Inspector Quinlan said, “You look like something no cat would bother to drag in. What have you been doing with yourself?”
Shayne grinned, ran his fingers lightly over his bruised face and stiff stubble of red whiskers. He sat down and said, “I guess I’m getting soft. There was a time when I could take a few beatings and doped drinks in my stride. Your New Orleans gorillas are too much for me.” He spread the morning paper out on the Inspector’s desk. “What do you know about this?”
“Not much more than I read in the paper,” Quinlan admitted. “Have you read the whole story?”
“I glanced through it as I walked here.”
“Denton turned it into some good publicity. What actually happened seems to be that the Jordan girl got scared or remorseful and took poison. A routine call went to Denton’s precinct and he rushed out in time to catch her confession before she died. It was pure chance. But the news story reads as though Denton was relentlessly tracking her down when she took the poison. As though he cracked the case by smart detective work while the rest of us were sitting around twiddling our thumbs. I haven’t been able to locate the Hamilton girl,” Quinlan went on wearily, “to check that part of the Jordan confession dealing with what led up to the murder.”
“Her story checks.”
Quinlan cocked an inquisitive eyebrow at Shayne. “Have you talked with her?”
“Yeh. The Hamilton girl left Jordan and Macon together at ten o’clock. They had quarreled over a man — an old sweetie of Evalyn Jordan’s. He came to the apartment, not knowing Evalyn was there. Lucile left, thinking they were making up the quarrel because Barbara — Margo — was throwing the guy over. That’s why she went away and left them.”
“Lucile?”
“Lucile Hamilton.”
“It’s confusing as hell,” Quinlan grumbled, “all those names. Let’s stick to Barbara Little for Macon. How did you locate her — I mean Lucile Hamilton?”
“In the telephone directory,” Shayne told him.
“We tried the Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart. She was out. Hasn’t answered her phone all night.”
“I was out with her.”
“Well, I guess that washes the whole thing up. To tell you the truth,” Quinlan continued, “I’d hoped her story might not jibe with the one Denton claims the other girl told him before she died. I wouldn’t put it past him to have made up the confession just to get the publicity and steal a march on my department.”
Shayne asked abruptly, “What have you got on Drake? And have you heard from Joseph P. Little?”
“My wire caught Little on the train you said he was on. He wired me he was changing trains to get back to Jacksonville and would fly, if possible, and reach here as soon as he could.”
“And Drake? Does he still claim to be the girl’s uncle?”
“Not only claims to, but it looks as though he is her uncle. He called New York as soon as he got back to his hotel last night. My man was on the switchboard and heard him receive the news that his wife had died yesterday afternoon. Not only that, but the nurse who answered told him that his wife’s brother was on his way to New York from Miami, and complained about not having an address where she could reach Drake.”
Shayne shook his head moodily and tugged at his left earlobe. “I don’t get it. I’ll be goddamned if I get any of it. Little must have lied like hell when he sent me here.”
Both men fell silent for a time. Shayne was the first to speak. “I guess that’ll all come out when Little gets here. Anything else about Drake?”
“Nothing important. He’s fairly well known at the Angelus from other trips he has made to New Orleans. The clerk isn’t positive about the time he picked up that phone message from his niece, but believes it was around one o’clock.”
“Which checks with his story.” Shayne lit a cigarette and asked, “Have you learned what he was doing up to that time?”
“No, but I think I know why he doesn’t want to produce an alibi unless he’s forced to. He’s one of those old boys who likes to hit the really hot spots. The ones where everything goes, and where a man doesn’t like to admit he has been.”
“Like the Daphne?”
“That’s one of them.” Quinlan looked curiously at Shayne. “You seem to get around for a man who’s been out of town for years. The fact is, Drake left the hotel early last night with a hustler for the Daphne.”
Shayne said, “Sure. It was Henri Desmond.”
“That’s the lad.” Quinlan’s perplexity deepened. “You weren’t kidding last night when you claimed to have your own ways of getting information.”
“Yeh, the hard way,” Shayne grunted. “One thing I don’t understand. How did Barbara Little know her uncle was in town and at the Angelus? He claimed he was looking for her, but didn’t make contact until she called him and left the message.”
A buzzer sounded on Quinlan’s desk before he could make any reply. He flipped a switch and said, “Yes?” into the mouthpiece of an intercommunication system.
A metallic voice floated faintly from the receiver. “There’s a man here to talk to you about the Barbara Little case.”
