“Mike? I don’t believe it. Where the hell are you?”
“Police headquarters.”
“Oh, so it is you, Mike.”
Shayne laughed. “I’ve just talked myself out of a murder rap — that is, almost. Are you awake, Harry?”
“Ever since you mentioned police headquarters and murder raps I’ve been awake. What do you want me to get you out of this time?”
“Still got your private lab, Harry? And are you still so broke you’d frame your grandmother for half a C?”
“Still got my lab, but I’ve raised my price. It’ll cost you a whole C to get my grandmother framed now.”
“Fair enough. Listen, Harry, this is important. Got a pencil and paper?” Shayne squirmed in the narrow telephone booth, got a small slip of paper from his shirt pocket, and spread it flat on the wall.
Harry Veigle said, “Shoot, Mike, my pencil is poised.”
“Take this down, Harry, and get it right. Tonight about eleven o’clock you got in a City Cab on Dumaine just off Charles. You rode three blocks and suddenly remembered something important you had to do and got out. Get it?”