Shayne lifted his glass in acknowledgment. “Miss Brinstead.” He sipped from the glass, his eyes holding hers over the rim. “You said a man named Jim Lacy had sent you.”

She lowered long eyelashes, giving her face a demure look of youth and inexperience. “Yes.”

Deliberately, Shayne said, “I knew a Jim Lacy once. Ten years ago. From what I knew of him then, I wouldn’t expect a girl like you to be acquainted with him.”

She kept her eyelashes down. In a low voice, she said, “It must be the same man.”

“He used to be a private detective, too.”

“He still is.”

“Then why come to me? If you need the services of a detective.”

“Mr. Lacy advised me to. He explained that he had a New York license and had no authority in Florida.”

“Is Jim Lacy here-in Miami?”

“Yes. I just happened to meet him today. I–I knew him casually in New York.” Helen Brinstead lifted her long eyelashes. She took a step toward him, wringing her hands. “I’m so alone here, Mr. Shayne. So frightened. You must listen to me-help me. You must! There’s no one else.”

Shayne nodded. “Sure, I’ll listen to you. That’s my job. Relax.” He took her arm and steered her to a chair a couple of feet in front of him.

She crossed her legs and leaned forward imploringly. “It’s going to sound too utterly fantastic, but I beg you to reserve a decision until you hear me out. That’s all I ask. I’ve kept it bottled up inside of me too long. I can’t go on. It’s too utterly horrible to face alone.” She stared past him, panting through compressed lips.

Shayne offered her a cigarette. She shook her head and he lit one for himself. “You make it sound very interesting, Miss Brinstead. I like a case that offers possibilities beyond the dull routine of crimes motivated by lust and greed.”

Her eyes were a darker blue when she shifted her gaze back to him. She looked older, and her words sounded rehearsed.