A taxi pulled up behind the ambulance and a man got out hastily. He wore a pearl-gray derby and gray spats to match. He was slender, of about medium height, and he hooked a light Malacca cane over his left arm as he took out his wallet to pay the driver.
Shayne caught Quinlan’s arm and drew him back against the building, murmuring, “Let’s watch this.”
The inspector looked at Shayne with a puzzled frown. Shayne gestured toward the man who was turning away from the cab. Light from the street lamp showed the lined face of Mr. Drake beneath the brim of the derby. A policeman intercepted him as he started toward the apartment-house doorway. They were close enough for Shayne and the inspector to hear the bluecoat say, “Wait a minute, Mister. You got any business in there?”
“Naturally,” the man snapped in a high-pitched voice. For the first time, he appeared aware of the crowd and the cops, the waiting ambulance and the body on the stretcher. He stared about nervously, asked, “Has there been — an accident?”
The cop said, “A little accident — like murder.”
The foppishly dressed man repeated, “Murder? Dear me, how tragic.”
“For the gal, yeh. You live in this apartment?”
“No. A — girl, you say?” Drake sucked in his breath, drawing his lips tight to indicate complete disapproval. He stepped back, murmuring, “My errand isn’t really urgent.” He turned to see whether his cab had pulled away.
Shayne took a long step forward and called, “Mr. Drake!” sharply.
The man wheeled and looked around in confusion. Shayne stepped closer and said, “This is what the cops left of me.”
Drake stammered, “You’re the man—”
“The name is Shayne.” He lifted his voice to the white-coated orderlies who were sliding the stretcher into the ambulance, “Hold it a minute, boys. I’d like to have Mr. Drake see the victim.”
Inspector Quinlan had moved unobtrusively to stand beside Shayne. His cold blue eyes were puzzled, but he made no effort to interfere.
Drake’s jaw sagged at Shayne’s words. He shot a startled glance at Shayne and then at the stretcher which was being drawn from the ambulance. “I really don’t see why I should look at a — a corpse.”
“You will after you take a look at the girl,” Shayne assured him grimly. He caught Drake’s arm, felt it tremble in his grasp as he swung Drake about and led him to the stretcher.
One of the orderlies pulled the sheet down to expose the ghastly, bloodstained face of Barbara Little to the pitiless light of the street lamp. After one brief glance Drake shuddered violently and turned his lace away. “It’s — good gracious, it can’t be — Barbara!” he tremoloed in a high falsetto.
“Take a good look,” Shayne urged.
Drake turned his head back slowly. “It — it is Barbara, isn’t it?”
Shayne stepped back and said slowly, “I think Inspector Quinlan has a few questions to ask you.”
Drake turned. His lined features were haggard. “I don’t understand,” he faltered. “If that’s actually Barbara Little — but she called me just this evening. She asked me to come to her. I have the message right here.” He dug frantically in a vest pocket.
Quinlan nodded curtly to two of his men and said, “Bring him along — and let’s get going.” He went ahead of Shayne to his car and got in, left the door open, and started the motor. Shayne got in beside him, and Quinlan said, “You’d better start talking. I know you by reputation, so don’t waste time on past history.”
“God, man, can’t you understand I’m working on a case?” Shayne burst out with harsh impatience. “Drake is the man I’ve been looking for — the man I was warned against when I took the case. The girl is Barbara Little. Margo Macon was strictly a phony name. Her father sent me here to guard her against a man who answers Drake’s description in every respect. He’s a dope-head and has had a vicious influence over the girl in the past. She broke away from him, cured herself of the habit, then got frantic when she felt the urge returning. She ran away from home and came here. Her father was afraid he’d find her and drive her back into the habit or to suicide or worse. This man Drake contacted Captain Denton yesterday, asking where such a girl might go in the Quarter to get back on the stuff. Well, he seems to have got to her as soon as I did,” he ended angrily.
Quinlan drove slowly. The quizzical, puzzled expression seemed permanently fixed on his finely chiseled features. “How do you know Drake had contacted Denton?”
“Denton told me so. I went to ask him the same question — that is, to get in touch with the dope traffic in the Quarter. I already knew who the girl was and where she lived. Denton got scared, and mad, when I told him Chief McCracken had sent me, and threw me out.”
Quinlan drummed his finger tips on the steering wheel. “You say the girl’s father knew Drake was here?”
“I don’t think he knew it, but he was afraid Drake might try to follow her. He intimated his fear of rather horrible depravities the girl might be led into, without giving any details.”
Quinlan nodded. He said dryly, “Drake doesn’t look so sinister.”
Shayne moved his big hands impatiently. “You know as well as I that you can’t judge the morals of a narcotic user by his appearance. They’re sly.”
“Is it your idea,” Quinlan asked suddenly, “that Drake murdered the girl?”
“Somebody murdered her,” Shayne argued. “Mr. Little had some such fear. It seemed to be an obsession with him. He hinted Drake had threatened her life the other time she pulled away from him.”
Quinlan sighed and said, “It sounds like a ten-cent melodrama.”
“All murders have the tang of melodrama somewhere along the line,” Shayne reminded him.
“I know. And your story sounds like something you dreamed up on the spur of the moment to turn attention toward something else. Denton uncovered a lot of stuff against you, Shayne.”
Shayne laughed harshly. “Do you think I killed my own client?”
“I’m not thinking,” Quinlan said curtly. “I’m looking at evidence.” He parked in front of the police building.
Another car slid up to the curb as they got out. Two officers stepped out and Drake followed them, tapping his cane as he moved between the towering cops and looking smaller than Shayne remembered him.
Quinlan led the way into the office in the rear. Shayne pulled a chair over to the side of the room and lit a cigarette as Drake was ushered into the inspector’s presence. His face had an unhealthy, pasty look, and his body appeared to have shrunk inside his exquisitely tailored garments. His hands shook as he laid derby and cane carefully on the inspector’s desk. His head was completely bald, smooth and wax-white.
He placed the palms of his hands flat on the desk and bent forward to address Quinlan in a voice that shook with nervousness and wrath. “I demand to know why I have been haled in here like a criminal.”
“I want to ask you a few questions,” Quinlan said quietly. He settled himself in a swivel chair. “Sit down, Drake, and take it easy.”
Drake sank into a chair which one of the men pushed up for him. He looked bewildered and forlorn. “The shock,” he murmured. “I was completely overcome — at first. That girl, if it was Barbara—”
“What do you mean if it was Barbara?” Quinlan asked. “Didn’t you recognize her?”
Drake blinked his eyes and wet his thin, shriveled lips. He whined, “Actually, I didn’t look closely. That is—” His shudder was delicate, a slight tremor, and he lifted one hand. The nails were manicured and polished, with a faint rosy tint that hinted the application of artificial color. “The condition — you understand, Captain, that I couldn’t bear to—”