“Brewer mentioned that he was married two years ago,” said Shayne.
Rourke stopped at a two-column story from the society page describing the wedding. “For chrissake,” he groaned. “No pics at all. Hold it a minute, Mike. Let me talk to Harrison. I’m pretty sure he was on that job.” He crossed the room with long, lanky steps and disappeared through an open door.
Shayne lit a cigarette and watched the smoke roll up through narrowed, brooding eyes. He had only begun speculating upon the possible meaning of this new development when the reporter rushed back to the room with the alacrity of a football player making a flying tackle.
“How do you like this, Mike? Harrison knows Brewer from way back. The guy’s allergic to pictures—absolutely refuses to pose, and raises hell if anybody tries to steal one. And get this! Harrison swears Brewer put the same lid on pictures of his bride. No pics of either one so far as he knows, and he’s been on the job twenty-five years.” Rourke slumped in his chair, panting for breath. “What does that mean to you?”
“What does it mean to you?” Shayne parried.
“That Brewer would have a good chance of getting away with a disappearance. Don’t you get it? Ordinarily, we’d run a shot of him on the front page in case of a mysterious death like this bay thing.” He paused and drew in deep drafts of air, then resumed. “And with him hiding out and trying to make his getaway, there’d always be the chance someone would recognize him. But with no picture in the papers, he’s safe.”
Shayne said calmly, “Are you going to tell me that Brewer has been figuring on something like this for ten years?”
Rourke’s enthusiasm was undaunted. “Not necessarily. But you have to admit it gives him an added factor of safety when he does get in a spot where he wants to disappear.”
“There’s generally a reason when a man is allergic to having his picture taken,” Shayne granted. “I’d like to know what Brewer’s was.” He paused a moment, then suggested, “Call his house and talk to his housekeeper. Tell her the paper wants to run his picture in connection with your story on his death.”
Rourke went out to telephone. Henry Black was with him when he returned.
“Brewer really had a phobia,” the reporter said exultantly. “The housekeeper says there ain’t no such thing. Not even a snapshot. She seemed surprised that everybody didn’t know about Mr. Brewer’s little peculiarity.”
Black came over and stood behind Shayne’s chair. Shayne spread out the two photographs of Hiram Godfrey and said, “Recognize this guy, Hank?”
Black bent over the table and studied them under the bright light for a long moment. “Godfrey?” he asked uncertainly.
“You tell us,” Shayne urged.
Black pulled up a chair and sat down. “I never saw him before last night, Mike,” he protested. “Looks like him.”
“Look, Hank,” said Rourke hastily. “I don’t want to plant any ideas in your head, but would you be willing to go on the witness stand and swear these are pictures of the man you tailed from the Brewer and Godfrey plant to the airport?”
“Put it that way,” said Black, looking steadily at the glossy prints, “no. Mathews and I didn’t get too close, naturally. It wasn’t too light when we picked him up at the plant. The best we saw him was when he came out of a restaurant after he’d been home and got fixed up to go to dinner.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Rourke triumphantly.
“One thing more, Hank. Think back hard. Did you see him stop and speak to anyone all evening? Any friend? Or anyone who called him Godfrey?”
Henry Black frowned and rubbed his blunt jaw. “No. I don’t believe he spoke to anybody that we saw. But he got on that morning plane. We could check the passenger list. What’s up, anyway? Are you saying the guy wasn’t Godfrey?”
“Checking the passenger list is out,” said Rourke. “Naturally, his reservation would be in Godfrey’s name. How do you like it now, Mike?”
Shayne shook his red head guardedly and didn’t answer. He explained to Black. “Tim has a crazy theory that the man you followed had been hired to impersonate Hiram Godfrey. Take another look at the pictures and give it to me straight.”
Black looked again, rumpling his thin hair nervously. “Offhand, I’d say there’s no doubt about it. Same sort of general appearance. But you know how it is on a tailing job. You spot your man and concentrate on staying on him without tipping your hand.”
“Then you wouldn’t swear to it?” said Rourke.
