With his tie off and collar loosened, Michael Shayne had just settled himself with what he expected to be the final drink of the evening when his telephone rang.

He hesitated before answering it, tightening big-knuckled fingers about the glass of cognac and lifting it deliberately to take a long swallow, rumpling his coarse red hair irritably before lifting the instrument with his left hand and growling a hello into it.

Lucy Hamilton’s voice came over the wire, eager and lilting as always, yet sounding a trifle strained as she asked, “Michael? Are you still up?”

“Just. As soon as I finish this drink…”

His secretary didn’t let him finish the sentence. “Finish it fast, Michael, and come over here. I’m across the street from my place. The Boswick Arms on the corner.”

Shayne took another long swallow of cognac and set the glass down, reaching for a tumbler of ice water beside it. “What’s up, angel?”

“It’s Mrs. Groat in number four-fourteen at the Boswick Arms. I know her slightly, Michael, and she’s terribly worried about her husband being missing. I think you should come and talk to her.”

Shayne said, “Groat?” with a frown. “Do I know him? The name sounds familiar.”

“You must have read about him in the paper, Michael. Please come over at once.”

There was no denying the urgency in Lucy’s voice. Shayne sighed and said, “Fifteen minutes.” He replaced the telephone and scowled at it, absently tugging on his left ear lobe while he tried to recall what he might have read about a Mr. Groat in the newspaper. The name seemed tantalizingly familiar, but that was all. He shrugged and tossed off the rest of the cognac, chased it with ice water and got up, buttoning his collar and going into the bedroom to pick up the discarded tie he had tossed on the back of a chair a few minutes previously.