Clouds were banked against the southern sky and a fresh southeasterly wind whipped at his hair. He got into his car and tossed his hat aside, rolled down the windows. Still thinking of the young redhead and wondering whether he was developing a belated social conscience, he muttered “Damn” and swung around to Biscayne Boulevard and south past Bayfront Park. There he turned to the right, then to the left, and parked in front of an apartment hotel on the bank of the Miami River.

Passing through the lobby he nodded curtly to the clerk, then went up three flights in the elevator. Down the hall he stopped before the door of a pleasant corner apartment, opened it, and stopped short just inside the room and whistled in shrill surprise.

A slim, black-haired girl was on her knees struggling with the straps of a Gladstone bag which was packed too full. Two handsome pieces of luggage stood conspicuously on the floor beside her.

Phyllis Shayne looked up from her task and said, “It’s high time you came home. Here I have to do all your office work and the packing for the family and you’re not even interested enough in your business to let me know where I can reach you.”

Shayne said mildly, “Packing, angel?” flinging off his hat and rumpling his coarse red hair. He reached her in six long strides. “Where are we going?”

“To Cocopalm.” Phyllis settled back on her trim high heels and let her husband strap the Gladstone. “If I wasn’t around to take messages you’d never get a case,” she said severely and with a twinkle of pride.

Shayne queried, “Cocopalm?” narrowing his gray eyes at her.