CHAPTER 1THREE SINISTER MEN
I WHISTLED as I opened the garage door. The tune was a snatch of Spanish, something I had heard in that Tijuana café last night, but would not have remembered if it were not for Sheila Feyne humming it on our way home.
Sheila Feyne. As I opened the coupé door, climbed in and pushed the key into the ignition, I had a picture of Sheila Feyne sitting there beside me—
This is not the story of my love-life. I was not really in love with a girl I had known less than three hours, and yet I knew it could end that way.
I started the motor and watched the oil gauge needle creep up. I disengaged the hand brake, stepped on the clutch and wristed the shift lever into reverse, still thinking about the dish named Sheila Feyne.
The coupé went bumpty-clump backwards. I forg
