I Come to Kill You

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St. Albans is a small, lovely island with some of the finest sand beaches and most voracious sand fleas in the Caribbean, an airstrip, a picturesque though decrepit fishing village, a booming casino.

Michael Shayne, the big, red-headed private detective, arrived on St. Albans one night in mid-February, his only luggage a dispatch case with a broken handle. He had been drinking heavily for days, and showed it.

Disembarking from the plane, he did something that would have puzzled his friends in Miami, who knew his ability to keep his quickness and coordination even after consuming improbable amounts of brandy. His shoelaces were untied. He tripped on the top step of the ramp and lurched forward against another passenger. The corner of Shayne’s dispatch case hit the man in the small of the back, slipped from Shayne’s grasp, and broke open. Shayne sawed at the air, and probably would have gone all the way down, knocking over people like dominoes, if the girl he was traveling with hadn’t grabbed his arm and pulled him into balance.

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