Mrs. Delray perched herself on the edge of a wooden chair beside Shayne’s desk. The tips of her black, substantial shoes barely touched the floor. “Captain Denton recommended you, Mr. Shayne,” she began at once. “He said I should see a private detective and you were the cheapest one in New Orleans. You see, I haven’t very much money to spend.” She spoke briskly, leaning toward him, her black eyes bright and expectant.

Shayne slid into his chair and folded his arms on the desk. He said, “Captain Denton, eh?” without enthusiasm. “Is he a friend of yours, Mrs. Delray?”

“Oh — no. I don’t know any policemen. I went to his office for help, but it seems that policemen aren’t interested in helping a taxpayer. He said I’d have to hire a private detective and he hustled me right out of his office.”

“Why do you need a detective?” he asked with gentle restraint.

“It’s about my boy, Jimmie. He’s a good boy and he’s not a draft-dodger, Mr. Shayne.” Her voice trembled with eagerness to be believed. She fumbled with the clasp of a large, worn pocketbook and drew out an envelope. She offered it to Shayne, explaining, “This is a letter I got from Jimmie this morning. You can see he’s as patriotic as anybody even if he didn’t ever register for the draft like it seems he should have.”

Shayne took the envelope and pulled out two folded sheets of USO writing paper covered on both sides with penciled words. He settled back and read:

Dear Ma Here I am back in the U.S.A. after five years. A lot of things have happened since I wrote to you a couple of months ago. I haven’t got time to tell you all of them, but it looks like I am going to get a chance to make up for staying out of the War all this time while I was working in Mexico.