Quinlan turned inquiring eyes upon Drake and he said, “Not since I left New York three days ago.”
“Your wife was critically ill, not expected to live when you left her,” Shayne said. “Does she know you’re here? Does she have your address?”
Simultaneously the inspector and Drake looked at Shayne. Drake said, “She has had a long and lingering illness. When I left her she was in no condition to discuss my destination with me. Her physician fears the end may be near.”
Shayne exploded, “With your wife on her deathbed, you go off on a pleasure jaunt to New Orleans?”
“I do not believe,” said Mr. Drake, “that my reason for making this trip is the subject under discussion.”
Shayne said to Quinlan, “You can see the man is lying. He doesn’t even know that his wife, J. P. Little’s sister, died in New York this afternoon — the woman he claims to be his wife.”
There was a moment of dead silence in the office. Inspector Quinlan closed his eyes wearily.
Drake shrank back in his chair, his breath making a hissing sound between his shriveled, set lips. “My wife — dead? This afternoon?” His words were barely audible. Then he roused. His voice rose to a high pitch. “I don’t believe it. It’s a trick.” He appealed to the inspector. “I don’t know what his motive is, but he is evidently trying to incriminate me.”
“Where did you get your information, Shayne?” Quinlan asked.
“From Mr. Little. I called him in Miami after contacting his daughter — as I promised him. He had just received the death message and was taking the train to New York at once. Mr. Little is the woman’s brother,” he went on forcibly. “This guy claims to be her husband, yet he didn’t know of her death until I told him. That should be proof enough that his whole story is a lie.”