As Shayne settled back in his chair the wail of a police siren came through the open window behind him. It sank to a moan, then wailed high again, died to silence outside the apartment hotel.

The girl asked, “Is that a fire engine?”

“That, or the cops.” Shayne nodded toward her highball. “Does that taste all right?”

She drank some and said, “It’s wonderful.” She was relaxed now, her left hand lying against the arm of her chair, her head comfortably back against the cushioned headrest. Her legs were uncrossed and stretched out in front of her, and her skirt had again crept above her knees. Shayne smoked idly and waited for her to begin.

“You’re wonderful, too,” she told him suddenly. “I feel utterly tranquil sitting here. As though all my troubles were unimportant. How can you be so gentle and understanding when they say you’re tough and conscienceless?”

Shayne chuckled. “It’s my bedside manner. I lull you into a sense of false security and you find yourself telling me things you wouldn’t tell your priest.”

“That’s just what I’m ready to do now, but I can’t think how to begin.”

“Let’s begin with Jim Lacy. I’m interested because I haven’t been in contact with him for ten years. What is he doing in Miami?”

“I don’t know. I really don’t know Mr. Lacy very well. That is-well, I did once. Some time ago. But we simply met here by accident. When he learned about my trouble he said if there was any man in the world who could help me it would be Mike Shayne.”

“I can’t do anything without a few facts to chew on,” Shayne reminded her.

“I know. It isn’t easy to get started. You see, I’m-not at all what I seem. Actually I’m terribly wicked underneath.”