“I should hurry to Gibson’s office now. I phoned him on my way to your office and asked him to wait for me.” He hesitated, taking out his wallet again. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am, and if you’ll allow me to pay you something I’d be glad to.”
Shayne shook his red head and said pleasantly, “I’ll drop around in mango season and let you pick me out a case of Haydens.” He got up and lifted his hand in farewell as Mr. Brewer went with a mincing gait to the door.
When the door closed, Shayne poured a small drink of cognac in his glass and gulped it down, reseated himself and leaned back.
The whole thing sounded pretty screwy. From Brewer’s description, Hiram Godfrey sounded like the pleasanter man of the two. It was quite probable, he thought, that Brewer’s own sense of inadequacy and fear had built the whole situation up in his mind. The incident on the boat might well have a dozen different explanations. If Godfrey was okay it wouldn’t do him any harm to be shadowed for one night, he decided, grinning widely, and Henry Black would pick up a couple of centuries for eating money.
He rolled his chair back, got up, and stalked into the outer office to make his peace with Lucy, but she was gone. A note, however, was prominently displayed on her desk. It read:
Go right ahead, Michael Shayne. There are other men in Miami who will appreciate my new dress.
Shayne rubbed his lean jaw and frowned perplexedly. That wasn’t like Lucy. Or was it? How was a man to ever know what any woman was really like?
CHAPTER III
Michael Shayne had showered, shaved, and dressed and was knotting his tie when he heard the living-room door open. He called, “Tim?”
“Why, I thought you were expecting me, Mr. Shayne,” Timothy Rourke said in a high, cracked voice. “I’m the lissome blonde who’s been disturbing your dreams lately.”
“Fine, Hortense,” Shayne returned. “Keep your clothes on and pour yourself a drink.” He drew the knotted tie snug against his collar and went into the living-room humming an off-key version of “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly.”
Rourke was standing beside the battered oak desk which Lucy Hamilton had refused to let him bring into the new office, whisky glass in hand, and peering down with interest at the publicity photo of Dorinda. Elongated and thin with the tough leanness of a greyhound, the reporter had black hair and cavernous slate-gray eyes that gave his face a look of settled melancholy. He looked up from the picture and said, “Nice enough, but looks like jail bait.”
“She’s supposed to be eighteen.” Shayne crossed to the built-in liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of cognac and a wineglass, set them on a low table in front of the couch, then went into the kitchen. He returned with a tumbler of ice cubes and water, settled himself on the couch, and asked, “Know anything about the girl?”
Rourke shook his head sadly and draped his long body in a comfortable chair. “Rumors have seeped around that she’s worth going to the joint to see. Are we taking Lucy with us?”
“Lucy?” Shayne’s ragged brows went up.
“I—ah—inadvertently heard part of your conversation with her before I hung up,” he admitted with a grin.
“I wouldn’t want to shock Lucy. And this is business.”
“What kind of business?”
“Thought you might like to interview her,” said Shayne casually. “Learn the facts of life.”
Rourke’s nostrils quivered. “What’s your interest?”
Shayne frowned, took a sip of cognac, and chased it with ice water. “A client saw that picture,” he said guardedly. “Thinks he recognizes the daughter of an old friend, a Washington big shot and one of the few liberals that haven’t been kicked out. Her family thinks she’s attending Rollins College.”
“Oh, my sweet grandmother—what a lovely, lovely story,” said Rourke. “Who’s the government big shot?”
“It’s not for publication,” Shayne told him flatly. “That’s my job, Tim. To get her out of there and keep it quiet if she does prove to be the right one.”
“Wait a minute, Mike.” Rourke dragged his spine from the chair cushion, his eyes feverishly bright. “I make a living with stories like that. First you say I’m to interview her—”
“You don’t use this story,” Shayne cut in sharply. “My God! Think how our conservative press would crucify her father if it leaked out. Give something like this to one of those archreactionary senators or congressmen—”
“Okay,” said Rourke reluctantly, and resumed his sprawled position. “Although why any honest liberal wants to stay in Washington these days is beyond me. How do we prove the gal’s lying when she gives us a song and dance about being an innocent farm girl from Ohio where she learned this sort of dancing at the local husking-bees?”
“You might be a little help there,” Shayne pointed out mildly. “The management certainly won’t be averse to publicity. You can nose around without anyone suspecting why you’re doing it.”
Rourke sighed. “Lot more interesting to go to the source.”
“We’ll do that, too,” Shayne agreed. He looked at his watch. “Drink up, and let’s be off.”
Rourke emptied his glass and held it out for a refill. “A swell suggestion, Mr. Shayne—knowing the kind of stuff they set out in a place like La Roma.”
Shayne poured a generous drink for Rourke, then asked absently, “Do the names of Brewer and Godfrey mean anything to you?”
“I’ve seen their advertisements. Fruit shippers. Milton Brewer and Hiram Godfrey. Should they mean something?”
“They may—by tomorrow morning. This is a story you might be able to print.” Shayne gave him a brief resume of the facts Brewer had given him.
Rourke’s face showed both interest and amusement, and when Shayne finished, he said, “What’s your bet? Will a couple of private eyes be able to prevent murder if Godfrey actually has it planned?”
“Probably not, if he’s determined. On the other hand, Hank Black is a hell of a good man, and so is Mathews. Fifty-fifty—if Brewer’s assumption is right and it isn’t just a false alarm.” He shrugged and finished his drink, and they went out together.
It was shortly before ten o’clock when Shayne parked his car amid fifty or sixty others in the big parking-lot beside La Roma on the western outskirts of Coral Gables. The building was long, low, and unprepossessing on the outside, with a row of small windows along each side that gave out no light.
The heavy front door opened as they approached, spilling an unhealthy blue light and a miasma of stale air redolent with alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke. A burly man barred their entrance while he looked them over. He wore a dinner jacket that was too small for his formidable body, and thick, hairy wrists protruded from the sleeves. He had a blunt jaw, and his flat nose had the appearance of having been broken several times. When he was dubious about passing them in, Rourke said curtly, “I have a table reserved for ten o’clock.” He gave his name, and the big man stepped aside.
The girl at the hat-check booth on the right gave them a bright smile when they entered. Rourke dragged off his soiled, disreputable Panama, handed it to Shayne, and said, “Take care of it. I’ll go in and see about the table.”
“Okay.” Shayne took off his own snap-brim Panama, smoothed his unruly hair with his palm, took the checks, then stood for a moment looking over the interior of the club.
The stage was round, centered toward the rear of the long building, with tables crowded together on either side, leaving only a narrow corridor for an aisle. Tables circled halfway around the left side of the stage, and heavy drapes marked the entrance and exit for performers on the right. The orchestra was onstage. The conductor, a violinist, held his instrument snug under his chin and waved his bow lazily. They were playing a torch tune that seemed to match the sultry mood of the occupants.
Shayne saw Rourke shaking hands with a small man with a peaked, tired face at a ringside table near the curtains. As he neared them he heard the man say, “A pleasure, Mr. Rourke. A pleasure
indeed. You gentlemen of the press are always welcome at La Roma.” His upper lip was short, and his small upper teeth, fully exposed, had a rabbity, nibbly appearance.
“The press,” said Rourke, “is always looking for news.”
Shayne’s elbow bored into the reporter’s fleshless ribs. Rourke jerked his head around. The manager’s eyes flickered far up and met the detective’s gray gaze. His Adam’s apple quivered up and down. He swallowed hard and said, “It’s Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?” as though he desperately hoped the answer would be negative.
Shayne grinned down at him. “Hello, Lawry. I didn’t know you were here. In fact, I didn’t realize you were in circulation again.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Shayne,” he said earnestly. “It has been several months. I’m assistant manager here. I hope there isn’t going to be any trouble.”
“Why, what sort of trouble, Lawry?” said Shayne with pretended surprise. “If you’re clean—”
“Oh, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t referring to myself. But—if you’re looking for someone, I’m at your service. You know how it is with a place like this. We try to be very careful, but there are always certain characters—” he paused, nervously searching the detective’s face for reassurance, then continued—“who may recognize you and not wish to be recognized. It would be most unpleasant if anything like that should happen.”
Shayne’s grin widened. He gripped the assistant manager’s thin shoulder and said pleasantly, “Relax, Lawry. You must have a select clientele if you think the sight of me might start a riot. Just pass the word around that I’m here for pleasure.”
Mr. Lawry’s “Splendid” was throaty and hyphened by a deep sigh. He bristled with efficiency, consulted his reservation list, said effusively, “Number eight—Timothy Rourke. One of our choicest tables. Ringside.” He started forward, beckoning them to follow.
The table was only a few steps away. Mr. Lawry drew two chairs back for his guests, seated himself in a third, and looked at his watch. “You’re just in time for the first show, gentlemen.”
The orchestra announced the number with a rolling of drums and the clanging of cymbals. A spotlight picked up a voluptuous girl wearing a silvery formfitting gown when the curtains parted. Her body was bare well below the swell of her breasts, and her hips writhed inside the gown when she crossed the stage to the piano to the introductory chords of a torch song. She began singing in a sultry contralto.
“That’s Billie Love,” Lawry told them in a hoarse whisper. “Not bad—not bad at all.” His rabbity teeth showed in a wide smile.
“What about the dancer—Dorinda—I’ve heard so much about?” Rourke asked in a low voice.
“Ah, yes. That’s the moment we all wait for. When Dorinda dances.” Lawry’s tone was warm and humble.
“Thought I might do a publicity piece on her,” said. Rourke casually. “Human interest stuff.”
“That would be fine.” Lawry dry-washed his hands, and his round black eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “A little discreet publicity, you understand.”
“With a picture spread,” said Rourke with a crooked grin. “Something along the lines of—show him that sample, Mike.”
Shayne took the photograph from his pocket and held it out to Lawry.
The assistant manager was aghast. “Oh, no! I beg you not to publish that. We have others I’ll get for you. This one is—you certainly must understand—for only the most limited distribution.”
Shayne said, “Don’t needle him, Tim,” then suggested to Lawry, “Perhaps Dorinda could come to our table after she finishes her act and changes her costume.”
Lawry gave him a quick, suspicious look, then said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. I’ll speak to her.”
Patrons at tables near them were calling, “Sh-h-h,” and the three men discontinued their low conversation. The lush blond contralto ended her first number to enthusiastic though not demanding applause, but Billie Love caught the downbeat and went into a risqué encore with full gestures. This time, the applause was thunderous when she finished; and she began, without pause, a vulgar recitative, throatily intoning the melody at the end of each line, and maintaining a demure expression which heightened the indecency of the words.
During the number Lawry crooked a thin forefinger at a waiter who glided over, removing a clipped-on pencil from his breast pocket and an order pad from the side pocket of his white jacket. He bowed politely and said, “Are the gentlemen ready to order?”
“The best of everything, Jock,” said Lawry genially. “It’s on the house.” He stood up and added, “Take good care of them.”
The waiter looked at him with some surprise before he moved away to mingle with other patrons, then hovered over Shayne and Rourke with his pencil ready.
Without hesitation, Shayne said, “A fifth of Monnet—sealed. Two shot glasses and two glasses of water with ice.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waiter wince slightly, but he bowed politely, said, “Yes, sir,” and went away.
Again there was applause. Billie Love was bowing low and spilling her full breasts farther out of the feather-boned baskets supporting them. She was apparently just getting into her stride, but the master of ceremonies forestalled a third encore by stepping forward. The singer exited, smiling and throwing kisses.
A microphone rose up from the floor. The slender, effeminate young man caught it and clung to it. A spot highlighted his make-up as he began a risqué monologue that might have gotten laughs from a more rugged comedian. After a few titters from the women in the audience, he gave up. He introduced a boy-and-girl dance team as the next attraction. The mike slid back into the floor as he backed away, and a circle of bright lights came on above the stage when the team came on turning cartwheels.
The waiter brought the bottle of Monnet, with glasses and ice water. After Shayne examined the seal the waiter opened it, poured two drinks, set the bottle on the table, and went away.
Rourke grinned and said, “Here’s to the unmitigated nerve of a certain private eye,” lifting his drink and touching Shayne’s before downing it with one swallow.
“Let’s call it guts,” Shayne replied mildly. “I’ve got more respect for mine than to drink the stuff they empty into a Monnet bottle.”
Rourke refilled his shot glass. “Lawry seems to have hit his stride in this job,” he said musingly. “I’ve been watching him—”
“His last trip up was for peddling dope,” Shayne cut in. “He’s probably back at it and worried about his personal customers.”
Rourke’s cavernous eyes strayed idly over the patrons. “With the stage lights on, I’ve been looking them over. They don’t look so vicious. Shipping-clerks, mostly, with maybe a sprinkling of Rotarians and Sunday School superintendents.” He gave Shayne a lopsided grin and added, “I’m betting that the ‘on the house’ thing was for the press, but thanks for the Monnet.”
“Maybe.”
They fell silent, sipping cognac and ice water until the dance team cartwheeled from the stage as they had come on. A polite spattering of applause ensued, then died away when the M.C. took a few steps forward and raised his hands, palms outward, and signaled for silence. He made no announcement, but the overhead lights went out. Gradually, every other light in the room blinked out. For an instant there was complete darkness and an expectant hush.
Suddenly, there was an electrifying fanfare from the orchestra, and bright-blue moonlight fanned out from a semicircle of concealed spots on the floor.
Dorinda leaped from nowhere, landed on the toes of one foot, the clean lines of her slim, nude body scarcely visible in the whirling, twirling dance. She was never still for an instant. As illusive as quicksilver, and graceful as a faun dancing to the pipes of Pan. The routine was descriptive, portraying the joy of youth, freedom, gay abandon, desire, and capricious flirtation.
The low background of music interpreted her every move, yet never intruded, and her dance seemed unrehearsed, spontaneous, gay, and magically evocative.
&nbs
p; Time seemed to stand still. Shayne sat tensely forward, trying to catch some facial expression, some clue to her character, but her head with its fair, short-cropped hair moved with the gyrations of her body.
There was a lump in his throat when the lights went out. In the black darkness he heard the exhalations of breaths long held, then thunderous applause that mounted higher yet when the dim, pale-blue and orange lights came on in the room.
The stage was empty except for the orchestra. They struck up a lively tune that was drowned by the continued clapping and the stomping of feet and wild cries of “Dorinda!”
The M.C. came forward. With a wave of a hand he silenced the orchestra, and the microphone once again slid up from the floor as he approached it. Several minutes passed before he quieted the audience, and then he said simply and gravely, “Dorinda thanks you all.”
The orchestra resumed its sprightly number, and Rourke said, “I was just getting set when she stopped. If she were my daughter I’d want her to keep on dancing if it meant the fall of democracy all over the world.”
Shayne nodded. “Why here—at La Roma? Why not Carnegie Hall?”
“In the course of human events we run into such things as Federal Statutes and State Laws,” said Rourke with heavy sarcasm, “and they insist on accentuating the positive with scraps of cloth.” His thin nostrils quivered and he added, “Maybe Dorinda figures she can get away with it here, while her folks would get onto her if she branched out.”
“Yeh,” Shayne muttered. He filled his two-ounce shot glass to the brim and drank it in one gulp.
Lawry came up to their table smiling obsequiously and hopefully. “You liked Dorinda?”
Rourke brightened. “Terrific,” he said. “You’ll need rubber walls in this joint when—”
“We must be discreet,” Lawry reminded him. “And now if you would like to dance—” He indicated a dance floor beyond the curtains which were now drawn aside.
What Really Happened Page 19
