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as any in Centerville. He got directions for finding it, and went out.
    Three uniformed deputies were in a group in front of his car, gawking at the Florida license plate and at Lucy. They all watched him silently as he crossed the sidewalk and got behind the steering wheel.
    Lucy said, “You took long enough. Was the cognac good?”
    Shayne said, “Fair,” and started the motor. “How long have those monkeys been standing there?” He backed away from the curb.
    “They came up right after you went in. Just stood there and stared at the car and the license plate and me. I couldn’t hear what they said. They were talking low.” Lucy put her hand on his arm. “Let’s get out of here, Michael. There’s something terribly wrong about this town. I can feel it all around me. Those men back on the road…”
    “They’ve been having a local strike here and have sworn in a bunch of special deputies,” Shayne interrupted soothingly, “that’s all.” But he knew it wasn’t all. He knew it went a great deal deeper than that. There were hatreds of long standing stalking the streets of Centerville, perhaps for a hundred years, handed down from father to son, pent up in their untutored minds, and now, with the new order of things, ready to come to the surface with disastrous explosiveness.
    Shayne was not ignorant of the situation. He had kept in touch with the labor crises all over the country. But he had no acquaintance with the people themselves. He had been too busy with thieves and bums and murderers, and the bigoted wealthy men and women whom they murdered and stole from. He knew he had a lot to learn here in the Kentucky mountains.
    “I haven’t talked to Roche yet,” he went on quietly to Lucy as he turned onto a roughly paved sidestreet. “Chances are I’ll turn the case down and we can clear out after I do. But I do have to see him. I’ve already cashed his check.”
    He stopped near the end of the block in front of the Eustis Restaurant. Here, there was no bar, but an array of bottles on the shelves behind the quick-lunch stand. Square tables occupied the center of the spacious restaurant with a row of booths along the right-hand wall. A dozen slot machines were located strategically near the entrance… and exit… and a brightly lighted jukebox was playing a mournful tune.
    Shayne led Lucy toward a vacant table in the rear. When the waiter came Shayne said, “Bring us a bottle of the best brandy you have, two glasses of ice, a bottle of soda, and two glasses of ice water.”
    When the waiter went away Shayne said to Lucy, “I’ll try to get Roche again. Must be half an hour since I called.” He strolled to the cigar stand to get change for a dollar by purchasing a copy of the afternoon Centerville Gazette.
    He glanced casually at the front page while waiting for his change. He didn’t look up when the clerk said, “Here you are, suh,” but held his palm out, felt the coins drop into it, put them in his pocket and turned slowly back to the table.
    Lucy looked up to see the bleak expression in his eyes. “Michael! What’s the matter? You didn’t even go to the phone booth.”
    Shayne shook his red head slowly and sat down. “No, Lucy. I guess I won’t have to bother, about that… now.” He laid the paper on the table and ran a knobby forefinger along the headline sweeping across the page. There were two lines in inch-high type:
     
    PROCOMMUNIST LABOR AGITATOR ARRESTED IN MURDER
     
    They bent their heads together, leaning over the paper, and read:
     
    “Mr. Charles Roche, heir to the Roche Mining Properties was fatally shot early this morning…”

 
4
     
    “CHARLES ROCHE… murdered!” Lucy cried out.
    Shayne said, “S-h-h.” He looked around, troubled, but the noise appeared to have drowned out her words. Someone had selected a boogy-woogy record and the rasping sound filled the room. He put his mouth close to her ear and said, “I cashed his check for five grand in Miami. I wonder