Mr. Little rose from his chair, but his body trembled violently, and he sank slowly into it again. “I can’t — tell you. It’s too horrible.”
“If you want help from me, I’ve got to know what you’re talking about.”
Mr. Little’s tongue moistened his lips. “If you could go to New Orleans and contact her — gain her confidence — establish yourself so you could keep a guard over her—”
Timothy Rourke’s nose was trembling like a bloodhound’s. “Mike is right,” he told the editor. “If you can’t trust him with all the angles, how can you expect him to help you?”
“It isn’t that I don’t trust him,” Mr. Little said in despair.
Shayne snorted. He glared at Rourke and said, “Thanks for dropping in. Don’t bother to close the door on your way out. I’ve got several things to do before catching a train for New York.”
Rourke pulled himself up from his straddled position on the chair. “Sorry things didn’t work out.”
Mr. Little made no move to get up. His face had paled until its hue was a yellowish green. He said, in a husky whisper, “Of course you cannot handle the situation without knowing the whole truth.”
Shayne went on to the wall cabinet and took out the Monnet bottle. He brought it back to the desk and splashed cognac into his glass.
Rourke said to Little, “We’d better be going.”