A Redhead for Mike Shayne

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It was pitch dark inside the narrow confines of the dispatcher’s office in the big liquor warehouse, but Michael Shayne’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness during the two hours of more-or-less patient waiting that had gone before, and he could make out everything about him with fair clarity.

Not that there was very much to see inside the small office. There was a telephone on the desk beside him, and a water cooler with nested paper cups on the other side of the open door leading out to the big padlocked back doors that opened wide during daylight hours to let the trucks back in on loading ramps. To the right of that same open door was a five-gallon electric coffee maker, and a china mug on the table near Shayne’s right hand held the dregs of the fifth cup of the strong black stuff he had downed since settling down for his lonely vigil at eight-thirty.

It was the first routine stake-out job that the red-headed private detective had undertaken personally for a good many years, and he’d forgotten how tiring and boring such an assignment could be. But the Acme Bonding Company which had the contents of the warehouse covered against theft was one of Shayne’s oldest regular clients, and they had paid him a substantial annual retainer to look after their affairs in the Miami area for more years than he liked to remember. Indeed, back in those years of slim pickings when he was first establishing himself in private practice the Acme retainer had often meant the difference between paying office rent and not paying it, and he owed them enough loyalty to take on this onerous job tonight himself when he was unable to find another competent operative to handle it on short notice.

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