Bodies Are Where You Find Them

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MICHAEL SHAYNE BREATHED a low-toned “Shayne talking” into the telephone. He snuggled the receiver closer to his ear and listened without further comment. A scowl creased his forehead. His angular features became tight and hard. His gray eyes gazed anxiously through the open bedroom door, and the scowl maneuvered itself into a grin when he saw Phyllis watching him.

Placing his mouth close to the instrument he interrupted the flow of words coming over the wires. “Hold it. I’ll go down to my office and get the rest. Tell the operator to switch you downstairs.” He wiped beads of sweat from his corrugated brow as he gently cradled the telephone, then hesitated for the briefest instant before turning on his heel and striding through the bedroom door.

Phyllis Shayne stood in the midst of an array of packed luggage in the living-room. Her own dressing-case and hatbox were closed, but Shayne’s Gladstones gaped open, waiting for the force of his weight to close them.

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