Cars lined the curb in front. Expensive, sporty models that proved Arch Bugler wasn’t playing to a piker clientele.
Shayne nosed his battered convertible between a Rolls-Royce and a Packard. A high wall of pink coral rock surrounded three sides of the sprawling structure, running down to the beach at the rear. Bronze latticework gates were set in the wall, opening inward to a flagged path under an arched canopy leading to the front entrance. A uniformed doorman stood stiffly in front of the high bronze gates.
Sauntering toward the doorman, Shayne lit a cigarette.
A hot glint came into his eyes when the man stared at him suspiciously, then swung the gates shut and stood solidly in front of them.
Shayne stopped a foot from the doorman. His chin was level with the man’s eyes. He stared at him for a moment and then said, “Well?”
“I’m sorry, sir. White ties are required, sir.”
“I’m not wearing one.”
“I have strict orders, sir, to admit no gentlemen except those in formal attire.”
“I’m here on business — to see Arch Bugler.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I have strict orders.”