Drake said stiffly, “I’m very well, thank you.” Neither of them offered to shake hands.
Shayne said irritably, “I want the truth, Little. Why did you lie to me in Miami?”
The editor’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down. He wet his lips. “I’m not certain I know what you mean.”
Shayne turned to Timothy Rourke. “You heard our discussion in Miami, Tim. Does Mr. Drake remind you of anyone described by Little at that time?”
Rourke came closer and carefully surveyed Drake. “Sure. He’s the menace Little warned you against.”
Joseph P. Little burst out, “He is, indeed. You must understand, Mr. Shayne, that I couldn’t bring myself to explain that he was actually Barbara’s uncle.”
“You made up the whole story,” Shayne snorted, “about him being a dope peddler and a threat to your daughter’s life.”
“Yes, I did. All of it except that last statement, Mr. Shayne.” Little appeared to grow in stature and his pale eyes glittered. “I sent you here to protect Barbara from Edmund Drake. I believed then that her life would be in danger if he found her. And I would believe now that he murdered her if the crime had not been confessed by another person.”
“You’ve always hated me, Joseph.” Drake’s tongue dripped venom. “You wouldn’t let us see Barbara because you knew she preferred her aunt and me — to you.”
“Yes, Edmund, I’ve always hated you.” Mr. Little took off his pince-nez and spoke quite firmly. “I’ve hated you ever since you married my sister and squandered her substance. You ruined her life — sent her to her deathbed with a broken heart and a wrecked body. I kept Barbara away from you because I didn’t want her to learn what a loathsome thing you really are.”