Shayne shrugged. His smile was replaced by a blandly receptive expression. “Whom do you want murdered, Mr. Thrip?”

Thrip shook his head from side to side. A breeze came through the open window behind him and swirled gray cigar ashes into a mound at the edge of the onyx tray. He pointed a forefinger at Shayne and spoke sternly:

“I am a man of few words, Mr. Shayne. I trust you will not waste my time and yours in feeble witticisms. I have a business proposition to put to you confidentially.” He paused, hunched his heavy body forward to pick up the lighted cigar which now held half an inch of gray ash.

Shayne took a cigarette from his shirt pocket and stuck it between his lips. Past the flame of a match he said “Shoot.”

“From Mr. Painter I gathered that you are in contact, on rather intimate terms, with the criminal element in Miami, Mr. Shayne. Mr. Painter, in fact, gave me the impression that the personnel of your detective agency is composed of men whom he characterized as yeggs and hoodlums.”

Shayne didn’t explain that his was a one-man agency. He said with deceptive mildness, “Peter Painter has a flair for going out on a limb with unfounded statements.”

Arnold Thrip did not appear to hear him. He did not look at Shayne. It was apparent that the man was finding it difficult to come to the point. Still staring down his cigar at the desk, there was a trace of plaintive appeal in his voice:

“I’m sure you will understand that this is an unusual situation for me; a difficult situation to say the least. To a man of your type what I have to propose will seem commonplace, I presume, but it does not come so easily to one who for many years has been a leader among right-thinking men.”