Three memos, separated by penciled lines on a large pad, lay on his brand new oak desk beside a special-delivery letter in a square white envelope. He read the memos first:

9:30 a.m. Call Miss Sarah Morton at the Tidehaven hotel at once. Urgent.

1:40 p.m. Miss Morton called.

4:52 p.m. Get in touch with Sarah Morton no matter what time of night you get message-but try to sober up first.

At the bottom of the page she signed Lucy Hamilton in her precise handwriting, and added, I waited till eight.

Shayne grinned at the full signature and the last personal lines, all reprimands for his unexplained absence, then picked up the letter.

The envelope was of rich, heavy paper, addressed by typewriter and with no return address. It was stamped at the main post office at 7:42 p.m.

Opening it carefully at the pointed flap, he took out a single sheet of heavy note paper folded once. Several enclosures fluttered to the floor, three small squares of white paper all about the same size and evidently clipped from a large sheet, and a smooth bit of green paper somewhat smaller in size. Two of the white squares appeared blank. The third fell face up and showed words in uneven print, cut from a slick magazine and pasted on to form a message: TWO MORE DAYS.

Shayne stooped and picked up the green enclosure first. It was half of a five-hundred-dollar bill, ripped across the middle. Perplexed and frowning, he gathered up the other two white squares and turned them over. He read: YOU HAVE THREE DAYS TO GET OUT OF MIAMI ALIVE, and: ONE DAY LEFT

He laid them on the desk and unfolded the note. There was a printed facsimile of Sara Morton’s signature in blue, but no address, and the note was undated. He read:

Dear Mr. Shayne:

It is now six-thirty and I have given up hope that you will contact me before it is too late. I enclose the notes which my secretary will explain to you, and one-half of a retainer which I trust you will earn by bringing my murderer to justice,