A girl paused hesitantly just inside the threshold. She appeared quite young, with lustrous, smoothly waved hair that gave off an illusive sheen like the patina of old and well-rubbed silver. She wore a dress of dove-gray silk, and looked cool and poised. She had a slender, well-put-together body and nice legs.

Shayne set his glass down and went to meet her. She peeled off a white lace glove and smiled, but her blue eyes were frightened.

Shayne engulfed her hand in his and drew her into the room, shutting the door. “You wanted to see me?”

“It’s-are you really the detective-Michael Shayne?” Her lips parted breathlessly, her eyes were wide with doubt.

Shayne ruffled his red hair and grinned his nicest grin. “Disappointed?”

“N-No. Only-” She shrugged well-fleshed shoulders and pivoted away from him, looking around the living-room with interest. “This isn’t at all what I imagined a detective’s office would be like.” She moved to an open window, casually glancing inside the bedroom through the open door.

“My wife is out,” Shayne told her equably. “We’re alone here if that’s what’s on your mind.”

She turned slowly, pressing the heels of her palms against the window sill behind her. Her hair glistened with a yellowish tinge in the tropical sunlight. She narrowed her eyes at Shayne, then parted generous lips in a slow smile. “I didn’t know you were married.”

“That,” said Shayne, “is the reason I hastened to mention it.” He went to the table and lifted his glass. “Can I get you a drink?”

“No, thank you.” The smile went away from the girl’s lips. She said jerkily, “My name is-Helen Brinstead.”