“Not from these pictures. Give me the man himself—let me see him walk, get in his car and drive it—and I’ll tell you definitely one way or the other.”
“If Tim is right, I’m afraid that isn’t feasible,” Shayne told him. “Take those pictures along; go with Hank and try them on Mathews,” he suggested to Rourke. “Maybe you’ve got something at that.” Shayne stood up.
“I’m betting on it.” Rourke scooped up the prints, then asked, “What’s your next move, Mike?”
“A private talk with Attorney Elliott Gibson. I want to know why Brewer didn’t go to his office as he told me he planned; and I want to know something about Brewer’s background before he came to Miami. Why, for instance, he was so damned careful not to have any pictures of him floating around where they might be printed in a newspaper.”
CHAPTER XIII
On the way to Gibson’s office Shayne determinedly shook off the hang-over from Rourke’s theory, and started back at the beginning. Why had Brewer failed to reach his attorney’s office the previous afternoon? The possibility of a traffic accident was out; and it was not probable that he would have stopped in a bar for a drink after declining to take one with him in his office. The distance to Gibson’s office was only two and a half blocks, and Brewer had seemed anxious to get there by six.
Now, Brewer had given the definite impression of being in deathly fear of his life, and he had selected Gibson’s home as a safe place to spend the last night Hiram Godfrey was to be in Miami.
Had something happened in the man’s frenzied mind to change his plan? Had he decided that Gibson’s home might not be so safe, after all? Assuming that the body was Brewer, and accepting Black’s notes as factual, then it became evident that Brewer had an enemy, or enemies, in Miami other than his business partner. Someone who had gotten to him during the time when Henry Black was riding herd on Godfrey.
An enemy, his thoughts raced on as he turned into the arcade and went toward Gibson’s office, who might well have known of Brewer’s fear of Godfrey, yet who was not aware that Brewer, himself, had taken steps to provide Godfrey with a perfect alibi for the night.
Shayne’s mouth was grim. Elliott Gibson certainly fitted that description. As soon as the attorney had learned his client was missing, he hurried to the police to accuse Godfrey, even before it was known that any crime had been committed, and demand that he be taken from the plane en route to New York. Also, there was no doubt of Gibson’s surprise and extreme displeasure when Henry Black’s testimony definitely removed suspicion from Godfrey.
On the other hand, if the situation was as Timothy Rourke theorized—
He turned the knob of the frosted-glass door and entered an anteroom with coral-pink walls and a deep carpet of a duller though blending shade.
The blonde sitting behind the blond desk was as decorative as her setting. Her shoulder-length hair curled up at the ends, and her delicately tanned complexion reflected the glow of the walls. Her long golden lashes were lowered, and her red-tipped fingers punched the keys of an ivory typewriter languidly.
Shayne’s big feet were silent on the deep pile of the rug as he crossed slowly to the desk. The girl looked up with passive disapproval when he said, “I’m investigating the death of one of Gibson’s clients.”
Her eyes were gentian-blue, and her voice icily impersonal when she said, “I presume you’re from the police and have authority for your investigation?”
Shayne dragged off his hat, ran spread fingers thr
ough his unruly red hair, eased one hip down to a corner of the desk, and grinned at her cheerfully. “You’re a liar,” he said easily. “You know who I am, and you probably share your boss’s conviction that I officiated as accessory before and after the fact of Brewer’s death.”
For reply, she tilted her head at a disdainful angle.
“I want to know about some telephone calls yesterday afternoon,” Shayne said patiently.
“Do you wish to speak to Mr. Gibson?”
“I want to talk to you right now. About one call in particular.”
“I’m sorry I can’t assist you. I was out of the office all afternoon.”
“Swimming?”
“I had an appointment with my hairdresser at two, and Mr. Gibson gave me the rest of the afternoon off.”
“Gilding the lily?” Shayne reached over and ran a knobby forefinger through the roll of her curl on one side.
She didn’t move or look at him, but when he removed his finger, she patted the curl into place.
