Mr. Little nodded almost imperceptibly, started to get up from the chair and fell back with his hands lolling in his lap.
Rourke gasped. “Give him a drink quick, Mike.”
Shayne grabbed the bottle and held it to Little’s mouth. The smaller man moaned, and with an effort he raised his hands to hold it to his lips. He took two small sips and murmured, “Thanks,” as he made a distasteful grimace.
“You rode him too hard, Mike,” Rourke accused. “It’s not easy for a man to give such facts about his own daughter.”
A spot of color rose to Mr. Little’s cheekbones. He ran the tip of his tongue along his lips and said weakly, “It is a delicate situation — but I must go on if Mr. Shayne is to help me.” His eyes looked dully up at Rourke.
Shayne said, “Here, take another drink. Sorry I haven’t another glass.” He offered the bottle.
Mr. Little shook his head. “I am not a drinking man. I feel stronger, though.”
Shayne said, “Maybe I was too impatient. Go on with your story if you feel up to it.”
Rourke sat down again and Mr. Little relaxed as best he could in the straight chair. “I mentioned Barbara’s recurrent use of drugs. There was a man whom she contacted while she was recovering from her illness. She told me about him. It was he who encouraged her. He taught her to become an addict — and worse.” His voice trembled and he stopped to take a deep breath, then went on. “I know so few of the actual details. I did not press her to reveal them, but she hinted of depravities — when she was under the influence, of course. She tried to break away from this man, but he followed her to New Orleans.”
“Now, we’re getting somewhere,” Shayne said. “I think I know the sort of man you’re talking about.”