Shayne stood up and circled his chair, yanked it around and straddled it with his arms folded across the back. He growled, “Just that you’re a dope peddler — and worse. You had a hold on this girl once and refused to let her go. You threatened her life, but she broke away from you. When you got your filthy hands on her again and she refused to play along a second time, you bumped her off. Hell,” he ended disgustedly, “I’ve got your whole history. You can’t talk yourself out of facts. And I can prove every word of it.”
Edmund Drake’s red-veined eyes glittered queerly. He shook his bald head and turned back to Quinlan. He said, “This man is a maniac, or else he is lying for some purpose of his own. I can prove who I am. I can easily prove my relationship to Barbara Little.”
Inspector Quinlan said, “It sounds crazy to me. Right now it’s your word, Drake, against Shayne’s. He looked at Shayne and said, “Produce your proof.”
Shayne took a long drag on his cigarette. His eyes were narrowed upon Drake as the man unbuttoned his coat, reached to the inside pocket, and drew out a pigskin wallet. Drake produced a handful of identification cards and traveler’s checks and spread them on the desk. “I think these will be sufficient to establish my identity,” he said.
Quinlan glanced at them casually. “You seem to be Edmund Drake,” he said, “but that doesn’t prove you’re the girl’s uncle. How about it, Shayne? You know anything about an uncle named Drake?”
Shayne said, “No.”
“Your client — the murdered girl’s father — didn’t mention an uncle by the name of Drake?” Quinlan asked.
“The name doesn’t mean anything either way. How,” he asked Drake, “does the uncle business come in?”
“My wife is Barbara’s aunt — her father’s sister, his only sister,” Drake supplied.
“Wait a minute,” Shayne said. “Is your wife in New Orleans with you?”
“My wife is in New York.” Drake made a point of contemptuously ignoring Shayne. He spoke directly to Quinlan. “She is ill, confined to her bed.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. He said to the inspector, “Ask him when he last heard from his wife.”
Quinlan turned inquiring eyes upon Drake and he said, “Not since I left New York three days ago.”
“Your wife was critically ill, not expected to live when you left her,” Shayne said. “Does she know you’re here? Does she have your address?”
Simultaneously the inspector and Drake looked at Shayne. Drake said, “She has had a long and lingering illness. When I left her she was in no condition to discuss my destination with me. Her physician fears the end may be near.”
Shayne exploded, “With your wife on her deathbed, you go off on a pleasure jaunt to New Orleans?”
“I do not believe,” said Mr. Drake, “that my reason for making this trip is the subject under discussion.”
Shayne said to Quinlan, “You can see the man is lying. He doesn’t even know that his wife, J. P. Little’s sister, died in New York this afternoon — the woman he claims to be his wife.”
There was a moment of dead silence in the office. Inspector Quinlan closed his eyes wearily.
Drake shrank back in his chair, his breath making a hissing sound between his shriveled, set lips. “My wife — dead? This afternoon?” His words were barely audible. Then he roused. His voice rose to a high pitch. “I don’t believe it. It’s a trick.” He appealed to the inspector. “I don’t know what his motive is, but he is evidently trying to incriminate me.”
“Where did you get your information, Shayne?” Quinlan asked.
“From Mr. Little. I called him in Miami after contacting his daughter — as I promised him. He had just received the death message and was taking the train to New York at once. Mr. Little is the woman’s brother,” he went on forcibly. “This guy claims to be her husband, yet he didn’t know of her death until I told him. That should be proof enough that his whole story is a lie.”
“How about it, Drake?” Quinlan asked.
Edmund Drake sat hunched in the chair. His eyes were closed. His lips moved as though he silently repeated a prayer. His appearance was that of a man stricken with grief.
“How about it?” Quinlan demanded again.
Drake’s red-veined eyes opened slowly. A film of moisture had gathered in them. He lifted one delicate hand and let it fall limply in his lap. “I don’t know. I — it’s hard to accept. Even when one knows death is inevitable, it’s always a terrible shock.”
“How do you explain,” Quinlan pounded out, “that her death is news to you? Why were you not informed immediately?”
“I–I see what you mean, Captain,” Drake said, “but it’s really quite simple. They have not yet received my New Orleans address. I wrote yesterday, giving it — as soon as I registered at the Angelus.” He closed his eyes again.
Quinlan glanced at Shayne. Shayne said, “A perfect picture of a devoted husband. He beats it away from his wife’s deathbed with no arrangements with anyone to keep in touch with him. He doesn’t take the trouble to wire or telephone his address when he arrives, but writes a letter. I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes as much sense as all the rest,” Quinlan said. “All I have is your story of the other side. What proof have you that any of your dope is true?”
“None at the moment,” Shayne admitted. “I haven’t even the picture of the girl to bear me out. What did you do with that picture of Barbara after you killed her?” he demanded of Drake.
The foppish little man opened his eyes slowly and looked at Shayne. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he moaned. “What picture?”
Shayne threw his cigarette on the floor and ground it out savagely with the toe of his shoe. “Hell,” he growled, “I’m beginning to wonder who I am. But I know this,” he went on, his eyes turned on Quinlan, “this man Edmund Drake is the one Joseph Little warned me against when he sent me here. I took the job in good faith — when I didn’t want a job — but he persuaded me. If he’s Barbara Little’s uncle, I’m a—” His voice trailed off into a snort.
Edmund Drake lifted his head and straightened his body. “Joseph Little hates me,” he said in a dull voice. “He has always hated me — ever since I married his sister. I don’t know what sort of ghastly hoax this is. I came here to see Barbara. I admit that. It — there was a personal reason. Joseph — Barbara’s father — wanted to keep us apart. He refused to give me her address here. Elizabeth, my wife, has been like a mother to the girl. Joseph resented that. He resented the ties that were stronger than filial affection. I’m sure that he has influenced her against us — kept Barbara away from her aunt during her illness. Now — they are both gone.” He slumped in his chair, a picture of grief and dejection.
Inspector Quinlan said in a kindly voice, “I’m sorry you’ve had to endure two such brutal shocks in one evening, Drake. You’d better go to your hotel and get some rest.”
“I thank you, Captain,” Drake said brokenly, and got up. He reached for his derby and cane. “I shall leave for New York at once, of course.”
“No. Better not do that,” Quinlan said casually. “I think we’ll want you to stick around until we get everything straightened out. The inquest, you know.”
“You mean — I won’t be allowed to leave New Orleans, to make arrangements for my wife’s funeral — to be there?”
“Not until you have my permission. Stay at the hotel where I can get in touch with you.” Quinlan got up and went around the desk. He put his hand on Drake’s shoulder as they turned toward the door.