Michael Shayne's Long Chance by Brett Halliday

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.
    Drake rewarded the inspector’s friendly manner with a wan smile. “I quite understand. You have your duty to perform. After all, I can do nothing for Elizabeth now, and Barbara’s murder is still unsolved. I quite understand,” he repeated, and made a pathetic attempt to square his shoulders as he marched through the doorway.
    Quinlan closed the door and turned to the plain-clothes men who had stood silently by during the questioning. “Take over,” he said. “One of you go to the hotel and get on the switchboard. Check his movements tonight, particularly when he makes a long-distance call. And be sure to check with the operator as to the time he received that telephone call from the girl. If he leaves the hotel, follow him. Get it?”
    The men nodded and went out.
    Inspector Quinlan stood in the doorway watching them, then turned and went back to his desk. He sighed as he sat down. He did not look at Shayne.
    Shayne said, “What do you make of it, Inspector?”
    “I think he’s telling the truth,” Quinlan said irritably.
    “And that makes me a liar.”
    “That’s what I don’t get.” Quinlan leaned back in his chair and subjected Shayne to a long, frank appraisal with his cold blue eyes. “That’s the hell of it. What can either of you gain by lying? He’d be a fool to claim relationship with the girl if he couldn’t prove it. On the other hand, you’d be a fool to whip up a story that won’t stand investigation. I know your reputation, Shayne—from your New Orleans days and from reports on you in Miami. You’ve been called a lot of things by a lot of people, but ‘fool’ isn’t one of them.”
    “Thanks,” said Shayne shortly.
    “Where does that leave me?”
    “I’ll be damned if I know,” Shayne said morosely. “What did you make of Drake? I mean—his personality?”
    Quinlan smiled for the first time since he had met him. He said, “A spot of rouge and polished fingernails don’t always tell the whole story.”
    “Dope?”
    “I doubt it. Maybe, off and on. He’s not a regular. Experimental, perhaps. A lot of perversions take queer turns.”
    “What the