“You keep your goddamned big nose out of the Peralta job, Shamus.”

“Why?” asked Shayne, innocently. “Don’t you think you could use a little help after three weeks’ horsing around with it?”

“You try to horn in on that case, Shayne, and, so help me God, it’s the last one you’ll ever louse up. If I hear the slightest rumor of a pay-off on that case, you’ll lose your license and end up in a cell.” There was a decisive click as the detective chief hung up.

Shayne replaced his phone thoughtfully and got up to stroll to one of the windows overlooking Flagler Street. This could only mean that Painter felt he was on the verge of solving the case by an arrest. His savage insistence that Shayne stay clear of it hadn’t been feigned. Yet, in the past the Beach chief had not been averse to turning his head the other way while discreet arrangements were being made with an insurance company to recover stolen articles for a fraction of their insured value. Not that Shayne had any particular reason to think such an arrangement might be possible in this case. That had been Painter’s idea entirely.

Shayne shrugged and turned away from the window, glancing at his watch. He went to the outer hall and took down his hat, told Lucy Hamilton, “Close up whenever you like, angel. I don’t think I’ll be back this afternoon.” He pulled the hat low on his bristly, red hair and went out with a wave of his big hand.

Timothy Rourke was lolled back in an aged swivel chair with his feet cocked up on a battered desk when Shayne entered the Miami News City Room a short time later. The reporter’s eyes were placidly closed and his partially open mouth emitted a rhythmic snoring sound despite the loud clatter of teletypes and the rattle of typewriters filling the room.

Shayne crossed to Rourke’s corner with a grin, nodding greetings to other reporters who hailed him, pulled up a straight chair in front of the attenuated, sleeping figure and sat down. He lit a cigarette and said quietly, “Tell me about the Peralta thing, Tim.”