After a few blocks he passed out of the business district and drove through the old residential section of once imposing homes, now made over into furnished rooms and housekeeping apartments.

Beyond, there were newer stucco apartment houses lining both sides of the avenue. He parked in front of one with a rosebush struggling for sufficient sustenance from the sand and coral rock to trail over the trellis arching the entrance. A small sign in the center of the lush green lawn read No Vacancies.

Two girls sitting in uncurtained upstairs windows leaned out to watch Shayne go up the walk. He strode into a cool entrance hall with a row of mailboxes on the left. A large lounging-room on the right was unoccupied. Most of the mailboxes had girls’ names on them, but No. 14 had no slip in the slot.

A tall, pleasant-faced woman came out of the lounge room as Shayne turned away from the boxes. She had gray hair curled softly back from her face and she wore a sheer white dress. She smiled and asked, “Looking for someone?”

Shayne said, “There’s no name on Number Fourteen.”

“That’s a new girl-Mayme Martin. She moved in today. I believe she’s in if you wish to see her.”

“I’ll go up.” He went past the tall woman to a stairway and climbed to the second floor-No. 14 was in the rear. He knocked, and the door was opened immediately.

Bougainvillaea trellised the windows on the west and coco-palm fronds pressed close, dimming the interior of the apartment. A woman swayed before Shayne in the doorway, clutching the knob with white, convulsive fists. Her breath reeked of gin and her face was not pretty. Fear and drunkenness distorted her pale eyes and her skin was pasty-white without make-up. She wore stockings, but no shoes.

The woman waggled her head foolishly and clung to the doorknob as she stared up at Shayne. “You’ve got the wrong door, mister. I didn’t know this place was a joint when I checked in today. Try any of the other doors down the hall and you won’t get turned away.”