Shayne said, “I’m tied up for a time, Mr. Peralta. In a couple of hours?” He glanced at his wrist watch. “Say four-thirty.”

“If you can’t possibly make it sooner. This is an extremely important matter that won’t brook delay.”

Shayne said, “Four-thirty it is. You’re on the Beach, aren’t you?”

“I am.” His caller gave him an address on Alton Road. “I’ll expect you here no later than four-thirty, Shayne.”

“I’ll be there,” Shayne promised. “With bells on,” he ended sotto voce as he replaced the receiver. He straightened and stood for a moment, tugging at his left ear-lobe and looking across the empty office with ragged, red brows arched a trifle.

The questioning expression faded to a slow grin as Lucy’s voice came indignantly from the outer office:

“After all the times you’ve told me, Michael Shayne, that a client must state his business before you’ll see him! I was just building you up as an important guy, darn it, when you spoil it all by saying, meekly, ‘Yes, Mr. Peralta. Whatever you say, Mr. Peralta.’ Who the devil is Mr. Julio Peralta anyhow?”

Shayne’s grin widened as he went back to the open door and leaned against it. “You should read the papers, Lucy. Particularly the crime news.”

“I do read the papers,” she defended herself. “I don’t remember anything…”

“About three weeks ago,” Shayne cut in. “There was a jewel robbery on the Beach.”

“Oh.” Lucy Hamilton put her doubled fist against her mouth and looked contrite. “Something about a fabulous emerald bracelet-and the story was garnished with striptease pictures of a distraught female. You would remember that case.”

“Just a couple of intimate snapshots of Mrs. Julio Peralta in her boudoir that morning after, pointing out exactly where she had tossed the bauble the preceding night.”