, by God!” he began hotly.

“Hold it, Mike,” the chief interrupted with an angry bellow. “I don’t want a word from you. Drink your cognac and keep your mouth shut. If you say one word, and I mean it, Mike, one word, before I’m finished, I’ll have you taken in and locked up until I get to the bottom of this.”

Shayne nodded morosely. He took a long drink, lit a cigarette, and said quietly, “Go to it, Will. I’m just as curious as you are.”

The angry interchange between the two men brought Nora’s head up again. A frown creased her smooth forehead, and she appeared genuinely confused. “Isn’t Mr. Shayne a well-known detective?” she asked Gentry in a meek voice. “I understand he has a very good reputation.”

“Depends on who you ask about him,” growled Gentry. He shifted his unlit cigar across his mouth, bent forward, and planted a hand on each broad thigh. “Describe Shayne for me, Mrs. Carrol.”

“Why, I haven’t met him personally. I thought I told you that. There was a letter from him, enclosing the key, waiting for me when I checked in yesterday. Then two telephone calls — one in the afternoon to check my arrival and confirm everything, and the other one at one o’clock.”

“I see,” mused Gentry. “And what sort of voice did Mr. Shayne have?”

“Why—” She hesitated. “A rather nice voice, I thought. He was very businesslike and pleasant.”

“Would you recognize the voice again?”

“I don’t know. Possibly.”

“Did he leave a number where you could reach him?”

“No, he didn’t. I asked him for it the first time he called, but he said it wouldn’t be necessary; and besides, he would be moving around and couldn’t say where he’d be.”

“This letter from him with the key and the instructions, was it on a printed letterhead? Do you recall the address?”

She frowned again, biting her underlip, then faltered, “I think so. I’m not positive, but I seem to recall a printed letterhead. It was typewritten and signed with his name,” she ended brightly.

“Do you have it with you?”

“Oh, no. Why does all this matter, Chief Gentry?” she asked. “Isn’t Mr. Shayne the one to answer these questions?”

“I’ll get to that presently. I’ll want to see that letter of his, Mrs. Carrol. When you leave here I’ll send a man with you to your hotel to pick it up.”

“But I tore it up. I didn’t know it was important, and he asked me to destroy it. I thought it was a rather silly precaution, but I did.”

“I see.” Gentry’s tone was a gentle purr, but his big, florid face turned slightly purple. “That’s very interesting. Did he say why he wanted the letter destroyed?”

“Oh, something about his taking a big chance, and that it was illegal for him to get me a key like that; and if anything went wrong, he might lose his license.”

“But you did have letters from him while you were still in Wilmington?” the chief probed.

“No. But Mr. Bates did. Two or three, I think.”

“Do you have one of those with you?”

“No. I didn’t actually see them myself. Mr. Bates handled all that.”

“How did you first contact this Michael Shayne, Mrs. Carrol?”

“I didn’t. Mr. Bates did.”

“And this was two weeks ago?”

“Around then.”

Gentry grunted and settled back in his chair. He turned to Shayne and said, “So there you have it, Mike. What’s your explanation?”

“I think,” said the detective grimly, “you should introduce Mrs. Carrol to me. We neglected that little nicety when we met so informally about an hour ago.”

“Then she’ll probably be quite interested,” he growled. “This is Michael Shayne, Mrs. Carrol. One of the best-known private detectives in Miami, possibly in the whole country.”

Up to this point she had been listening with curiosity and interest. Now, she paled, and her dark eyes rounded in astonishment. She drew a long, audible breath, and stared at Shayne as though he had suddenly sprouted an extra head.

For a moment she seemed speechless. Then color flushed her cheeks, and her eyes flashed angrily. “You’re Michael Shayne?” she exclaimed in astonishment.

“That’s right.”

“You sent me your own key!” she raged. “You tricked me into coming here to your room!”

“I didn’t send you my key,” Shayne returned savagely. “And I didn’t trick you into coming to my room.” He jerked his head around to face Gentry. “You know me better than that, Will.”

“She’s the one who’s accusing you,” said Gentry placidly. “Not I.”

“I suppose you both think I slipped upstairs and murdered her husband,” he went on with bitter irony, “as part of my little strategem to lure her into my bed.”

“What would you think if you heard the same story?” Gentry parried angrily.

Shayne hesitated and tugged at his ear lobe. Then he said, “I honestly don’t know. But if I’d known a guy as long as you’ve known me, I wouldn’t believe a thing like this.”

“All right,” growled Gentry. “I don’t think you murdered Carrol. Does that satisfy you?”

