“The name is Shayne.” He lifted his voice to the white-coated orderlies who were sliding the stretcher into the ambulance, “Hold it a minute, boys. I’d like to have Mr. Drake see the victim.”
Inspector Quinlan had moved unobtrusively to stand beside Shayne. His cold blue eyes were puzzled, but he made no effort to interfere.
Drake’s jaw sagged at Shayne’s words. He shot a startled glance at Shayne and then at the stretcher which was being drawn from the ambulance. “I really don’t see why I should look at a — a corpse.”
“You will after you take a look at the girl,” Shayne assured him grimly. He caught Drake’s arm, felt it tremble in his grasp as he swung Drake about and led him to the stretcher.
One of the orderlies pulled the sheet down to expose the ghastly, bloodstained face of Barbara Little to the pitiless light of the street lamp. After one brief glance Drake shuddered violently and turned his lace away. “It’s — good gracious, it can’t be — Barbara!” he tremoloed in a high falsetto.
“Take a good look,” Shayne urged.
Drake turned his head back slowly. “It — it is Barbara, isn’t it?”
Shayne stepped back and said slowly, “I think Inspector Quinlan has a few questions to ask you.”
Drake turned. His lined features were haggard. “I don’t understand,” he faltered. “If that’s actually Barbara Little — but she called me just this evening. She asked me to come to her. I have the message right here.” He dug frantically in a vest pocket.
Quinlan nodded curtly to two of his men and said, “Bring him along — and let’s get going.” He went ahead of Shayne to his car and got in, left the door open, and started the motor. Shayne got in beside him, and Quinlan said, “You’d better start talking. I know you by reputation, so don’t waste time on past history.”