The dingy front office was presided over by a gnomelike little man wearing a shiny alpaca coat. He was humped over a ponderous legal volume and looked up with near-sighted irritation when Michael Shayne entered. “Yes, yes? What is it?” “I’m Shayne. Mr. Hastings asked me to come in.” “Shayne?” The clerk pursed his lips disapprovingly over the name. He consulted a memo pad and said reluctantly, “I guess it’s all right.” He pointed to a door that was lettered Private. Shayne opened the door without knocking. Hastings was seated behind an ancient rolltop desk with papers spread out in front of him. He still wore the black broadcloth jacket buttoned all the way up though the heat in the office was stifling. He removed a pair of rimless glasses from his bony nose and said dryly, “You are very prompt, Mr. Shayne.” Shayne sat down in a straight wooden chair that creaked under his weight.
