Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne's Long Chance

Shayne looked at his watch. “Thus far you’ve managed to tell us you have a headstrong daughter.”

J. P. Little fidgeted in his chair. “It’s difficult to tell you,” he murmured, then continued more firmly. “Barbara is ambitious to be a writer, has been since she was a young girl in her teens. But I’m afraid she isn’t a good writer.” He allowed himself a wan smile. “I’ve discouraged her. She resented that. She felt I was unfairly critical of her work. A month ago she tried to commit suicide. She left a note saying that she was a failure and there was no use going on.” He lifted pale, worried eyes to Shayne’s hard gray gaze.

“How old is your daughter now?” Shayne asked.

“Twenty-three. It was absurd, of course. A failure at twenty-three.” Mr. Little shook his head and sighed deeply.

“Go on about the suicide attempt,” Shayne demanded.

“I had brought her to Miami for a rest. She disappeared the next day. All her personal effects were left behind — with the suicide note.” He nervously smoothed his thinning hair, and added, “It was ghastly for me.”

Rourke, who had straddled the straight chair, was sitting facing its back, his pointed chin nestled in his palms. He said brightly, “You remember, Mike. There was a story in the papers. They dragged a girl’s body from the bay a couple of days later and I went with Joe to the morgue to see if he could identify her. I wrote a hell of a story about it. One of the most human interest things I ever did.”

Shayne shook his head. “A month ago? I wasn’t paying much attention to the papers then.” He turned to J. P. Little. “And it wasn’t your daughter?”

The editor shuddered. “No. I’ll never forget going into that morgue. But — it wasn’t Barbara. A few days later I received a letter from her posted in New Orleans. She had run away on a sudden impulse after discovering that she couldn’t take her own life. She was determined, though, to live as she pleased, she said. She had taken an assumed name and was going to submit her stories under that pseudonym. She had, you see, a feeling that because she was my daughter, other editors were prejudiced against her.”

Shayne was bent forward again, making no effort to hide his interest. His eyes were very bright. He looked at Joseph P. Little, and the ghost of a grin flitted over his gaunt face. He said, “A twenty-three-year-old girl can take care of herself in New Orleans if she’s as headstrong as you say. What the hell are you worrying about? Leave her alone to work out her own destiny. Maybe she can write.”

“Take care of herself — in the French Quarter, Mr. Shayne?” His colorless face flushed.

Shayne laughed shortly. “She can go to hell there if she wants to. Sure. Just like she can on Park Avenue. If you’re looking for a goddam chaperon—”

“Hold it, Mike,” Rourke protested. “You haven’t heard the meat of the story yet.”

“If it’s got any meat, why the hell doesn’t he slice some off?”

Mr. Little drew himself up from a slumped position and sat with stiff dignity. “It’s difficult to discuss, and you don’t make it any easier, Mr. Shayne.” He hesitated, but Shayne made it no easier, so Little continued. “Babs is — I’m afraid she is becoming a drug addict.”

Shayne scowled and rubbed his angular jaw. “What makes you think that?”

“Barbara had a severe illness a few years ago. She was in great pain — agony — for weeks. The attending physician gave her morphine to ease the pain. Later, when she was well again we discovered that she was craving the drug. There was an interval during which I despaired. Then the craving left her, apparently. She lived happily and normally for a time. Only a few months ago I noted recurring symptoms. She had periods of deep depression which were followed by periods of abnormally high spirits and effervescent gaiety.” Mr. Little’s pale, sad eyes looked down at his hands which were clasped tightly.

“That is not unusual for young girls,” Shayne said. “What other proof did you have?”

“Mr. Shayne,” said Mr. Little, “one can easily tell a narcotic user by the eyes, particularly when one is as well acquainted with the user as I am with my daughter. There is a brightness shining in the eyes, but the brightness appears to be covered by a mist. I cannot explain it exactly. It is like a glow shining through a thin fog. Then there is a dullness of the mind, and a nervousness of the body.” He paused for a moment, appealing to Shayne for understanding.

Shayne said, soberly, “Go on.”

“I am convinced that Barbara made her suicide attempt while under the influence of drugs — or during a period of acute craving,” Mr. Little continued, “and I am positive that she is using the drugs in New Orleans. Her letters are proof of her condition.”

“What sort of letters?” Shayne asked bluntly.

“She writes very queerly. She refuses to address me as her father. She signs her letters ‘Margo,’ the name she is living under — her pseudonym, Margo Macon. She writes to me as a stranger.”

“How is she fixed for money?”

“I send her a weekly sum.”

Shayne said, “You don’t need a detective. The police in New Orleans can clear up the case.” With a wave of his big hand he lifted his hip from the table and stood up.

“It isn’t that simple,” Mr. Little said in alarm.

“Why not?” Shayne stopped on his way to the liquor cabinet where the bottle of Monnet was hidden.

“She may be in great danger,” Mr. Little said. “Hourly danger. I need someone I can trust. I know how the police handle such matters. A routine investigation. It might be days before they got around to it.”

Shayne said, “Danger? What are you holding out on me?” His eyes were hot with anger.

Mr. Little rose from his chair, but his body trembled violently, and he sank slowly into it again. “I can’t — tell you. It’s too horrible.”

“If you want help from me, I’ve got to know what you’re talking about.”

Mr. Little’s tongue moistened his lips. “If you could go to New Orleans and contact her — gain her confidence — establish yourself so you could keep a guard over her—”

Timothy Rourke’s nose was trembling like a bloodhound’s. “Mike is right,” he told the editor. “If you can’t trust him with all the angles, how can you expect him to help you?”

“It isn’t that I don’t trust him,” Mr. Little said in despair.

Shayne snorted. He glared at Rourke and said, “Thanks for dropping in. Don’t bother to close the door on your way out. I’ve got several things to do before catching a train for New York.”

Rourke pulled himself up from his straddled position on the chair. “Sorry things didn’t work out.”

Mr. Little made no move to get up. His face had paled until its hue was a yellowish green. He said, in a husky whisper, “Of course you cannot handle the situation without knowing the whole truth.”

Shayne went on to the wall cabinet and took out the Monnet bottle. He brought it back to the desk and splashed cognac into his glass.

Rourke said to Little, “We’d better be going.”

Mr. Little nodded almost imperceptibly, started to get up from the chair and fell back with his hands lolling in his lap.

Rourke gasped. “Give him a drink quick, Mike.”

Shayne grabbed the bottle and held it to Little’s mouth. The smaller man moaned, and with an effort he raised his hands to hold it to his lips. He took two small sips and murmured, “Thanks,” as he made a distasteful grimace.

“You rode him too hard, Mike,” Rourke accused. “It’s not easy for a man to give such facts about his own daughter.”

A spot of color rose to Mr. Little’s cheekbones. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips and said weakly, “It is a delicate situation — but I must go on if Mr. Shayne is to help me.” His eyes looked dully up at Rourke.