“Nothing. I’m trying to give Denton an out before the blowoff comes. He’s got his neck away out on that confession.”
“You’re trying to give him an out? I thought you two hated each other.”
“I hate his guts,” Shayne responded promptly. “I’d give plenty to hang one around his neck and see him go down the third time. But hell, he’s got this on me.” Shayne patted his pocket holding the picture. “I’d be a fool to force him to use it.”
“Why don’t you talk plain language?”
“All right. Denton lies when he says Evalyn Jordan confessed to him that she killed Margo Macon.”
When Soule didn’t reply, Shayne went on. “He’s just dumb enough to think it was smart. The girl is dead and can’t deny it. Her suicide looked like an admission of guilt. She even had sort of a motive. It looked perfect — to take the heat off Henri, to make it easy on me to get out of town without quitting, to keep this place out of the headlines if the investigation went on and Drake was forced to use the Daphne for an alibi.”
Soule said thoughtfully, “I don’t know. If it was a plant it looks like a hell of a good one to me. How can you prove anything?”
“The fault with you and Denton is that neither of you know anything about this case. I was working on it before the murder. As soon as Quinlan let me go, I contacted the two girls who had dinner with Margo and got their stories. I’ve got a couple of important contacts here in New Orleans — undercover men. I’ve had a tail on the Jordan girl every minute. A sort of specialist, you might call him.” Shayne paused and his upper lip came back from his teeth as he contemplated the tip of his cigarette.
“What the devil are you getting at?” Soule demanded angrily.
Shayne leaned forward. “Just this. There was a Dictaphone planted next door to the Jordan girl’s apartment. I’ve got a record of every word that was said in that apartment from ten o’clock last night until this morning.” He leaned back and took a long drag on his cigarette.