Quinlan scribbled a notation which read, Joseph P. Little, Dixie Flyer.
“It’s somewhere between Jacksonville and New York,” Shayne said. “Either Drake or Little is a damned liar,” he mused aloud. “If Little sent me down here on a phony build-up—”
“If Little backs up your story when he gets here you’ll be in a much better position. In the meantime, you’re my only suspect.”
“Do you mean you’re going to hold me?” Shayne asked.
“Why not?” Quinlan leaned forward and pointed a finger at a button on his desk.
“Wait,” Shayne said hastily. “You don’t think I killed the girl.”
“I’m not paid to think on a murder case.” Quinlan’s finger hovered over the button.
“You know damned well,” Shayne said strongly, “that I didn’t beat that girl’s head in. Denton doesn’t believe it, either. He saw a chance to put Chief McCracken on the spot through me. You’re playing stooge for Denton if you lock me up.”
Quinlan drummed his finger tips on the desk top. “Go on,” he said.
“Give me a few hours. You let Drake walk out of here. Give me a chance to clean this thing up before Little gets here. How do you think I’m going to feel if he walks in and finds out that I not only fell down on the job but am actually accused of murdering his daughter — a girl I never saw before yesterday?”