Mayme shook her blondined head stubbornly. She backed away from him and sat down. “Not till the money’s on the line. I’m not saying a word. I know it couldn’t be him. He wouldn’t look for me here. Not him.” Her shrill laughter pierced the shadowy corners of the room.

Shayne turned away in disgust. “Next thing you’ll be seeing pink lizards wearing top hats. Call me when you’re sober.”

“You’re not the only string to my bow. Don’t think you are. I got another little trick up my sleeve if you’re going to be that way.” She giggled drunkenly. “This case has got angles you’ll never find out about except from me.”

Shayne said, “Shake the trick out of your sleeve.”

She nodded absently. “All right. I’ll do just that.” She staggered to her feet and went past him to the telephone.

Shayne lit a cigarette while she flipped the pages, straining her eyes to read the small print. He waited with an expression of curiosity mingled with annoyance to see what she would do next.

Presently she nodded and lifted the receiver in an unsteady hand. She dialed a number and waited, not looking at Shayne, conscious of his presence but aggressively ignoring him.

She spoke into the mouthpiece with a false note of brightness, “This is Mayme Martin calling. Uh-huh. From Cocopalm. But I’m in Miami now. Is this Mr. Max Samuelson?”

Shayne stiffened and pivoted toward her slowly. His lean face was a study in anger, but he made no move to interrupt the conversation.

“I thought you’d remember me,” Mayme Martin was saying. “I met you in Cocopalm last month. Sure, that’s right. When you were up to see Ben Edwards about his invention. It’s finished now. They say it works perfectly. Naw. The nut still don’t want a patent.”

She paused, and then her voice took on a fierce note of determination: “Now, you listen to me.