“Send him in.” He closed the connection and got up to walk across the office and open the door.
Shayne moved to another chair a little farther away from the desk as Inspector Quinlan admitted a tall, well-dressed man who said, “My name is Henderson — Security Insurance,” in a brisk, businesslike tone.
Quinlan glanced at the card Henderson gave him as he came back to the desk, said, “Sit down, Mr. Henderson. What can I do for you?”
“I’m here on the Barbara Little case,” he said, seating himself in the chair Shayne had vacated. He glanced at Shayne, and Quinlan explained.
“Mr. Shayne is a private investigator with a personal interest in Barbara Little.”
Henderson said, “Oh, yes. I believe it was you who discovered the body.” His eyes were alert.
Shayne nodded. “And thereby became the most important suspect until the Jordan girl confessed.”
“I just had a long-distance call from the home office,” Henderson told Quinlan. “They tell me we carried a large policy on the life of a certain Barbara Little, and asked me to look into the facts surrounding the girl’s death. It’s an unusual case, of course, and extremely important that we definitely establish the deceased as our policy holder. I understand she was living here under a pseudonym.”
“She called herself Margo Macon in New Orleans. Pseudonyms are quite common among those of the writing profession, however, which makes the case not quite so complicated.” Quinlan’s tone was quietly emphatic, as it had been when Shayne first met him.
“I’ve read the newspaper account of the affair,” Henderson explained, “but the home office had only a brief press dispatch for their information. What can you tell me about the girl?”
“Her father’s name is Joseph P. Little, a New York editor. That right, Shayne?”
“That’s it. I believe Mr. Little told me she was twenty-three.”
Henderson consulted a small notebook and nodded. “That checks. Daughter of Joseph P. Little, twenty-three on her last birthday.” He put the book in his pocket, took three cigars from his breast pocket and offered them to Shayne and the inspector. Quinlan accepted one, but Shayne said, “No, thanks. I’ll stick to cigarettes.” His gaze was direct and cold.
Henderson replaced one cigar and leaned forward to get a light from the inspector’s desk lighter. He said, “The only thing remaining, then, is positive identification of Margo Macon as Barbara Little.”
“That’s something you’ll have to discuss with Shayne,” Quinlan told him. “He’s the only one actually competent to swear that the girl known as Margo Macon was Barbara Little.”
“It’s a large policy,” the agent said, “and I understand the girl’s — ah — face was badly disfigured. We must have absolute and authentic identification.”
“She wasn’t smashed that badly,” Shayne argued, “and even if she was, positive identification can be made by three people. Her father, when he arrives; her uncle, who has known her all her life; and myself. I met and talked with her before she was murdered, and I had a photograph given me by Mr. Little himself. There is no doubt about it. I am positive that the girl whom I found murdered was the same girl I talked to and made a date with.”
Mr. Henderson said, “H-m-m. When do you expect the girl’s father to arrive? And where can I get in touch with the uncle?”
“Her father will arrive today. Early if he flies from Jacksonville but later, of course, if he comes by train. The uncle is here on the ground, and I can arrange for you to meet him here in my office,” said Quinlan.
Shayne asked, “Who is the beneficiary?”
“That I can’t say. I haven’t a copy of the policy. But I would like an affidavit from you, Mr. Shayne.”
“I’ll be glad to give it to you,” Shayne responded.
Mr. Henderson stood up and extended his hand to Quinlan. “Thanks, Inspector. I’ll get in touch with you later when I hope to have a conference with the father and the uncle.” He crossed over to Shayne and shook hands, saying, “Your affidavit will, no doubt, be ready sometime today?”
“How much did you say the policy was taken out for?” Shayne asked.
“Fifty thousand dollars, Mr. Shayne. Quite a large amount, you see.”
“Yes, I do see,” Shayne said slowly. “I’ll fix up an affidavit and leave it with Inspector Quinlan.”
Henderson said, “Thanks,” all around again and went out like a brisk breeze.
Shayne sat quietly brooding for a while, then said, “Fifty thousand dollars makes a hell of a good motive. I’d like to know who gets it.”
Quinlan frowned.
“Aren’t you satisfied with the Jordan girl’s confession?”
“Are you?”
Quinlan shrugged his thin shoulders. “It’ll save the state the cost of a trial.”
Shayne said, “I’ll give you a ring around noon to find out whether Little is here,” and went out.