Rourke said, “It’s all right-I can make it to my room-I think,” and shook the manager’s hand from his arm. He started doggedly toward the stairway at the back of the lobby leading to the second floor.

Mr. Henty said, “There’s a-ah-I think I should tell you, Mr. Rourke. There’s a young lady waiting in your apartment.”

Rourke stopped with his right hand on the newel post. He turned bloodshot eyes on Mr. Henty and muttered, “Which one?”

“She’s one I haven’t seen before, Mr. Rourke.” Mr. Henty tried to leer evilly, but it turned out a smirk. He made a soft smacking sound with his thin lips. “Very nice, I must say.”

“I’m in a hell of a shape to entertain visitors,” Rourke grunted. He made his way painfully back to the small office and said, “I’ve got to send a telegram right away. I’d better send it from here if I have a visitor in my room.”

“Certainly. I’ll get an operator for you, Mr. Rourke. You’d better sit down here.” He moved a chair convenient to the desk telephone and went to the switchboard.

When the operator answered, Rourke said, “I want to send a telegram to Mike Shayne in New Orleans,” He gave the address and continued: Crime popping Miami Beach. Three murders. Can you take over. Urgent.

“Sign that Tim Rourke,” he ended, hung up, and pulled himself slowly to his feet. He gripped the banister for support when he climbed the stairs and stopped to steady himself outside his apartment door.

He tried the knob and found it was locked. He started to knock, then took out a key ring, and unlocked the door. It opened soundlessly and he stood for a moment blinking stupidly at the disordered living-room. He wasn’t a very neat housekeeper, but he was quite certain he hadn’t left his apartment in such condition that morning.

A typewriter desk with his portable was in the right-hand corner. Papers on the desk were disarranged, the drawers pulled out, and there were more papers scattered on the floor. A magazine stand beyond the desk had been ransacked.