“What’s Gibson afraid of?” he asked abruptly.
“I’m not aware that Mr. Gibson is afraid of anything.” She lowered her long golden lashes and put the fingers of one hand on five typewriter keys.
“How well do you know Brewer?” Shayne persisted.
“I’ve seen him occasionally when he came into the office to consult Mr. Gibson,” she admitted in a cool voice.
“Do you know his wife—and his business partner?”
“Mrs. Brewer accompanied her husband once to sign some papers. I am not acquainted with Mr. Godfrey.”
Shayne stood up and said casually, “How about a date some night? There’s a dancer at La Roma who is terrific—name of Dorinda.”
The girl remained impassive and aloof. “I never go out with strangers. Do you wish to see Mr. Gibson?”
Shayne said he did. She pressed a button on her desk, and he crossed to the connecting door. It opened onto a room three times as large as Shayne’s private office, a masculine room with bare waxed floor, oaken bookshelves rising to the ceiling on three sides, and dominated by a huge flat-topped desk in the center.
Elliott Gibson sat in a swivel chair behind the desk. He remained seated, nodded to the detective, and waved a manicured hand toward three straight chairs and said, “I rather expected you would be around.”
Shayne toed one of the chairs across the polished floor and sat down. “We’re trying to confirm your identification of the body. We need a picture of Brewer. Do you happen to have one around?”
“I do not,” said Gibson. “Not only that, but I seriously doubt whether there is a photograph of Mr. Brewer in existence.”
Shayne stared at him with feigned surprise. “Not even a snapshot?”
“I’m afraid not, Shayne.” Gibson rocked back and smiled indulgently. “A strong antipathy toward photographs was one of Brewer’s few idiosyncracies. It amounted to a phobia with him. I recall once that a caricaturist who made his living in a night club drew a comical picture of him one night. Brewer paid him ten dollars for it, and ripped it to pieces before the man’s eyes. Otherwise, he was perfectly normal, and this is utter nonsense about wanting further identification. What reason have the police for doubting it is Brewer’s body?”
“Something queer has come up,” said Shayne cautiously. “For instance, I presume you knew Hiram Godfrey.”
“Quite well.”
“Think carefully before you answer,” Shayne urged him. “Get a mental picture of Godfrey in your mind and then think back to the murdered man. With his hair dyed black and dressed in Brewer’s clothes and mutilated as the body was—could it possibly be Godfrey instead of Brewer?”
“No.” Gibson’s reply was prompt and positive. “They were nothing at all alike. Brewer was quiet and studious—a thorough gentleman.” He paused, frowning thoughtfully, then resumed. “I’d say Godfrey is a complete extrovert who never matured beyond a pleasure in boyish games and practical jokes. He drank heavily and ran around with a sporty crowd. The two men were completely dissimilar.”
“None of these things have much to do with physical appearances,” Shayne pointed out. “Particularly after one is dead. Brewer began by saying he and Godfrey were about the same size and weight when I had Black on the phone and gave him a description of Godfrey.”
“It’s preposterous,” said Gibson. He smiled faintly, almost as though he pitied Shayne. “Aside from the sheer impossibility of such a thing, have you forgotten that this Black and his man watched Godfrey board the New York plane this morning?”
“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Shayne quietly.
“Then you’re beginning to doubt the truth of his story, too—and agree with me that it was trumped up to provide Godfrey with an alibi. Are you confessing that you were in on the plan, as I suggested to Chief Gentry?”
“I’m not ready to confess anything yet,” Shayne told him, then demanded, “How long have you known Brewer?”
“About six years. He was one of my first clients after I opened this office.”
“What do you know about his past—before you met him—before he teamed up with Godfrey in the fruit business?”
Gibson hesitated, and his whole expression changed. “Why, I really don’t know. We were friends, you understand, but not particularly intimate. I believe he was originally from New York—and inherited a small fortune—” His voice trailed off for a moment, then he asked impatiently, “What has Brewer’s past to do with his death?”
