“Lucile?”
“Lucile Hamilton.”
“It’s confusing as hell,” Quinlan grumbled, “all those names. Let’s stick to Barbara Little for Macon. How did you locate her — I mean Lucile Hamilton?”
“In the telephone directory,” Shayne told him.
“We tried the Lucile Hamilton on North Rampart. She was out. Hasn’t answered her phone all night.”
“I was out with her.”
“Well, I guess that washes the whole thing up. To tell you the truth,” Quinlan continued, “I’d hoped her story might not jibe with the one Denton claims the other girl told him before she died. I wouldn’t put it past him to have made up the confession just to get the publicity and steal a march on my department.”
Shayne asked abruptly, “What have you got on Drake? And have you heard from Joseph P. Little?”
“My wire caught Little on the train you said he was on. He wired me he was changing trains to get back to Jacksonville and would fly, if possible, and reach here as soon as he could.”
“And Drake? Does he still claim to be the girl’s uncle?”