When Dorinda Dances

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Michael Shayne’s swivel chair was slued sideways behind his office desk to accommodate the stretch of his long legs and generally slumped position. His right arm lay along the desk top, his hand conveniently near a drink of cognac. After each sip he carefully centered the glass on the plastic coaster which Lucy Hamilton had placed there to preserve the shining surface from rings. The afternoon was hot and humid; not a breath of air stirred. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and collar open he stared moodily at two rectangles of sunlight coming through the open west windows, and perspired profusely.

Upon renting the office on Flagler Street he made a pact with Lucy to keep regular office hours when he was not actively engaged in a case. Closing-time was near, and he had decided some time ago that sipping cognac the last few minutes was more pleasant than facing his efficient secretary’s accusation of not attending to business. He could hear the faint tapping of her typewriter through the closed door, and he grinned lazily, wondering what the devil she was finding to do.

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