“No.” Shayne’s voice was cold and his eyes were bleak. He stood up impatiently, shoulders hunched, his angular jaw jutting. “Somebody has lied about this whole thing,” he stated flatly. “But I give you my word of honor, Will. I never heard the name Ralph Carrol until approximately two-thirty this morning, when this dame slipped into my apartment, took off her clothes, and crawled in bed with me. If that doesn’t satisfy you, you’d better lock me up.”

Will Gentry made a slight gesture and said, “That’s good enough for me, Mike.”

“Fair enough. Why don’t you relax with a drink while we try to get to the bottom of this mess?” He strode toward the liquor cabinet, saying, “Scotch?”

“About two fingers on the rocks.” The chief turned to the girl and said, “Now Mrs. Carrol, don’t you think you’d better start telling the whole truth?”

“I have,” she vowed. “Every word is the truth. If this man is really Michael Shayne and he didn’t send me the key, and telephone me to come here last night, who did?” Shayne came in from the kitchenette with Gentry’s drink and set it on the desk within easy reach.

“You still insist this man told you his name was Michael Shayne?” Gentry asked.

“Definitely.”

The chief’s deep sigh was expelled with a sound between a grunt and a weary groan. He took a long sip of the pale drink and said, “How do you read it, Mike?” Shayne sat down and leaned forward with his arms folded on the desk, his face a mask of concentration. “Accepting her story at face value for the moment, how and why would anyone impersonate me? Let’s work on the how first.” Turning to Nora, he continued, “You say your only contact with this detective was through a lawyer in Wilmington. That is, until you arrived in Miami yesterday and took over.”

“I’ve told you over and over that Mr. Bates handled everything from there,” she said irritably.

“This Bates is your lawyer?”

“Well, he’s actually Ralph’s lawyer. But he took my side against Ralph in the divorce action.”

“And you have no knowledge of the actual mechanics of how he contacted this detective in Miami who represented himself to be me?”

“No. I really don’t know.”

Shayne considered for a brief period, then concluded, “I think we should clear up the Wilmington end first, Will. Why don’t you call Bates right now?”

“But it’s three-thirty in the morning,” Nora protested. “He won’t be in his office.”

“Then give us his home telephone number, if you have it,” Shayne cut in tersely. “He should be notified of Carrol’s death, anyway.”

She opened her purse reluctantly and took out a small address book. “It’s just terrible to wake him up like this and tell him Ralph has been murdered. Could I talk to him, please. The shock will—”

“After I’ve asked a couple of questions,” Gentry promised. “Have you found the number?”

She nodded and read it from the book through blurred eyes.

Gentry got long-distance and gave the number in Wilmington, Delaware. Shayne moodily poured himself more brandy, took a fresh handkerchief from his pocket, pressed it into Nora’s hand.

Only a few seconds elapsed before he said, “Mr. Bates? Chief Gentry calling from Miami. A man who is registered in a hotel here as Ralph Carrol of Wilmington has been murdered. I understand he was a client of yours.” He waited placidly while an excited voice crackled into the receiver and mingled with Nora’s audible sobs.

“No, we haven’t any real clue as to the killer yet. But there are a couple of questions you can answer. Is it a fact that you advised and aided Mrs. Carrol in coming to Miami yesterday to attempt a reconciliation with her husband?”

He nodded his head while listening to the lawyer’s reply, then said, “I see. Yes, she’s right here and wants to speak to you as soon as I’ve finished. It appears right now that her husband was killed before she was able to see him. The important thing I need from you right now, Mr. Bates, is the name of the private detective in Miami who located Mr. Carrol for you, and made the arrangements for Mrs. Carrol to enter her husband’s suite in the middle of the night.”

Again he listened, then sent a sardonic glance toward Shayne as he said, “Shayne, eh? Michael Shayne. Yes. I do know him personally. That confirms Mrs. Carrol’s story, vehemently denied by Shayne.”

The redhead came to his feet, reached for the phone, and demanded angrily, “Let me talk to him, Will. I’ll cram that lie down his throat.”

Gentry fended him off with a curt gesture and a stony look. “That’s right,” he continued. “Shayne is here with me, too, and denies categorically ever hearing of you or the Carrols before tonight.”

He was listening again and shaking his head at Shayne’s impatient attempt to get hold of the phone. “I agree that it doesn’t seem to make sense either way, Mr. Bates.”

“Ask him,” Shayne demanded hoarsely, “how he claims to have contacted me. How, and to what extent he is supposed to have communicated with me and me with him.”

