“I doubt it. Maybe, off and on. He’s not a regular. Experimental, perhaps. A lot of perversions take queer turns.”
“What the hell?” Shayne got up and began pacing back and forth in front of Quinlan’s desk. “Did Little feed me a sack of stuff? Why? What reason could he have had to get me down here?” He spread out his big hands as he stalked angrily to and fro.
“You’d better ask Mr. Little,” Quinlan advised.
Shayne came back to stand in front of the desk. “That’s just what I want to do.” He looked at an electric clock behind Quinlan. It was a few minutes past two. “That would be the Dixie Flyer Little was taking out of Miami. There’s a short layover in Jacksonville, after midnight. It’ll be north of Jacksonville now. How about wiring him on the train, Inspector? We’ll need him to clear this thing for us.”
“What are you muttering about?” Quinlan asked.
“Was I?”
“You’re off the beam,” Quinlan said. “Come again.”
Shayne lowered one hip to the desk and repeated what he had said. “That’s the thing to do,” he ended.
“Contact the girl’s father?”
“That’s right. Joseph P. Little.”