Griggs had an intelligent, weathered face, shrewdly cold eyes, and a completely bald head. He pivoted slowly, just inside the room, scrutinizing each man carefully, and not a flicker of surprise showed on his impassive features as his gaze slid over the detective and the reporter. With no indication of pleasure, he said, “Well, well. Miami’s gift to television and the demon reporter of the daily press. Just what goes on here?” “There’s been a shooting, Sarge. Upstairs,” said Powers eagerly. “These fellows claim that one sitting down there did it.” Griggs’ gaze rested briefly on the seated Ralph Larson, and then shifted back to Shayne. “Who’s the stiff?” “Wesley Ames,” Shayne told him. “They tell me your secretary called in the first alarm. What do you do… get printed announcements when a murder’s about to be committed?” “Not quite.
