Michael Shayne stepped from the deep-sea fishing boat onto the wharf and walked toward his parked car with a rolling motion of his rangy body. Since early morning he had ridden the ocean swells under a clear sky, and now his face tingled with the cool night breeze on sunburned skin, and his eyes were drowsy from strain and the glare of bright sunlight on the water. He felt stretchy and yawny, luxuriously relaxed after a day of good-fellowship combined with moderate amounts of aged liquor, and a fair day’s catch.

He was humming lazily when he reached the car. Getting in, he drove toward his apartment. He anticipated stripping off the damp, salt-sticky polo shirt and faded dungarees, taking a warm shower, and perhaps reading in bed a couple of hours before gratifying the urge of mind and body with a good night’s sleep.

He stopped humming abruptly, remembering that Lucy knew nothing of his fishing trip and was probably worried. He had forgotten, momentarily, that in order to persuade her to resume her job as his secretary he had rented office space in a six-story building downtown after more than fifteen years of doing business in his apartment.

He scowled at the misty windshield, jerked the steering-wheel around just in time to swing left at an intersection, and drove to his office. Conscientious and efficient, Lucy might be waiting even at this late hour if there was an urgent call from a client.

It was eight-thirty when he stood before the door with Michael Shayne-Private Investigator lettered in gold on the frosted glass. There was no light inside, but he unlocked the door and went in, switched on the overhead light, and since there was no message on Lucy’s desk, he went on to another door marked Private.