“You came to New Orleans specifically to see her?”
“Yes — no — that is, well, in a way.” Drake was beginning to get hold of himself. His thin shoulders were rigidly upright, his head at a dignified angle.
“When did you succeed in contacting her?”
“I hadn’t,” he answered defiantly. “That is, not until she telephoned me this evening.”
“At what time did she telephone you?”
“I have the message here.” He drew a slip of paper from his vest pocket and studied it. “It’s marked ten-eighteen by the hotel clerk.”
Quinlan held out his hand for the slip of paper. He said, “That was about three hours ago,” glancing at his wrist watch.
“Of course. But I didn’t get it until I returned to my hotel a short time ago.”
Quinlan’s blue eyes surveyed Drake with cold appraisal, then read the message on the slip of paper. “There’s nothing here that indicates the girl wanted you to call on her. Wasn’t it presumptuous on your part to think she expected you to visit her apartment three hours after she called — after midnight?”
“I was afraid it was urgent. I was surprised to receive the message. I thought I’d better see her.”