“Thanks to the young man who invited him here,” Soule purred.
“Yeh. Thanks to Henri. But that’s not the point right now. I say let’s hang the murder on Shayne.”
“Henri fits a frame lots better than I do,” Shayne told them wolfishly. “He had the motive. I swear that’s all I want,” he went on earnestly. “I came to New Orleans on one job. When that’s finished I’m through here.”
“Sounds all right to me,” said Soule. “Henri’s been getting too free with those cards he passes out. Like Drake. He’s going to use us for an alibi if the pressure gets hot. That means publicity. Gives a place a bad name.”
“Denton tipped me to Drake,” Henri expostulated sullenly. “If you want to get sore—”
“Nobody’s sore,” Soule told him calmly. “The harm’s been done and we’ve got to patch it up.” He addressed Shayne. “Do you need any more than you’ve got or will you be satisfied with Henri?”
“Damn you,” raged Henri, “you’d sell me out like that! Not if I know it. I’ll bust things wide open, and I know plenty to bust it with.”
Shayne grinned at Soule. “Sometimes murderers get an attack of conscience and commit suicide when they think they’re going to get caught. That way they don’t do any talking afterward.”
“It’s an idea,” Soule agreed. “How do you like it?” He looked at Denton for sanction.
“Shayne’s talking you into something,” Denton grunted suspiciously. “I’d like it better if he got an attack of conscience and committed suicide.”