Shayne looked at his watch. “Thus far you’ve managed to tell us you have a headstrong daughter.”
J. P. Little fidgeted in his chair. “It’s difficult to tell you,” he murmured, then continued more firmly. “Barbara is ambitious to be a writer, has been since she was a young girl in her teens. But I’m afraid she isn’t a good writer.” He allowed himself a wan smile. “I’ve discouraged her. She resented that. She felt I was unfairly critical of her work. A month ago she tried to commit suicide. She left a note saying that she was a failure and there was no use going on.” He lifted pale, worried eyes to Shayne’s hard gray gaze.
“How old is your daughter now?” Shayne asked.
“Twenty-three. It was absurd, of course. A failure at twenty-three.” Mr. Little shook his head and sighed deeply.
“Go on about the suicide attempt,” Shayne demanded.
“I had brought her to Miami for a rest. She disappeared the next day. All her personal effects were left behind — with the suicide note.” He nervously smoothed his thinning hair, and added, “It was ghastly for me.”
Rourke, who had straddled the straight chair, was sitting facing its back, his pointed chin nestled in his palms. He said brightly, “You remember, Mike. There was a story in the papers. They dragged a girl’s body from the bay a couple of days later and I went with Joe to the morgue to see if he could identify her. I wrote a hell of a story about it. One of the most human interest things I ever did.”
Shayne shook his head. “A month ago? I wasn’t paying much attention to the papers then.” He turned to J. P. Little. “And it wasn’t your daughter?”
The editor shuddered. “No. I’ll never forget going into that morgue. But — it wasn’t Barbara. A few days later I received a letter from her posted in New Orleans. She had run away on a sudden impulse after discovering that she couldn’t take her own life. She was determined, though, to live as she pleased, she said. She had taken an assumed name and was going to submit her stories under that pseudonym. She had, you see, a feeling that because she was my daughter, other editors were prejudiced against her.”
Shayne was bent forward again, making no effort to hide his interest. His eyes were very bright. He looked at Joseph P. Little, and the ghost of a grin flitted over his gaunt face. He said, “A twenty-three-year-old girl can take care of herself in New Orleans if she’s as headstrong as you say. What the hell are you worrying about? Leave her alone to work out her own destiny. Maybe she can write.”