Michael Shayne's Long Chance by Brett Halliday

scribbled on the pad without looking up.
    “Broker. Ah—retired. I assure you, Captain—”
    “Address?”
    “New York. That is, the Angelus Hotel at present.”
    “You were acquainted with the deceased?”
    “Of course. I’ve told you—”
    “When did you last see her alive?” Quinlan’s questioning continued, even and dispassionate.
    “I—not for months. I tell you, Captain, this is absurd.”
    “You came to New Orleans specifically to see her?”
    “Yes—no—that is, well, in a way.” Drake was beginning to get hold of himself. His thin shoulders were rigidly upright, his head at a dignified angle.
    “When did you succeed in contacting her?”
    “I hadn’t,” he answered defiantly. “That is, not until she telephoned me this evening.”
    “At what time did she telephone you?”
    “I have the message here.” He drew a slip of paper from his vest pocket and studied it. “It’s marked ten-eighteen by the hotel clerk.”
    Quinlan held out his hand for the slip of paper. He said, “That was about three hours ago,” glancing at his wrist watch.
    “Of course. But I didn’t get it until I returned to my hotel a short time ago.”
    Quinlan’s blue eyes surveyed Drake with cold appraisal, then read the message on the slip of paper. “There’s nothing here that indicates the girl wanted you to call on her. Wasn’t it presumptuous on your part to think she expected you to visit her apartment three hours after she called—after midnight?”
    “I was afraid it was urgent. I was surprised to receive the message. I thought I’d better see her.”
    Quinlan smiled thinly. “At one-thirty in the morning? A girl whom you hadn’t seen for months? You didn’t try to telephone her first?”
    “No.” Edmund Drake licked his lips and glanced around anxiously. “I took a taxi right over there.”
    “Where were you all evening?”
    “I—was out.” He glanced covertly at Shayne.
    “Where?”
    “I don’t see—Captain. Are you intimating that I need to produce an alibi?”
    “Unless you want to be charged with murder,” Quinlan assured him coldly.
    “Preposterous! Why should I murder my own niece!” Shayne’s lanky body jerked violently erect from its comfortable position. He stared at Drake. Quinlan’s forehead became a mass of horizontal wrinkles above his thin grayish brows. The cold, impersonal expression of his eyes changed once more to a puzzled look as he glanced at Shayne.
    Shayne met his glance and shook his disheveled mop of red hair hopelessly while his right thumb and forefinger massaged the lobe of his left ear.
    “Your niece?” Quinlan asked in a casual tone.
    “Exactly. I am Barbara Little’s uncle.”
    Quinlan let out a long sigh of disgust. He turned to Shayne and demanded, “What does that do to your cock-and-bull story about this man’s relationship with the girl?”
    Before he could answer, Edmund Drake rose to his feet and demanded caustically, “Yes, that’s what I want to know. Who are you, and what right did you have to accost me and drag me into—into this?”
    Shayne ignored the little man. He said to Quinlan hoarsely and with complete honesty, “I’ll be damned if I know, Inspector. I’ll lay ten to one he’s lying. Hell, he’s got to be the man. There couldn’t be two men like him if you looked the world over. Look at him,” he went on savagely, striding forward to tower over Edmund Drake. “Could there be two men who fit his description—out of captivity? Both of them in New Orleans at the same time? Both looking for Barbara Little? That’s just a little too pat,” he continued. “I don’t know what he thinks he’ll gain by a foolish lie like that. I guess he’s panicky to think up something to clear himself.”
    Drake pushed his chair back and got up. He straightened his trembling knees and peered up into Shayne’s bleak visage. “I demand once more to know who you are,” he said in a choked voice.
    Shayne’s gray eyes roved over the