Pay-Off in Blood

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Michael Shayne was sweaty, irritable, and dog-tired when he let himself into his hotel apartment at eight o’clock that evening. It had been a long, frustrating day, and the preceding night had been a long night. He tossed his Panama on a rack near the door as he closed it firmly, and rubbed his hand over a stubble of red beard, letting his broad shoulders slump while he headed for the small kitchen at the rear.

He opened the refrigerator and checked first to be certain there was a cellophane-wrapped package of ground chuck on the top shelf, then took out a tray of ice cubes and carried it to the sink. He had run warm water over the tray and dropped two of them into a tall glass when the telephone rang in his living room.

He filled the tall glass with cold water and carried it in to the square table in the center of the living room and set it down beside the telephone which kept on ringing.

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