Gentry nodded and relayed the questions to the Wilmington lawyer. After a moment he covered the mouthpiece with his palm and said to Shayne, “He wrote to you a couple of weeks ago, briefly outlining what Mrs. Carrol planned, and you replied promptly offering to do the job for five hundred in cash, if he could fix it to get Carrol registered in this particular hotel. You claimed to know the layout of the apartments and the management here, and said you wouldn’t have too much trouble getting a key. As Carrol’s lawyer, Bates was in touch with him all the time, and he suggested that Carrol come here, giving some excuse that Carrol accepted.”

“Nice ethical lawyer,” Shayne grated, “setting his own client up for the kill.”

“That’s not true,” Nora protested. “Mr. Bates is nice. He was doing it for me — for both of us, really, because he felt that Ralph would regret the divorce later.”

Gentry gave not the slightest evidence that he had heard the woman. His rumpled lids were lowered at half-mast. “Bates’s story is that Michael Shayne steered Carrol to this hotel, got his five hundred cash in advance, then telephoned Bates two days ago to say that the key was ready for Mrs. Carrol when she arrived,” he reported solemnly, ruefully. “Also, he wired Michael Shayne to expect her at the Commodore yesterday and to take over from there. He sounds factual as hell, Mike, with all the data at his finger tips.”

“Every word of it is a goddamned lie,” Shayne burst out. “Good Lord, Will! You can go through my office files. Ask Lucy. I can prove I never wrote those letters or sent any wires. Lucy will verify that. Everything goes through her, as you know.”

Gentry shook his head slowly. “I just don’t get it,” he said in a low rumble. “If you’re lying—”

A voice was rasping through the receiver, and he uncovered the mouthpiece to say, “Perhaps you’d like to speak to Mrs. Carrol now.” He held the instrument out to her.

She seized it eagerly and exclaimed, “It’s Nora, Mr. Bates. I just don’t know anything. I didn’t even see Ralph before they told me he was dead. It’s all so horrible!” She paused, listened, nodded her head, and continued. “Yes. Everything was fixed for me to go to his room. The key was at the hotel just as it was arranged, and the detective phoned me twice. Only—” Her voice faltered on a convulsive sob. “Only there was some awful mistake. It was the wrong apartment. I got into the detective’s room instead of Ralph’s. Yes,” she accented shrilly. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. He sent me the key to his own apartment here at the same hotel, and he was waiting for me — in bed. He pretended he was asleep when I slipped in, thinking it was Ralph. I don’t know, Mr. Bates. I think they’re all in it together. The Chief of Police is a crony of his, and you’d better come down here.”

The rangy redhead growled an angry expletive and snatched the instrument from Nora’s hand. “Michael Shayne speaking,” he rasped. “Mrs. Carrol is right. You’d better high-tail it down here fast. And bring all the evidence in your possession purporting to back up your story.”

“I will certainly do that, Mr. Shayne.” The lawyer’s voice was precise and icy. “If Mrs. Carrol is telling me the truth—”

“If she’s telling the truth,” Shayne broke in savagely, “then you’re lying your fool head off. I tell you—”

“I refuse to discuss the matter further over the phone with you, Shayne,” Bates cut in. “Please put your friend, the Chief of Police, on the wire again.”

Shayne snorted with disgust and handed the phone to Will Gentry who said curtly, “Gentry speaking.” He listened for a time, his face gradually turning the color of raw beef and his eyes narrowed to slits. Then he said, “That’s exactly what we want you to do, Bates. If you’re not in my office by one o’clock tomorrow — today, that is, I’ll have a warrant served on you in Wilmington.”

He slammed the receiver down and fixed his agate gaze on Shayne. “God help me if you’ve put me out on a limb this time, Mike. Mr. Bates is convinced that the Miami police force is in a dastardly plot with you to rape Mrs. Carrol and murder her husband. He’s flying down in the morning with documentary evidence and all the necessary legal writs to put us both in Raiford for life.”

Shayne managed a crooked grin. “That’s just fine, Will. There’s nothing I’d rather see right now than Lawyer Bates’s documentary evidence.”

Gentry picked up his glass and drank its watery content, grunted, and settled back in his chair. He took another cigar from his pocket, lit it, and puffed a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.

Shayne turned to Nora Carrol and said, “There’s going to be a showdown. Whatever cute plan you and your shyster lawyer had, when you came down here, is going to blow up right in your faces. You’d better get out from under while you can, baby. If you didn’t kill your husband, you’d better spill the truth, so we can find out who did.”

