Michael Shayne said nothing. A light flared behind his eyes but Thrip did not look up to see it. Shayne waited for him to go on, holding in check his natural inclination to lash out at the nasty-nice hypocrisy of the realtor.

“I need the services of a man who will force an entry to my home, Mr. Shayne. A man who will carry out the assignment in a professional manner and leave unmistakable traces behind him as evidence of his illegal act.”

Shayne didn’t say anything. He was relaxed and attentive, his lean face expressing no emotion beyond a mild interest.

Thrip glanced up at him and gained assurance from Shayne’s attitude. His voice again took on that familiar resonance which Shayne had noted at first:

“I presume you will require no further explanation, Mr. Shayne. The less one knows sometimes the better, eh? Ha-ha. I’m sure we understand each other.”

“We don’t,” Shayne corrected. “You seem to have the wrong impression of the functions of a private detective. In the first place I don’t send men out on assignments without knowing what it’s all about.”

“I fail to see why you need to know any more about it, Mr. Shayne.”

Shayne said, “Then you’re a damn fool, Mr. Thrip.” He got up and half turned to reach for his hat.

The realtor’s mouth gaped open and he snatched for his cigar. “You’re not-you can’t walk out on me,” he sputtered.

“Why not?” Shayne’s lean face was saturnine. “You haven’t any strings on me. You’re wasting my time unless you’re ready to come to the point.”

“Sit down, Mr. Shayne. I was coming to the point, which will interest you.” His lower lip rolled out to form a pinkish gray bulb. “I assure you I am prepared to pay handsomely for your time.”

Shayne turned back and laid his hat on Thrip’s desk. He put his doubled knuckles down on each side of it and leaned forward. In a flat monotone he said: