When Dorinda Dances

by Brett Halliday

  Outside, in the arcade, he looked at his watch. It was nearly twelve o’clock—time for a telephone call from Washington and a showdown with Judge Lansdowne.

  CHAPTER XIV

  Lucy Hamilton had the receiver pressed against her ear and was saying, “I expect Mr. Shayne any minute, operator,” when Shayne burst into the outer office.

  “Hold it, Lucy,” he called out, and long-legged it into his private office where he sailed his hat toward the rack on his way to the desk. He grabbed the receiver as he lowered himself into the swivel chair and said, “Michael Shayne speaking.”

  A deep, resonant voice inquired, “Mr. Shayne? I don’t believe—”

  “You don’t know me, Judge. I’m a private detective in Miami, Florida.”

  “I was informed you wished to speak to me about my daughter,” said the judge.

  “That’s right. Do you know where Julia is?”

  “Of course. She’s visiting a college friend in Palm Beach during vacation. Has anything happened to her?”

  “I hope not,” Shayne told him sincerely. He drew in a long breath and chose his words with care. “We have something here which probably involves an impostor—or a case of mistaken identity. A girl came to me last night claiming to be your daughter. Later she disappeared under mysterious circumstances, and we haven’t been able to locate her. If she is your daughter, she may be in trouble. If not—Well, I’d like to know definitely.”

  “What sort of trouble?” the judge asked anxiously.

  “It’s a long and complicated story,” Shayne parried. “The important thing is to establish her identity. Can you give me the name of her friend in Palm Beach?”

  There was a brief silence. Then Judge Lansdowne said uncertainly, “I’ll have to contact my wife’s social secretary to get the name. In the meantime, tell me what—”

  “Please do,” Shayne said urgently. “And call me back at once. But while we’re connected there are a couple of other things. I understand Mrs. Lansdowne is quite ill.”

  “For quite some time, and recently she had a severe relapse. What about—”

  “Do you know a Mrs. Davis who is one of your wife’s closest friends?” Shayne cut in sharply.

  Again there was silence. Longer this time, and when the judge spoke his voice rasped with impatience and worry. “I am sure I know all of Mrs. Lansdowne’s intimate friends. I don’t know anyone named Davis.”

  “Probably another case of mistaken identity, Judge,” Shayne said gently. “One thing more, and I can clear the whole thing up in a hurry. Do you have any close personal friends in Miami?”

  “A great many who visit Miami during the season,” the judge said. “What are you getting at, Shayne? I know of you by reputation, but I never thought—”

  “I’m referring to residents here in Miami. Do you have any close friends among the people in business here?”

  For the third time there was silence at the other end of the wire. Then the judge said, “Of course. A young man named Godfrey. He worked with me during the early days of the New Deal. He’s in the fruit business, and always remembers me.”

  “Hiram Godfrey?”

  “Yes. I haven’t seen him for several years, but—”

  “Thanks, Judge. Call me back the minute you get the name of the girl Julia is visiting in Palm Beach.” He hung up, rocked back in his chair, and tugged at his left ear lobe.

  So, that was one more item of Dorinda’s story verified. Who else would know that Godfrey was a friend of Judge Lansdowne’s? Since it was Godfrey and not Brewer, it explained why Mrs. Davis hadn’t recognized Brewer when they met in the outer office.

  But what the hell else did it mean? And who and where was Mrs. Davis?

  He reached out and dragged the receiver from its cradle. When Lucy answered he said, “See if you can reach Will Gentry. Put him on this line and hang up. If Washington calls while I’m talking, put them right on.”

  He lit a cigarette and waited. When Chief Gentry’s voice rumbled over the wire he said, “I expect to have definite word from Washington on the Lansdowne girl soon. You got anything there?”

  “Not one damned thing,” Gentry growled. “What did Black say about the pictures of Godfrey?”

  “About what I expected. He’s pretty sure the man he tailed was Godfrey, but refuses to positively identify him from the pix. Put Godfrey in a line-up and he’ll say yes or no.”

  “I knew Rourke’s idea was crazy all the time.”

  “Yeh? Well, here’s an improvement on it that maybe you’ll like better, Will. Elliott Gibson handed me a theory for free.”

  “My God,” groaned Gentry. “Maybe you and I had better close up shop. Who does Gibson think the stiff is? Hitler?”

  “No. He’s sticking to Brewer like a fly on fresh flypaper. That much I like better than Tim’s guess. Gibson thinks Godfrey hired somebody to pose as him and provide an alibi while he was bumping off Brewer after he left my office—which is one explanation for Brewer not turning up at Gibson’s.”

  “Nuts,” Gentry said wearily.

  “Wait, Will. That New York plane will be landing soon, and I think enough of Gibson’s story to have the crew interviewed as soon as they land. Particularly the stewardess. Try to find out if there’s any possibility that the man who gets off with Godfrey’s ticket stub is not the same man who boarded the plane in Miami this morning.”

  Will Gentry took time to think before saying slowly, “I see what you mean. If Godfrey changed places with an accomplice somewhere along the line, his alibi will be shot to hell and we can bring him back to confront Black. By God, Mike! Maybe you and I should turn our badges over to that lawyer.”

  Shayne grinned and said, “Maybe.” He hung up, came to his feet, and began pacing angrily up and down the office while he waited for final word from Judge Lansdowne.

  There was a strong possibility that Gibson had stumbled on to the truth about Milton Brewer’s death, he admitted. But what did that have to do with the disappearance of Dorinda and Mrs. Davis? Nothing, probably. Yet there was that tenuous connection between Lansdowne and Hiram Godfrey. And the coincidence of the two clients showing up in his office within a few minutes of each other.

  The phone rang. He swooped it up and heard Lansdowne’s voice say calmly, “Shayne? You can stop worrying about Julia. I’ve just talked with her. She’s in Palm Beach, and tells me she hasn’t been in Miami for months. She hasn’t heard anything about anyone impersonating her in Miami, so there has evidently been some mistake at your end. If I can be of any further help—”

  “You can,” Shayne cut in hastily. “I’d like the name and address of the people she’s visiting.”

  “Certainly. But I assure you Julia is perfectly well and safe. One moment. A Miss Elizabeth Connaught. She lives with her parents.” He gave Shayne a West Palm Beach street address and telephone number.

  Shayne made a note of it, thanked him, and his wide mouth was set in grim lines when he cradled the receiver.

  This information meant that Dorinda had lied like hell to him last night—or Julia Lansdowne had lied like hell to her father today. The latter was just as possible as the former, but why the devil, if she were Julia Lansdowne, had she hurried back to Palm Beach without letting him know where she was after leaving his apartment? She must have realized he would start a search for her when she didn’t go to Lucy Hamilton, and that he would almost certainly contact her parents when he failed to find her.

  Shayne swore under his breath. She had been ashamed and terrified, of course. But if she had trusted him at all—

  He couldn’t let it drop now. He had to know the truth. Even though Dorinda was safe in Palm Beach, there was still Mrs. Davis to consider.

  He got up abruptly and stalked to the outer office where Lucy was preparing to go out for lunch. He grinned and asked, “Want to go for a ride—to make up for last night?”

  Lucy’s brown eyes brightened. “I wasn’t really sore, Michael. I just thought I’d show you
.”

  “I’m driving up to Palm Beach and may need a chaperon.” His grin widened and he added, “I imagine she’ll have on her clothes this afternoon.”

  “To Palm Beach? Wait—I’ll get my hat.”

  CHAPTER XV

  Michael Shayne and his secretary stopped for lunch at a seaside restaurant in Hollywood. During the drive from Miami, Shayne had gone over everything with Lucy, trying to clarify his own thoughts.

  Lucy had listened in silence, and now as they sat at a small table with breakers crashing on the shore less than fifty feet away, she said thoughtfully, “It seems to me that Mrs. Davis is the one you should be worried about right now. Actually, Mr. Brewer’s death isn’t any concern of yours.”

  “It is indirectly. It was I who put Hank Black on the job and helped provide Godfrey with an alibi,” he reminded her, “if the dead man is Brewer, and Gibson’s solution is correct.”

  “But Mrs. Davis is your client.” Lucy frowned, and her brown eyes were anxious. “I liked her, Michael. I think it was grand the way she came to the help of her friend, and the way she actually defended Julia and wasn’t shocked by her nude dancing. She seemed so honest and so nice. If anything has happened to her it will be terrible.”

  Shayne nodded and said morosely, “I have much the same feeling. And I’m afraid something has happened to her. Otherwise she certainly would have gotten in touch with me. As soon as we get a look at the Lansdowne girl we’ll know how much of Mrs. Davis’s story was the truth.”

  Lucy looked surprised and disturbed. “What makes you doubt her, Michael?”

  “If Julia Lansdowne isn’t Dorinda,” Shayne pointed out, “we’ll know Mrs. Davis was lying from the word go. Don’t forget that she claimed to have been at La Roma and recognized the dancer as the daughter of her old friend.”

  “And I believe every word of it,” said Lucy staunchly. “I had the inter-com open during her interview with you, and she sounded awfully sincere to me.”

  “Yeh.” Shayne tugged at his ear lobe while the waiter removed the luncheon dishes. When coffee with ponies of brandy was served, he continued. “Don’t get me wrong. I think we’ll discover that Julia and Dorinda are the same person. I’m inclined to believe she just got frightened after going down the fire escape last night, and hurried back to Palm Beach on a sudden impulse—hoping to bluff it out and pretend she’d been there all the time when inquiries were made. But I still don’t understand why she didn’t get in touch with me and explain what she had done,” he ended disgustedly.

  “I understand now,” Lucy mused, “why you asked me this morning whether I noticed any sign of recognition between Mrs. Davis and Mr. Brewer. That was before you knew which of the partners was Judge Lansdowne’s friend.”

  Shayne nodded, lacing cognac into his cup of steaming coffee.

  After a moment of deep reflection Lucy asked, “Have you thought that it might have been Hiram Godfrey who sent that picture of Dorinda and the anonymous note to Mrs. Lansdowne?”

  Shayne jerked his head up and looked at her in amazement. “Godfrey—a blackmailer? The judge’s friend?”

  “I’m not accusing him, Michael. But I’m remembering something you said to Mrs. Davis near the beginning of the interview, after you read the unsigned note. You asked her, ‘Do you think this note is in the nature of a threat? Or a friendly gesture by someone who felt her parents should know the truth?’”

  “I remember asking that. The note was signed, ‘A Friend.’ And it merely said, ‘Would this sort of publicity help Julia’s father?’ It could be construed either way.”

  “Don’t you see? That’s why I wonder if Mr. Godfrey sent it. From what you’ve said about him, he’s the sort of man who might go to a place like La Roma. If he did, and recognized Dorinda as the daughter of an old friend, he might have felt that the family should know about it and get her away from there.”

  Shayne scowled and took a drink of coffee. “But if he was a friend, wouldn’t he have let the judge know privately?”

  “I don’t think so, Michael. You remember how insistent Mrs. Davis was that the judge shouldn’t know. I think women are more capable of accepting a situation like that than men,” she said simply. “A man might go all to pieces and disown his daughter—or something. But a mother would be apt to react exactly as Mrs. Lansdowne did. She would accept the situation and do whatever needed to be done.”

  Shayne said, “By God, Lucy, you may have put your finger on something. All the time I’ve been going along on the assumption that Ricky Moran was trying to blackmail the Lansdownes, and that he probably got to Mrs. Davis after she had been to my office.

  “Which he might have done,” he went on meditatively, “even though he hadn’t sent the picture and note and knew nothing about it. I’m assuming that he knew Mrs. Davis was at La Roma trying to see Dorinda, and was determined to prevent any contact between the two. Let’s get on to Palm Beach and settle one thing for certain before we do any more guessing.” He arose abruptly and laid a bill on the table to cover the check and tip.

  The Connaught residence was an unobtrusive two-story house of native rock set in the center of an unpretentious garden. Shayne parked his car in front, and they went up the walk to a colonnaded porch where he rang the bell. It was answered by a maid whose friendly smile slowly faded when Shayne said, “We would like to see Miss Julia Lansdowne, please.”

  The maid shook her head and avoided his eyes. “Miss Lansdowne is not in, I’m afraid.”

