The Careless Corpse

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Lucy Hamilton was on the telephone when Michael Shayne returned to his office after lunch. She sat at her desk beyond the low railing with the receiver held to her ear, a little frown of resignation ruffling her forehead as she listened.

She turned her head as Shayne entered, lifted her left shoulder a trifle and said into the mouthpiece: “I’ve explained it will be impossible for me to promise that Mr. Shayne will come to see you unless you give me some idea of your business. He is a very busy man, and…”

She paused, wrinkling her nice nose at the instrument and then at Shayne, who grinned widely as he tossed his hat on a wall-hook and lounged closer to lower one hip onto the railing near her.

“I understand all that,” Lucy said, firmly. “And if you wish to see Mr. Shayne in his office, I will be glad to arrange an appointment. But I’m afraid that…”

She was interrupted again by a voice Shayne could hear crackling over the wire, and, when it stopped, she said flatly, “Yes. I did get your name correctly the first time, Mr. Peralta. But I’ll still have to insist…”

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