Shayne looked at his watch. Though it was not yet noon it was late to start out, except that it wasn’t entirely the sport that he went for. Just to be on the untroubled water was enough. He had been going out on Sylvester’s boat for years off and on, and though months would go by sometimes, when he went down again it was the same. Sylvester’s wide Cuban grin made him welcome and they picked up where they had left off. The little, round, uncalculating man with the shining black eyes was as refreshing as the salt spray. Childlike and honest, he had a loyalty to Shayne and a liking as deep as the ocean on which he made his living. His fisherman’s hands were calloused, but his soul was not.

Shayne made his decision and reached for the phone, then stopped midway. There was no use calling. If Sylvester’s boat had been chartered today it would be out already, and if it hadn’t the little Cuban would be only too glad to take it out at any hour for his old friend.

Through the open door Shayne could see the back of Lucy’s head. “I’m going fishing, angel,” he said lazily.

She stopped typing and swung her chair around. “It’s pretty hot for a nighthawk. Sure you won’t get sunstroke?”

“I never got it from you-not quite.”

“I’m nothing like the sun.” She smiled across at him.

“You are, exactly-when you smile.”

Shayne finished the cognac, got up and reached for his hat on top of a filing cabinet. In the act of putting it on, however, he saw the knob to the outside door turn, so instead of leaving he shut the door between the outside office and his own, walked to the cooler and filled a glass with water and drank it. Then he returned to his desk, took a half-empty bottle of Hennessy from the bottom drawer and poured three more fingers of cognac.