“I? Kill Ralph?” She had been leaning back, her head resting comfortably against the chair, her eyes partly closed. She lifted her shoulders wearily and said tearfully, “I’m so tired and so confused! Can’t I go now, please?”

Will Gentry put his big hands on his chair arms and pushed his bulky body up from the deep chair. “I guess we’ve done about all we can here. There’s still the formal identification of your husband’s body. If you’ll come upstairs with me, Mrs. Carrol, we can get it over with.”

She shuddered, buried her face in Shayne’s big handkerchief, and said in a muffled, pleading voice, “Is it necessary, Chief Gentry? You said the — the body had been identified by people here in the hotel.”

“With all the impersonations floating around,” he told her gruffly, “we can’t be certain that the man registered here as Ralph Carrol is actually your husband. You’re the only one who can make a positive identification, and it might clarify a lot of things.”

Nora Carrol removed the handkerchief from her face and sprang to her feet. Her eyes brightened, and she said hopefully, “Then you think it might not be Ralph, after all?”

“That remains to be seen,” he told her. “Come along and we’ll find out.” He took her arm in his pudgy palm and propelled her toward the door, saying, “Stick around, Mike. We’ve got things to talk about.”

“Want me to come along?”

“No. I’ll be back in five minutes.”

The telephone rang when Gentry and Nora Carrol reached the door. Gentry stopped, turned, and listened when Shayne answered it. When a man’s high-pitched and excited voice came over the wire, the redhead pressed the receiver tight against his ear, hoping to keep the sound from Gentry’s range of hearing.

The man was saying, “Shayne? Am I glad to reach you! You’ve heard about Carrol, huh?”

Shayne arched his ragged brows at Gentry, groaned, and said into the mouthpiece, “For chrissake, honey, why don’t you go to bed and sleep it off? Do you know what time it is?”

Gentry hesitated briefly, then opened the door and went out with Nora, leaving it ajar. Shayne listened for the chief’s stolid footsteps in the corridor with one ear, and heard his caller’s plaintive words with the other.

The man said, “What’s the matter? Did I wake you up? This here is Ludlow talking. Don’t you know about Carrol?”

“What about him?” Shayne demanded cautiously as the footsteps outside died away.

“He’s dead. He was dead when I got there, Shayne. Look, I don’t know what this is all about or how much I’m on the spot, but I can’t afford any trouble. If there’s any chance of me being fingered in this, I want to get my story in first. I didn’t give my name when I reported to the cops. I don’t know how you figure in it, but I know your reputation, and I know you’ll give it to me straight. Can you keep me out of it? Or should I quick call headquarters again and say I was scared the first time and didn’t know what I was doing, and then give them all the dope?”

Shayne heard a wheezy, long-drawn breath over the wire, as though Ludlow had not taken time to breathe during his long, rapid recital. He asked sharply, “How did you get my phone number?”

“From Information. I didn’t think about it at first. I knew you wouldn’t be at your office. That’s why I didn’t call you before the police. But I got to worrying about them dragging you into it, and then you telling about me, and I’d be in a spot for not coming clean right away. How do we play now?”

Shayne was thinking fast. “Who did you say this is?” he asked in a low voice.

“Ludlow. You know.” There was a gasp, then a pause. “This ain’t Shayne,” he yelped. “The cops are already—” A sharp click stung his eardrum.

Shayne cradled the receiver slowly and sat tugging at his ear lobe, trying to remember someone named Ludlow, when the telephone rang again.

He picked up the receiver and heard the substitute operator on the lobby switchboard saying, “Here’s Mr. Shayne now.”

“I’ve been trying to get you,” a husky voice complained. It was furred with sleep or with too many drinks, “I’ve just heard the shocking news about Ralph Carrol over the radio. Nora’s name wasn’t mentioned. Do you think she is involved?”

“Who’s calling?” Shayne asked.

“You wouldn’t know my name, but it’s very important that I see you at once, Mr. Shayne. If the police don’t already know, we’ve got to keep Nora out of it. I’ll pay you ten thousand dollars to forget everything you know about tonight.”

Shayne said, “Ten grand is a nice round sum. Who’s offering it?”

“It doesn’t matter, does it? I have the cash. All I need is your assurance that you won’t tell the police about Nora.”

Shayne said, “I think we’d better talk this over. Where are you?”

“Not so fast,” the furry voice objected. “How do I know you’re not already in touch with the police?”

“You don’t. But if I don’t get away from here quick I will be in touch with them.” He glanced at his wrist watch. Gentry had said he’d be back in five minutes. Four of them were gone. He had a minute left. “Where can we meet?”

