It took him five minutes to get his car out of the apartment hotel’s garage, and another five to drive east to Biscayne Boulevard and north to the side street where Lucy’s apartment was located between the boulevard and the western shore of Biscayne Bay.

The side street was empty in front of the Boswick Arms, a modern eight-story apartment building that had been completed just two years before, and he parked in front of the canopied entrance and went in.

There was a small, well-lighted foyer with a desk and a switchboard behind it, a gray-haired woman facing the switchboard who did not turn around as Shayne strode past her to a pair of self-service elevators. One of the cages was waiting, and Shayne got in and pressed the button for 4. It rose smoothly and he stepped out into a well-carpeted and well-lit hallway leading in both directions with arrows painted on the wall in front of him indicating the direction for different numbers. A quiet, discreet and well-managed building, he thought to himself as he walked down the hall looking for 414. The impression was strengthened when his brown-haired secretary opened the door to his knock. There was a large, square, tastefully decorated sitting room with serviceable gray carpeting from wall to wall, an overstuffed sofa with comfortable matching chairs; an impersonal sort of room, yet with an air of quiet dignity that was friendly and welcoming.

Lucy wore the same tan blouse and dark skirt that she had worn to the office that day, but her brown curls were tousled and her face was washed clean of make-up. She put an impulsive hand out to Shayne’s forearm and said warmly, “Thanks for coming right over, Michael,” and turned toward a dumpy, middle-aged woman standing behind her. “Mrs. Groat, Michael Shayne. She knows I work for you, Michael, and when she began to be worried about her husband half an hour ago, she telephoned me to ask what I thought she should do.”