The Homicidal Virgin

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It was one of those beautiful, balmy, autumnal days in Miami when the tempo of life in the Magic City slackens perceptibly; a time for relaxation between the brutally humid days of summer and the frenzied activity of a new winter season when hordes of fun-and-sun-seekers from the north would descend upon the area.

The sidewalks were uncrowded and pedestrians took time to smile courteously at one another, waiting patiently and politely at corners for the light to change, then strolling across the intersection under the unwontedly benign gaze of traffic cops.

In his office above Flagler Street, with both windows wide open to bring in the sound of sluggish traffic borne on the wings of a somnolent breeze from Biscayne Bay, Michael Shayne was relaxed in a swivel chair with his feet resting on a bare, scarred desk. He wore a short-sleeved sport shirt open at the throat, his red hair was comfortably rumpled, he sucked lazily on a cigarette and was at peace with the world. He hadn’t had an interesting case for a month, and was glad of it. Right now he didn’t care whether he ever had another case or not. Right now the only thing on his mind was the question of whether it was worth while for him to stir himself sufficiently to coyer the three blocks to Joe’s Bar, where he would find kindred souls and his favorite brand of cognac.

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