Shayne’s big feet, still propped on the desk, were in Henny’s line of vision. The hoodlum stood up, his hand digging into the side coat pocket of his blue pin-striped suit, and lifted out the last thing Shayne would have expected-a doll.

Reaching across Shayne’s long legs, he placed the doll in the middle of the desk. It was about four inches tall, made of hopsacking with black yarn hair and the semblance of eyes, nose and mouth stitched on in the same black yarn. It was stabbed through the chest with a black-headed pin.

“Voodoo doll,” Shayne said idly. “What public spirited citizen sent you this, Henny?”

“That’s what I want you to find out, Mr. Shayne.”

The redhead took a sip of brandy, unwound his legs slowly and swung them to the floor. He put the glass down, reached out with one long, knobby finger and pushed the pin deeper into the doll.

Henlein’s quick intake of breath made a small rasping noise. “Don’t do that!”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s ’sposed to be me, see? Somebody wants to kill me.” Henlein disgorged the words as if the thought were beyond belief, but the sweat on his face and his terrified eyes showed that he believed it nevertheless.

Shayne said dryly, “I can’t imagine why anybody would want you harmed, Henny.”

“Neither can I. But you gotta find out who does.”

The redhead shrugged. “As long as the curse is already on you, I guess I can’t help.”

“You can find out who sent it,” Henlein exploded. “You’re a detective, serving the public. I’m part of the public. I got money to pay.”

“I couldn’t be less interested in what happens to your kind,” Shayne said coldly and turned back to the window.

“Whadda ya mean, my kind?” The hoodlum bristled. “I’m human, ain’t I? If someone kills me he’s got to take the rap the same’s if he killed you-or-ah-the President of the United States.” It was deep thinking for Henny Henlein and his acned forehead wrinkled with the effort.