  “When do you expect her back?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Who is it, Jennie?” A clear young voice floated out from the interior of the house. The maid jerked her head around and said confusedly, “Some people to see Miss Julia. I told them—”

  “A lie, I think,” said Shayne, raising his voice. “We’re friends of Dorinda’s, Miss Connaught, and if you want to keep your friend’s secret, you’d better let us in.”

  There was a brief silence; then the sound of light footsteps running down the stairway and approaching the door.

  “I’ll take care of this, Jennie,” the voice said firmly. The maid hurried away, and an obviously frightened girl stood before them and declared, “I don’t know any Dorinda, and I’m quite sure Julia doesn’t. If you want me to give her a message—”

  “I want to see her,” said Shayne quietly. “I’ve been in touch with Julia’s father, and she has nothing to fear from me if she sees me at once. If not, I’m afraid the whole thing will blow up in her face.”

  “You’re—the private detective, aren’t you? I’m Elizabeth Connaught. I told Julia that she couldn’t—that she’d better—” She paused, and a scarlet flush flooded her cheeks. She caught her underlip between her teeth, then stood aside. “Please come in and wait in the library. I’ll fetch Julia.”

  The high-ceilinged room was comfortably cool. The Venetian blinds were drawn to shut out the sun’s glare, and the books in the cases appeared well worn from handling. A heavy volume lay open on a long, old table, and two others were closed with satin markers showing.

  As soon as they were alone, Lucy explained, “That’s all we need to know, really. She practically admitted that Julia is Dorinda.”

  Shayne nodded absently. “I still want to know why she ran out on me last night.”

  Elizabeth Connaught re-entered the room with Dorinda by her side. She wore a sheer blue blouse and a white sport skirt, and no make-up. Her eyes were enormous and frightened, and her face was tight with strain.

  Julia Lansdowne met Shayne’s grim gaze defiantly, her slender body drawn up to its full height. She parted her lips to speak, then closed them. With one hand she clung desperately to her friend’s arm and she closed her eyes tightly, as though to dispel a fearful nightmare, when Shayne said formally, “I’d like to present Miss Hamilton, Miss Lansdowne, Miss Connaught.”

  The two girls murmured acknowledgement of the introduction. Suddenly Julia shuddered violently, released her friend’s arm, a
nd crumpled into a chair, sobbing.

  Shayne took two steps toward her and said, “I think you owe Miss Hamilton an apology for keeping her up waiting for you from four o’clock on this morning.”

  “Michael!” Lucy gasped.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I really am,” Julia choked out between racking sobs. “And I’m so ashamed. I’ve been half crazy with fear. I didn’t know what to do.”

  Elizabeth Connaught and Lucy Hamilton converged on Shayne at the same instant. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” cried Elizabeth. “Let her alone. Hasn’t she—”

  “No!” Julia jerked her head up, wiping her eyes with a sodden, wispy handkerchief. She blew her nose gently, and said, “Mr. Shayne is right, Elizabeth. I wanted to call you,” she continued, “but when I heard the shot and saw Ricky fall over, everything just went blank. All I could think of was getting away—and getting back here before anybody checked up on me. I’m sorry if I inconvenienced Miss Hamilton.”

  “What’s that about Moran?” Shayne interrupted harshly. “Where were you when he shot himself?”

  “On the l-landing—r-right outside your kitchen door. I could see in the living-room, and I—I heard all those awful lies he t-told you.”

  “Wait a minute!” Shayne was honestly perplexed. “I watched you go down the fire escape before I let Moran come up.”

  Lucy stepped to the girl’s side and put a fresh handkerchief in her hand. Julia nodded her thanks, blew her nose, and resumed. “I know. But when I reached the alley, I began to wonder—about what Ricky would tell you and everything. And I thought maybe I shouldn’t run away. I stayed in the alley, and I saw him when he came out on the fire escape and looked around for me. The kitchen light was on, and I was in the dark, crouching behind a bush. When he went back and you turned the light off in the kitchen I slipped up and stayed outside listening.” As Julia Lansdowne spoke her sobs subsided.

  “So you witnessed everything,” said Shayne. His tone was gentle, musing.