“What case?”

“Don’t try to kid me. The one you’re working on.”

“I’m not working.”

She slitted her eyes and screwed up her face in disbelief. “Don’t hand me that line. I know what you think. You think I’m drunk enough so’s you can get it out of me without paying for it. That’s where you’re wrong, mister. I’m drunk all right, but not that drunk. Not by a damn sight. I know what you’re working on, and I know what my dope is worth to you. A grand, that’s what. A pure grand. And you’re going to lay it on the line before I give.”

“What case am I working on?” Shayne tried again.

“You know damn well Albert Payson called you in today. Why, it was in the paper. The Cocopalm Voice had the story spread all over the front page. Try to deny that.”

“I’m not denying anything,” Shayne said gently. He frowned at the dead cigarette butt between his fingers, tossed it toward a smoking stand in the corner. His right thumb and forefinger massaged the lobe of his left ear while he asked carefully:

“Suppose I am working on a case in Cocopalm? Why should I pay you for information concerning it?”

“Because it’s the only way in God’s world you’ll ever get the straight of it,” she assured him promptly.

“But-who pays me?” Shayne spread out his big hands. “A grand is a lot of money.”

“It’s not so much. Not half what it’s worth. Why, they’re bumping the track for three times that much every night. And they say you always manage to make your fee out of a case.”

Shayne shrugged his broad shoulders and stood up. “You might as well be talking Greek so far as I’m concerned. If you’ve got anything that’s worth money, tell me what it is and I’ll see you get what it’s worth. Otherwise, I’m not interested.”