Phyllis Shayne had installed a typewriter desk and a steel filing cabinet in the apartment that had been her husband’s bachelor quarters before they were married. Otherwise, the apartment remained the same as it had been when Michael Shayne lived there alone-with well-stocked liquor cabinet, comfortable chairs, and a day bed.

In the six months since Pearl Harbor there hadn’t been anything for Phyllis to write on the typewriter and the files were practically empty, but they did add a businesslike touch to the apartment; and Phyllis made it decorative with her warm smile of greeting, which was the first thing one saw when entering.

Michael Shayne always came to an abrupt stop and looked his young wife over approvingly when he came in, then solicitously inquired whether any new business had popped up during his absence.

For weeks he had been receiving a negative shake of his wife’s dark head, but this afternoon she glanced at a memorandum pad on her clean desk and said briskly:

“A phone call for Mike Shayne about twenty minutes ago. Very mysterious-I might even say sinister. A throaty whisper over the wire, quote: ‘Tell Mike it’s Jim Lacy. I’ve got to see him right away,’ unquote; and darned if he didn’t hang up before I could ask him any questions or tell him you mightn’t be in for hours and hours.”

Phyllis Shayne paused, her eyes bright with expectancy lifted to her husband’s gauntly expressionless face. “I might be mistaken, Mike. You’ve always warned me about letting my imagination run riot, but I think he was interrupted before he could finish. You know, I had the impression he intended to go on talking but someone or something stopped him.”

Shayne nodded, taking off his hat and rumpling coarse red hair with bony fingers. “Jim Lacy? I don’t-Yes, I do. I wonder if it could be-Hell, it has to be because that’s the only Jim Lacy I’ve ever known.” He tossed his hat toward a wall rack near the door and advanced upon his wife.