Shayne said, “I’m looking for Mayme Martin.”

Her lower jaw sagged open and the tip of her tongue pressed hard against her lower teeth. She threw her head back and squinted farsightedly at Shayne. Terror spread over her face, then went away swiftly as relief came to her eyes. “Are you the detective I tried to phone?”

“The name is Shayne-Michael Shayne.” He stepped into the doorway and she let go of the knob, moved aside to let him enter the disordered living-room. An expensive though marred hatbox stood open in the center of the floor. Dresses and slips hung on the chairs, and Shayne pushed a big white straw hat aside to make a place to sit down on the wicker lounge.

Mayme Martin swung the door shut and came toward him with the exaggerated care of one who is drunk and fully aware of it. “Maybe I better fix us a little drink,” she suggested thickly. “I got gin and orange juice in the icebox.”

Shayne shook his head firmly and lit a cigarette. “Not for me, and you don’t need any more right now. What did you want to see me about?”

“I’ll tell you, Mr. Shayne. I’ll tell you right straight out and no beating around the red rosebush. That’s the way I am, see? Anybody knows Mayme Martin’ll tell you that’s the way I am.” She swayed back and stumbled over a shoe on the floor, kicked it aside, and said, “Damn.”

Shayne got up, took her arm, and helped her to a seat. She giggled delightedly, “Pooped-that’s what I am. Pooped to the gills if you want to know. And what if I am? Why shouldn’t I get pooped, Mr. Shayne? Nothing like a little gin, I always say, to relax a girl when she’s all worn out from moving.”

“That’s right.” Shayne sat back on the couch and stretched long legs out in front of him.

“But it takes money to buy gin,” Mayme informed him. “Yes, sir, that’s what it takes. I got a bottle in the kitchen and if you want a drink-” She paused to squint at him hopefully.