The Corpse That Never Was

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At ten-thirty that evening, Michael Shayne was as completely and utterly relaxed as he had ever been in his life… and Shayne was a man who believed in relaxation. It was the end of June, and the hectic Miami “season” was over for the summer. He hadn’t a case on hand, and hadn’t even bothered to go into the office for the past three days.

He didn’t anticipate any cases for the next month or two or three. Native Miamians and the class of tourists who came down to take advantage of the cheaper rates during the off-season were not the sort of people who kept a private detective busy. It was a period for somnolent relaxation, for enjoying the good things of life, and Shayne had trained himself over the years to take full advantage of those few months each year.

Right now he was slouched comfortably at the end of the sofa in Lucy Hamilton’s living room with a tray on the low coffee table in front of him holding a bucket of ice cubes, an open bottle of his favorite cognac, a four-ounce glass half-full of amber fluid and a highball glass of ice water.

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