In haste,

Sara Morton

The signature was in blue ink and scarcely distinguishable from the printed name. Shayne read the note through twice, rumpling his coarse red hair angrily and swearing at a woman who would calmly sit down at six-thirty to type an enigmatic note that indicated she expected a threat of murder to be carried out and giving no hint as to whom she suspected.

And one-half of a retainer.

What the devil did she mean by that? To pique his interest? Her secretary probably had the other half, with instructions to turn it over to him if she were murdered and he caught the murderer.

He put the letter down and looked up the number of the Tidehaven, dialed it, and when a feminine voice answered he said, “Miss Morton, please,” and waited. He listened to the steady rings, his gray eyes bleak as he counted-one, two, three, four, five, each one sounding flatter, more hollow, stopping abruptly on the fifth.

The hotel operator said, “Sorry. Fourteen twenty-two does not answer. Shall I connect you with fourteen-oh-eight?”

“Why?”

“Miss Morton’s secretary is in fourteen-oh-eight.”

Shayne said, “Try it.” He slid the telephone to the edge of the desk nearest a green filing-cabinet, stretched the cord its full length, and his long arm barely reached the handle of the top compartment. He eased it out with the tips of his fingers, got hold of the neck of a half-empty fifth of Monnet, and lifted it out just as the ringing at the other end stopped and the operator said:

“Sorry. Fourteen-oh-eight does not answer.”

“Have Miss Morton paged.” He moved back to the desk, eased one hip down on a corner, and laid the receiver on its side long enough to uncork the bottle. He picked it up and took a long drink while he waited.