He paused on the curb, a tall and deceptively rangy figure, lighting a cigarette with casual deliberation while his gaze searched the palm-shadowed sidewalk across the street. There were small, private residences there, east of the Boswick Arms on the corner, built close to the sidewalk with narrow driveways separating them.

As he exhaled smoke and spun the dead match into the street, Shayne caught a flicker of movement against a rose trellis in the driveway west of the opposite house. It was no more than that, and as he crossed the street with deliberate strides he was able to discern only the shadowy outline of a figure pressed close to the rose bush.

He reached the sidewalk and turned right, his heels striking solidly on the concrete until he was directly opposite the man lurking in the driveway not more than ten feet away. Then he swung into the driveway with a swift lunge that covered the distance in two strides and smashed into a bulky body that had no opportunity to retreat or to get set for the impact.

The man staggered back and would have gone down if Shayne’s left hand hadn’t grabbed the front of his coat and jerked him back. In the moonlight away from the shadow of the house, Shayne recognized the sullen, deeply tanned features of Cunningham, and he shook him angrily, with right fist doubled and drawn back, while he grated, “What kind of tricks are you playing?”

Cunningham’s body was solid and heavy. He braced himself and clubbed Shayne’s left hand away with his forearm while he twisted back, grunting, “You don’t have to jump a guy like that. What the hell’s eating on you?”