Timothy Rourke’s tall lean body was bent forward from the waist when he loped into the city room of the Courier. His shock of black hair, showing traces of silver, was disheveled from much finger-combing. His dark eyes were narrowed and his thin nostrils flared like a bloodhound’s hot on a scent.

Striding purposefully toward his typewriter, he shed his light coat and began rolling up his shirtsleeves. He sailed his soiled Panama hat over the heads of two fellow workmen and it landed on his desk.

Minerva Higgins, prim and fortyish, a fixture in the Courier office for more than 20 years, glanced up and met Rourke’s eyes. She motioned for him to stop and said in a low voice, “Are you still prying into that mess on the Beach, Mr. Rourke?” Her pale eyes studied his face earnestly through bifocals. “Mr. Bronson wants you to lay off.”

“With three murders committed during the past week? To hell with Bronson.” Timothy Rourke swung around angrily.

Minerva caught his arm. “Don’t forget Bronson’s the boss. He thinks you’re riding Painter too hard-and unjustly.”

“This is one time, by God, when I wish Mike Shayne had never left Miami. Trouble with Painter is, he hasn’t been ridden hard for too long.”

Rourke went on to his desk, dropped his coat over the back of his chair, and slid into it. He rolled a sheet of paper into his typewriter and pulled a protective rubber finger tip over the index finger of his right hand. Lowering his gaze to the keys, he began punching them with the single finger, hitting each key methodically and hard, and with a steady speed not much less than that of an experienced touch typist. He wrote, Three men have been murdered in Miami Beach during the last week. The murders have not been solved. No arrests have been made. No arrests are anticipated by those who follow the record of the Miami Beach detective bureau under the leadership (sic) of Chief Peter Painter.