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.