Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 7, No. 5, October 1960

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The murder trail was dotted with gravestone-shaped road markings. So Mike took each turn with the dynamic Shayne ruggedness at emergency alert.

It was one of those beautiful, balmy, autumnal days in Miami when the tempo of life in the Magic City slackens perceptibly; a time for relaxation between the brutally humid days of summer and the frenzied activity of a new winter season when hordes of fun-and-sun-seekers from the north would descend upon the area.

In his office above Flagler Street, with both windows wide open to bring in the sound of sluggish traffic borne on the wings of a somnolent breeze from Biscayne Bay, Michael Shayne was relaxed in a swivel chair with his feet resting on a bare, scarred desk. He wore a short-sleeved sport shirt open at the throat, his red hair was comfortably rumpled, he sucked lazily on a cigarette and was at peace with the world.

The cigarette was one inch in length when a familiar voice impinged from the outer office. It belonged to Timothy Rourke, and it was offensively cheery: “Hi, Lucy my love. Is the great man in? Busy?”

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