The Private Practice of Michael Shayne

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The receptionist in the shabby outer office was a drab, flat-chested girl whose cotton print frock looked homemade, clinging damply to under-fleshed shoulders. She looked up with lusterless eyes at Shayne’s entrance and said:

“Good afternoon, Mr. Shayne. You’re to go right in. Mr. Kincaid is waiting.”

Shayne nodded and went past her untidy desk to the frosted glass door marked private. He tapped on the glass, then turned the knob and walked in.

Two men were sweating in the poorly ventilated inner office. The larger of the two, a stranger to Shayne, wore wilted white flannels, a sleeveless polo shirt, with a yachting cap tilted jauntily back on graying hair. He looked about thirty and was probably forty; bronzed by the Miami sun, solidly fleshed by good food, his mid-section kept trim and firm by rigorous gymnastics and the ministrations of an expert masseur.

In contrast to the other’s powerful physique and outward appearance of exuberant good health, Larry Kincaid looked anemic and underfed. His thin cheeks held an unhealthy pallor, and a heavy lock of black hair fell dankly aslant his forehead, as if twisted by nervous fingers and left lying there. His eyes were dark, and Shayne had seen the time when they snapped with fire and enthusiasm, but now they were furtive, irritable. Hunched behind a flat desk with both elbows supporting his weight, shoulder blades showed sharply beneath the thin white coat of tropical worsted.

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