Mr. Little shook his head. “I am not a drinking man. I feel stronger, though.”
Shayne said, “Maybe I was too impatient. Go on with your story if you feel up to it.”
Rourke sat down again and Mr. Little relaxed as best he could in the straight chair. “I mentioned Barbara’s recurrent use of drugs. There was a man whom she contacted while she was recovering from her illness. She told me about him. It was he who encouraged her. He taught her to become an addict — and worse.” His voice trembled and he stopped to take a deep breath, then went on. “I know so few of the actual details. I did not press her to reveal them, but she hinted of depravities — when she was under the influence, of course. She tried to break away from this man, but he followed her to New Orleans.”
“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne said. “I think I know the sort of man you’re talking about.”
“Then you can realize what I feel — what I fear. Barbara loathes the things she does under this man’s influence. She will try to kill herself again. I am positive she will. The next time — she might succeed.”
“Then you actually want me to keep her from killing herself?”
Little nodded. “But — besides that — I’m afraid of what he may do. When she tried to break with him before, he threatened her life. She countered by threatening to report him to the police. This only made matters worse. He made it quite clear that he would not hesitate to murder her if she reported him.”
Shayne took a sip of cognac and said, “Go on.”
“I don’t know his name. Barbara wouldn’t tell me, but I’ve seen him once. I came home unexpectedly and he was there. He left in a hurry. He is a man in his late forties, a foppish dresser — spats and so forth. He has an evil, dissipated face. He is quite bald, slender, and of medium height. A meager description, but it should be enough to mark him if you see him with Barbara.”
Shayne said, “It will be.” His eyes were alert. “About the fee—”
“You’ll take the case?” Little’s voice was eager.
“I’ll take it. The fee will depend on how much time it takes.”
“I’m not a wealthy man, Mr. Shayne, but any figure within reason.”
“Five hundred for expenses,” Shayne said. “When I need more I’ll let you know.” He drew a notebook from his pocket and handed it to Little. “Write down her name — the pseudonym, and the New Orleans address.”
Mr. Little wrote, Margo Macon, Peloine Apartments, Apartment 303, Dumaine Street. He handed the notebook back to Shayne and took a four-by-six photograph from his pocket, passed it to Shayne, then took out his wallet. “That is a recent picture of Barbara,” he said, and handed Shayne a sheaf of bills.
Shayne pocketed the bills without counting them. He was studying the photograph. The girl had wide, tranquil eyes, a small, straight nose, a chin that indicated stubborn determination, and a full, generous mouth lifted pleasantly at the corners. He asked, “Eyes blue?”
“Dark blue.”
“Where can I reach you to report?” Shayne asked.
“Bayfront Hotel here in Miami.” Mr. Little penciled a memorandum in a notebook of his own, tore out the sheet, and handed it to Shayne. “This is my New York telephone number, and please call me the moment you contact Barbara. I will be here in Miami, unless—” He hesitated, and his eyes were sad. “You see, Mr. Shayne, my sister is seriously ill in New York. She is not expected to live, and I expect a message any moment calling me back.”
Shayne nodded. He carefully placed the New York telephone number in his pocket. He said, “I’ll have to get a move on to catch my train.”
Mr. Little held out his hand. Shayne took it this time. Little said, “You won’t, of course, let Barbara know you come from me.”
“Not until I find out some things,” Shayne told him.
Rourke shook Shayne’s hand with a firm grip. He said, “So long, Mike. Be seeing you on the front page.”
Shayne called the office of the apartment hotel and said that his apartment was ready for the cleaners, then hastily opened his already bulging suitcase, jammed the squat bottle half-filled with cognac into it, and went out without a backward glance.
Chapter two
Shayne got off the train in New Orleans at five o’clock in the afternoon. He took a taxi and ordered the driver to take him to the corner of Dumaine and Decatur Streets. He settled himself comfortably as the cab slid smoothly down Canal Street, and enjoyed the pleasurable sensation of returning to the ancient city after an absence of many years.
Upon reaching the old French Quarter, he closed his eyes and reminiscently breathed in the strangely familiar odors, judging their progress by the smells and street sounds. The slow-flowing Mississippi was on the right, in an arc within a block of Decatur as they passed Jackson Square, the Plaza de Armas, then his nose told him they were approaching the west end of the French Market, his destination. He opened his eyes as the driver slowed. “That’s the corner right ahead, boss.”
Shayne nodded. “Just drop me at the corner.”
The driver shrugged and pulled in to the curb where North Peters hits Decatur at a sharp angle. Shayne got out, paid the fare, and stood on the sidewalk beside his suitcase until the taxi was out of sight.
He lifted his Panama and ruffled his hair. Here was one spot which was unchanged. It was good to discover that some things didn’t change. Though remodeled, the sheds and stalls of the old market straggled along the right side of the street ahead of him. There was the traditional coffee stand offering its café noir and café au lait; as always, the flow of rickety trucks and farm wagons; the babble of strange tongues; and the mixture of white and black with all the shadings in between.
Shayne replaced his hat and pulled it low over his eyes, picked up the suitcase, and crossed Decatur to stroll up Dumaine. He found the number he was looking for halfway up the block and was pleased to discover that his memory for street numbers in the Quarter had remained with him during his nine-year absence.
The building was ancient, three stories, and had been converted into apartments, four to the floor on either side, with a private balcony protected by a wrought-iron railing appended to each apartment. A faded sign near the entrance read Peloine Apartments, Hyers and Groop, Managers. The word Vacancy was printed below, and a small square of cardboard pasted in front of the word read NO in inked capitals.
Shayne set his suitcase down and frowned at the sign, then looked at the buildings around the apartment house. Beyond the Peloine was a low-roofed single-story dwelling. The other side of the Peloine was flanked by a fairly new and ugly brick structure which complied with the ancient architectural designs in the neighborhood by providing the same distinctive iron-railed balconies for each hotel room. The two buildings were not more than ten feet apart, the outer rails of the balconies almost touching.
The brick structure bore the unimaginative name: The Hyers Hotel. Shayne walked around, looking the setup over carefully, then strode into the hotel. A Negro bellhop snapped to attention and slid across the tiled floor to take his bag. Shayne sauntered up to the desk and was greeted with brisk cordiality by a short, fat man who slid a registration card forward and handed Shayne a fountain pen.
“Maybe you could give me a little information,” the detective said.
“I will be glad to be of service, sir.” The deferential reply stressed the word “service” with a slight whistle.
Shayne got out his wallet. He took out a small slip of paper and some one-dollar bills. He folded three of the bills lengthwise and held them between two fingers, extending them toward the clerk while he read the slip of paper: Apartment 303, The Peloine Apartments. He glanced up at the clerk. “The Peloine is next door. Do you happen to know where number three-oh-three would be located in the building?”