Murder Takes No Holiday

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Michael Shayne lifted a quizzical eyebrow at Lucy Hamilton, his pert, brown-haired secretary. They were in the crowded Calypso bar at Miami’s International Airport. Lucy was seeing him off on a three-week vacation, and she had worn a new dress for the occasion, with a tight waist and a flaring skirt. From the glances she was getting, Shayne could see that he wasn’t alone in thinking that she was the best-looking woman in the place.

“Finish your drink, angel,” he said, “or that damn plane is going off without me.”

Lifting her glass, she smiled at him across the little table. “Don’t pretend you’d consider that such a tragedy.”

“Well, this wasn’t my idea, God knows,” Shayne said.

“Good heavens, Michael! A person would think you’d been sentenced to a term on the chain gang. You’re going off for three leisurely weeks on a romantic Caribbean island, with nothing to do but fish and swim and lie on the sand. Anybody but a stubborn mule named Michael Shayne would be looking forward to it.”

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