“I don’t trust you,” the husky voice said querulously. “I’ve heard all sorts of things about your tricks. If you’re on the level and willing to keep your mouth shut for ten thousand dollars, leave there as soon as you hang up and drive north on Biscayne Boulevard. It’s three forty-two by my watch. You should reach Seventy-Ninth Street about four o’clock. Pull into the closed gasoline station on the southeast corner and wait there for me. If you’re on the square and there are no cops, you’ll get your money.”

Shayne said, “I’ll be there at four o’clock, in a black Hudson, and alone.” He broke the connection, got up, and went to the front door which Gentry had left open. He listened for a second, and hearing no sound from above, Shayne closed the door quietly and hurried back to the telephone.

He gave Lucy Hamilton’s number, and when her sleepy voice answered he said rapidly, “Listen carefully, angel, and don’t ask questions. Get dressed fast. A light-colored suit, if you have one. Wear a yellow scarf fluffed out at your throat. Bareheaded. Call a taxi while you’re dressing. Go to the Commodore Hotel and ask at the desk for your key. You’ve forgotten your room number, having just checked in yesterday afternoon. You’re Mrs. Ralph Carrol, or Nora Carrol, from Wilmington, Delaware. If they insist you took your key with you when you went out about one o’clock, say you lost it or something; but get a key to Mrs. Ralph Carrol’s room and get inside. Look for a letter to Mrs. Carrol from Michael Shayne giving a sketch of the layout of my apartment. It should be easy to find. Then get out in a hurry, and back to bed. I’ll see you later on at the office. Got it?”

“I think so,” Lucy told him “Is anything wrong, Michael?”

“Plenty. You’ve got maybe ten minutes to get that letter and get out of there. Good luck.”

Shayne hung up, sweat streaming down his trenched cheeks. He long-legged it to the door, grabbed his hat from a hook near by, went out and down the corridor to a side stairway leading to an exit that didn’t take him through the hotel lobby.

Chapter four

Lucy Hamilton held the receiver to her ear and broke the connection with her finger, then dialed from memory the number of a taxicab company that she had called many times before. She gave her address and asked for a cab to come at once.

She stripped off her nightgown on the way to her bedroom, tossed it on the bed, hurried into the bathroom where she splashed water over her face, patting it dry as she went to the clothes closet.

A light suit, Michael had said. She found a creamy-beige pongee. Hastily she donned panties, bra, and a slip, then, the suit. Stockings and pumps took another minute. Frantically searching through a drawer for a scarf, she found one of canary-yellow with small black figures. She tied it around her neck, fluffed the ends out, ran a comb through her brown curls, took three one-dollar bills from her purse, and tucked them into her coat pocket. She grabbed a compact and lipstick and raced from the apartment.

It had taken less than five minutes, she thought breathlessly, as she descended the stairs. Another three to reach the Commodore, and she would have two minutes left of the ten Shayne had allotted her for the assignment.

A taxi swerved to the curb. Lucy got in and said, “The Commodore Hotel. And please hurry.”

The cab pulled away with a jerk that sent Lucy back against the seat. Pulling herself erect she opened the compact and leaned forward to apply lipstick and a dusting of powder in the faint glow of light from the meter box.

There was no time to ask herself questions, or to wonder why she had been aroused at this hour to attempt illegal entry to some woman’s room in search of a letter signed by her employer.

To say that this was merely routine, that she was accustomed to such assignments, and accepted them in her stride without question, would be an exaggeration. But several years’ service as secretary to the redheaded detective had taught her something about the nuances in his voice, and his curt orders tonight left her in no doubt as to the urgency of this task.

There would be time for questions later. Right now, Lucy concentrated on getting her face fixed and on achieving enough poise to enter the lobby of a strange hotel and convince the night clerk she was a guest named Mrs. Carrol, who had mislaid the key to her room and, also, foolishly forgotten the number.

The taxi swerved onto Biscayne Boulevard, and pulled up in front of the hotel entrance, with brakes squealing. The meter showed thirty cents. Lucy pressed a dollar bill into the driver’s hand, left the taxi without waiting for change, hurried to the revolving door, and swung through into the empty lobby. She slowed her steps and walked sedately to the desk.

A thin young man tried to hide the end of a prodigious yawn, when he saw her coming. Lucy used her nicest smile when she reached the desk, and tried to look wistful and worried and hopeful at the same time. “I seem to have mislaid my key, or forgot to take it with me. Did I, by any chance, leave it at the desk? I just can’t remember.”

He said, “I’ll see, madam. What number?”