Shayne caught Quinlan’s arm and drew him back against the building, murmuring, “Let’s watch this.”
The inspector looked at Shayne with a puzzled frown. Shayne gestured toward the man who was turning away from the cab. Light from the street lamp showed the lined face of Mr. Drake beneath the brim of the derby. A policeman intercepted him as he started toward the apartment-house doorway. They were close enough for Shayne and the inspector to hear the bluecoat say, “Wait a minute, Mister. You got any business in there?”
“Naturally,” the man snapped in a high-pitched voice. For the first time, he appeared aware of the crowd and the cops, the waiting ambulance and the body on the stretcher. He stared about nervously, asked, “Has there been — an accident?”
The cop said, “A little accident — like murder.”
The foppishly dressed man repeated, “Murder? Dear me, how tragic.”
“For the gal, yeh. You live in this apartment?”
“No. A — girl, you say?” Drake sucked in his breath, drawing his lips tight to indicate complete disapproval. He stepped back, murmuring, “My errand isn’t really urgent.” He turned to see whether his cab had pulled away.
Shayne took a long step forward and called, “Mr. Drake!” sharply.
The man wheeled and looked around in confusion. Shayne stepped closer and said, “This is what the cops left of me.”
Drake stammered, “You’re the man—”