Brett Halliday: Michael Shayne's Long Chance

“Please, Inspector,” Little appealed to Quinlan, “am I compelled to listen any longer?”

Shayne turned to Timothy Rourke. “Where’s that picture of Barbara Little?”

“Right here.” Rourke drew a Manila envelope from his pocket. Shayne opened it and drew out an unmounted photograph. He looked at it, then handed it to Lucile, asking quietly, “Ever seen that girl?”

Lucile looked at it steadily for a moment, then shook her head. “There’s a slight resemblance to Margo, but I never saw this girl.”

Shayne took it from her and slid it down the table to Henri. “How about you?”

Henri Desmond said, “Never saw her before.”

Joseph Little took off his glasses and began polishing them. He said, “You’re smart, Shayne. Barbara did commit suicide in Miami a month ago. I couldn’t stand the thought of Drake getting his hands on that money. I did arrange to have Miss Macon come here where she was totally unknown. I planned merely to keep up the farce until Elizabeth died. After that, she could simply disappear. It wasn’t fraud,” he went on anxiously. “Payment on the policy was legally due the moment Barbara died. It was simply a stratagem to prevent Drake from getting something that was legally mine. My money had paid the premiums on that policy for a number of years. What had Edmund Drake done to deserve it?”

“You were worried when he insisted on coming here to look for Barbara.”

“Of course I was. I tell you, I knew he had murder in his heart. He was desperate — with Elizabeth nearing the end rapidly. I couldn’t stand the thought of harm coming to the girl whom I’d placed in danger. I was frantic with anxiety. That’s why I tried, in a veiled way, to warn you against him.”

Harry Veigle entered the room quietly. He had a large sheet of cardboard in one hand and one of the fingerprinted slips in the other.

Shayne asked, “How about it, Harry?”

“I’ve got it. There’s no question about it.” He laid the sheet of cardboard on the table. It held a blurred set of prints, greatly magnified.

Shayne sighed deeply. “Let’s have it.”

“This is an enlargement of the third set of prints on the death bottle. They’re still on the bottle for you to check, Quinlan. And here,” he laid the slip of paper beside the cardboard, “are the same set of prints.”

The slip of paper bore the neat signature of Joseph P. Little.

The editor shuddered and made a squawking sound. “It can’t be,” he cried. “Not on that bottle. It can’t, I tell you. I wore gloves all—” He stopped suddenly, staring around in stricken fright.

“That,” said Shayne, “is what we wanted to hear. I know the killer wore gloves. There weren’t any prints on her balcony or mine.”

Mr. Little’s pince-nez fell to the floor from his trembling fingers. He said dully, “I–I confess. I did it.” He put his face in his hands and began sobbing.

Shayne caught Rourke’s eye and motioned him to a far corner of the room. He said, “There’s your story, Tim. Sell it to the Item for a scoop and put it on the wire,” loud enough for Denton to hear, then lowered his voice. “And if it isn’t worth what the plane cost, I’ll make up the difference. I had to have that picture.”

“But the one he gave you in Miami, Mike. I saw it when he handed it to you.”

“Only a glimpse,” Shayne reminded him. “I remembered afterward that he was careful not to let you look at it. And if you wonder why I didn’t have Veigle take your prints with the others, Tim — I was playing with dynamite. I couldn’t remember whether you took a drink out of that bottle in Miami or not.”

Rourke’s sharp nose twitched. “You mean that’s the same bottle? The one Little drank from in your office?”

“Sure. That’s when his prints got there. The poor devil framed himself trying to put on a near-fainting act in my office. Go ahead and get on a phone, Tim. Call me later.”

“Same number?”

Shayne looked around for Lucile. She was standing close to him, her eyes starry. Shayne lifted his brows. “Will I be there — later?”

She nodded emphatically. “You still don’t know what I can do with a real steak.”

Shayne went back to confront Denton and Soule on their way out. He said, “I guess this round was a draw, Denton. I’ll come out swinging next time.”

Captain Denton scowled. “Next time? I thought you were moving on after this was over.”

Shayne rubbed his lean jaw. “I’m beginning to like it here. I may open up an office and stick around.”

Lucile Hamilton’s eyes shone merrily as he rejoined her. “I couldn’t help hearing you. Are you going to open an office here?”

“If I can find a secretary.” He linked her arm in his and they left the building.

Outside, Lucile asked suddenly, “What was that secret you were going to tell me after it was all over?”

“Oh — I busted up a lamp in Celia Gaston’s apartment this morning, and I wish you’d make it right with her. And let me know how much.”

“A secretary,” she said softly, “always attends to little things like that for the boss.”