she said. Her voice was small but determined. The gun was a little .25 automatic. She held it firmly. Michael Shayne came into the room and she kicked the door shut behind him. She was wearing a tightly-belted blue dressing gown. Her blonde hair was brushed out loosely and fell almost to her shoulders. There were lines and shadows on her face that hadn’t been there when Shayne last saw her, but she was still, at thirty, beautiful, intelligent, self-possessed. Her eyes were gray and steady. “Don’t you know who I am?” he said. “Stay where you are. Don’t move.” She backed across the room, feeling for the phone. Her fingers touched the edge of the bedside table and she knocked over a small bottle of sleeping pills. She lifted the phone. Then she said suddenly, “Michael Shayne?” She looked at him in horror. An instant later she dropped the little gun as though it had bitten her.
