Murder Is My Business

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On a late fall day in 1944 Michael Shayne was slouched in his swivel chair half asleep when his secretary quietly opened the door to his private office and stepped inside. A felt hat was tipped forward, the brim shading his eyes, and his big feet rested comfortably on his scarred oak desk.

Lucy Hamilton closed the door firmly and advanced toward him. Shayne roused, cocked a shaggy red eyebrow upward, and muttered, “Go away.”

Lucy was slim and straight and supple. She had clear brown eyes and a sweetly rounded face with a firm chin. She said, “No wonder you don’t get ahead in this competitive world. There’s a client outside.”

Shayne yawned and stretched his long arms, then opened both eyes. “I was dreaming,” he said accusingly. “A damned nice dream. And then I saw you standing there. Is the door locked?” He swung his feet down purposefully and started to get up.

Lucy backed away from him. She said, “I never lock the door when I come in here,” with crisp dignity. “Shall I send the lady in?”

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