“How about it, Drake?” Quinlan asked.
Edmund Drake sat hunched in the chair. His eyes were closed. His lips moved as though he silently repeated a prayer. His appearance was that of a man stricken with grief.
“How about it?” Quinlan demanded again.
Drake’s red-veined eyes opened slowly. A film of moisture had gathered in them. He lifted one delicate hand and let it fall limply in his lap. “I don’t know. I — it’s hard to accept. Even when one knows death is inevitable, it’s always a terrible shock.”
“How do you explain,” Quinlan pounded out, “that her death is news to you? Why were you not informed immediately?”
“I–I see what you mean, Captain,” Drake said, “but it’s really quite simple. They have not yet received my New Orleans address. I wrote yesterday, giving it — as soon as I registered at the Angelus.” He closed his eyes again.
Quinlan glanced at Shayne. Shayne said, “A perfect picture of a devoted husband. He beats it away from his wife’s deathbed with no arrangements with anyone to keep in touch with him. He doesn’t take the trouble to wire or telephone his address when he arrives, but writes a letter. I don’t get it. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It makes as much sense as all the rest,” Quinlan said. “All I have is your story of the other side. What proof have you that any of your dope is true?”
“None at the moment,” Shayne admitted. “I haven’t even the picture of the girl to bear me out. What did you do with that picture of Barbara after you killed her?” he demanded of Drake.
The foppish little man opened his eyes slowly and looked at Shayne. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he moaned. “What picture?”