What Really Happened

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MICHAEL SHAYNE HEARD his telephone ringing when he stopped in the corridor and put the key in the lock of his apartment door. The time was a little past nine-thirty, and he felt whipped down, ready for a nightcap and bed. He frowned at the insistent ringing as he walked in and switched on the light. His first impulse was to ignore it, but the boy at the switchboard had seen him come through the lobby, and Shayne knew he would keep ringing until it was answered.

As it was, he took his time. He tossed his hat on a hook near the door, yawned widely, and ran a big-fingered hand through coarse red hair as he crossed to the wall cabinet and took down a bottle of cognac. He filled a three-ounce glass, let half the liquor trickle warmly down his throat, and with bottle and glass in his hands he recrossed the room to his desk. Thumping the bottle down, he lifted the receiver, said, “Shayne speaking,” and took another sip of cognac.

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