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rumpled and he was weary after more than 30 hours in a day coach, but his nostrils flared and his gray eyes brightened as he dragged in a deep breath of the warm evening air.
    With no luggage to delay him he thrust his hands deep into his trousers pockets and strolled along the brick walk, his eyes straying around looking for a familiar face. Tourists poured from every car of the long train, and there were those waiting to greet friends, craning their necks, and some standing on tiptoe for a better view.
    The thought struck Shayne suddenly that he had few friends in Miami. It had been part of his job not to become widely known and to keep his picture out of the local papers. A muscle twitched in his angular jaw and his eyes grew bleak. Timothy Rourke had been the only close friend he had made in all the years he practiced here.
    He stopped strolling and looking around. His long legs swung out in a purposeful stride. Just before he reached the taxi area he felt a strong grip on his arm and turned to see the bronzed and smiling face of a trim Miami policeman.
    Shayne exclaimed, “Sergeant Jorgensen.”
    The young officer stepped back and gave a snappy salute before saying cordially, “Mike Shayne—welcome home. The chief sent me down to meet you. How does it feel to be back in God’s country?”
    “Plenty good.” Shayne fell into step with the sergeant toward a prowl car parked beyond the waiting taxis. “How’s Tim Rourke?”
    Jorgensen’s face was grave. “Not so good, I guess. I haven’t heard since noon. He was holding his own then.” He opened the door for Shayne, slammed it shut, and went around to get under the wheel. “We’re stymied on it with Painter in charge.”
    “Still strutting like a damned peacock and getting nowhere, eh?” Shayne’s voice was bitter.
    “Still keeps his nails manicured,” said Jorgensen sourly, “but I’m wondering if he’s keeping his hands clean, Shayne. There’ve been some pretty rotten deals over on the Beach lately.” He started the motor and as they drove away he added, “Painter’s not a bad dick when he wants to be. I guess he’s really doing his best on this case. I’ve an idea pressure is being put on him from all sides nowadays.”
    “He never liked Rourke,” Shayne reminded him grimly.
    “No. Tim used to get in his hair plenty. You and Tim both,” Jorgensen added with a chuckle.
    “No arrests yet?” There was sharp concern in Shayne’s voice.
    “Nope. The field’s wide open.” Jorgensen turned east on Flagler Street. “All of us on this side of the bay will be pulling for you.”
    Shayne sat slouched in the seat staring out at the familiar scenes he had not seen for nearly two years. He said gruffly, “Thanks—I know,” in answer to the sergeant’s offer.
    Memories, fleeting and queerly hurting memories, tugged at him as they rode down Flagler toward police headquarters. Nothing had changed. Miami was still the Magic City. It might have been yesterday that he and Rourke had chased a disappearing corpse around Miami’s streets.
    Sergeant Jorgensen made a sharp turn to the right and pulled up in front of police headquarters. “The chief’s waiting for you in the same old office.”
    “Thanks, Jorg. See you around.” He got out and circled the car and went in a side door. The dreary hallway heading to Gentry’s office retained its remembered odor, and the door was hospitably ajar as it had always been.
    Chief Will Gentry sat behind the same scarred oak desk, and Shayne received an immediate and fleeting impression that he was chewing on the same black cigar that had been in his mouth the last time he saw him. At least, it smelled the same. Gentry’s face looked a little heavier, a little more florid, but the twinkle in his eyes was the same, his handshake as firm as ever.
    Gentry rumbled, “It’s good to see you again, Mike, though I don’t like the way we had to bring you back to Miami.” He chuckled and added, “Anyway, I’m glad