Inspector Quinlan said, “It sounds crazy to me. Right now it’s your word, Drake, against Shayne’s. He looked at Shayne and said, “Produce your proof.”
Shayne took a long drag on his cigarette. His eyes were narrowed upon Drake as the man unbuttoned his coat, reached to the inside pocket, and drew out a pigskin wallet. Drake produced a handful of identification cards and traveler’s checks and spread them on the desk. “I think these will be sufficient to establish my identity,” he said.
Quinlan glanced at them casually. “You seem to be Edmund Drake,” he said, “but that doesn’t prove you’re the girl’s uncle. How about it, Shayne? You know anything about an uncle named Drake?”
Shayne said, “No.”
“Your client — the murdered girl’s father — didn’t mention an uncle by the name of Drake?” Quinlan asked.
“The name doesn’t mean anything either way. How,” he asked Drake, “does the uncle business come in?”
“My wife is Barbara’s aunt — her father’s sister, his only sister,” Drake supplied.
“Wait a minute,” Shayne said. “Is your wife in New Orleans with you?”
“My wife is in New York.” Drake made a point of contemptuously ignoring Shayne. He spoke directly to Quinlan. “She is ill, confined to her bed.”
Shayne drew in a long breath. He said to the inspector, “Ask him when he last heard from his wife.”