“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted. “But I’ve known men who didn’t want their pictures published because they had something to hide—a previous identity that they were trying to live down. It occurred to me that Brewer’s phobia might be—”
“Nonsense,” Gibson cut in sharply. “I don’t believe it. Not Milton Brewer. I’ve never known a man who was more essentially honest and straightforward in all his dealings.”
Shayne struck fire to a cigarette and took a couple of deep puffs. He asked abruptly, “Have you thought of any explanation for his not coming here from my office yesterday afternoon?”
“No. But I have thought of the new note you interjected when you suggested the possibility that the man whom Black trailed all night and saw board the plane this morning was not Godfrey. Let’s see how that works out.” He rocked forward and narrowed his eyes.
“Let’s assume for the moment that you are telling the truth about your interview with Brewer at five-thirty,” he resumed in crisp, professional tones. “Let’s assume further that Godfrey got wind of Brewer’s intention of hiring a private detective to follow him all night.”
Gibson jerked himself erect and slapped his open palm resoundingly on the desk. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Godfrey sent a man out to the plant, dressed as he was dressed and superficially resembling him, to lead the detectives on a wild-goose chase. In the meantime, Godfrey was waiting outside your office for Brewer to come out. Instead of only a few minutes, he had all night to commit the murder while your friend and his associate faithfully trailed a hoax. Good heavens, man! Can’t you see the damnable duplicity of it?”
Shayne sighed and ground out his cigarette. “Every time I turn around someone hands me a ready-made solution,” he said amiably.
“But this is so obviously the answer,” Gibson raged. “That eight-o’clock plane isn’t due in New York yet. I’ll call the police at once. The man posing as Godfrey must be intercepted.”
“Hold it,” said Shayne. “Gentry has taken care of it. He’ll be picked up the minute he steps off the plane.”
“Good—good! That will be all the proof you need. If the man isn’t Hiram Godfrey, then—”
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple,” Shayne interrupted gravely. “I’ll lay you even money the man is Godfrey.”
“I don’t believe it. Just because you failed to see the obvious truth—”
“Skip it,” Shayne broke in again. He lit a fresh cigarette and resumed. “I admit I sort of lik
e your theory, even though there are a few things that don’t click. But theory or no theory,” he added, “the man will be Godfrey—if he was smart enough to work out all those angles.”
Gibson’s jaws dropped. “I don’t see how,” he sputtered. “If the private detective—Black—is right, and he didn’t lose his man all night—watched him board the plane—”
“I’ll take Black’s word for that,” Shayne told him. “But if I were Godfrey and planning a perfect alibi, I’d be on that plane when it lands at La Guardia. Look at it this way. He had all night to grab an earlier plane and wait at one of the stops for the eight-o’clock plane to land. He could then change places with his confederate, pick up the ticket and baggage checks, and board the plane in his place. If he was smart, that’s what he’d do.”
Gibson swallowed the last of a drink of ice water he had poured from a silver Thermos on his desk, set the glass on the tray, and said, “The stewardess would recall the switch.”
“Not if they were dressed alike and resembled each other,” Shayne argued. “But here’s something else I want to know about. Did you ever hear Brewer speak of Judge Lansdowne?”
“Judge Nigel Lansdowne?” Horizontal lines creased the attorney’s smooth brow. “Why—no. Not that I recall.”
“Could you tell me whether Brewer frequented a night club—La Roma—featuring a dancer called Dorinda?” Shayne watched the attorney narrowly, and he thought he detected a flicker of nervousness or of recognition on his bland features.
After a moment of thought Gibson shook his head and said, “Not Mr. Brewer. He wasn’t the type. That sort of thing would be more in Godfrey’s line.”
Shayne ground out his second cigarette and stood up.
“Don’t worry about Godfrey,” he said. “If he’s on that plane the New York police will keep him under surveillance.”
He turned away and hurried out of Gibson’s private office, jamming his soiled Panama down over his unruly hair. He glanced at the blond secretary who appeared intent upon copying a long legal document. She didn’t look up.
When Dorinda Dances Page 12