What Really Happened

by Brett Halliday

  “No, thanks,” said Shayne. “I understand that Rourke came here for a story.”

  “Of course,” Mr. Lawry said amiably. “I spoke to her.” He glanced up. “Here she comes now.”

  Dorinda was threading her way past the dancers on the crowded floor. She wore a simple white dress with short, puffed sleeves and a high neck, white socks, and flat-heeled, two-toned sandals. Her face was oval, her features regular, and except for her eyes she had the normal appearance of any one of a hundred coeds.

  When she came up to the table Lawry introduced her, explaining that Rourke was a newspaper reporter who wanted to interview her. He made no mention of Shayne’s profession. All three men were standing, and as Shayne looked down into her enormous eyes he saw that they were deep violet and glistened with the vitality and youthful elation that had been in her dance.

  He noticed, too, that a cloud of doubt, or of fear, came into them when Rourke was introduced as a reporter, and he was sure she flashed him a searching appeal before saying, “I’m pleased to meet—both of you.”

  Rourke hastily pulled out a chair and seated her beside him and across from Shayne. Lawry sauntered away. Shayne sat down and asked, “What would you like to eat, Dorinda? We were just ordering.”

  “Oh—I’m starved. I’d love a steak. A thick, juicy one, rare.” Her voice was pleasant, with a hint of dropped rs, yet with cultural overtones.

  “So say we all,” Rourke chimed in, and leaving the ordering to Shayne he turned on all his professional charm and engaged Dorinda in conversation.

  The hovering waiter appeared at Shayne’s side. He ordered steak dinners with carefully selected vegetables, salad, and dessert. When the waiter left the table, Dorinda was saying, “I—I’ve never been interviewed before, Mr. Rourke. You’ll have to help me.”

  “Just give me some general background first,” he told her cheerfully. “What’s your real name?”

  “Julia?” Shayne interjected.

  She flashed him a puzzled glance. “Julia? I don’t understand. I was christened Dorinda.” She appealed to Rourke, asking, “Isn’t that enough? You don’t need my last name.”

  “Just for the record,” he coaxed.

  “I’d rather not,” she said calmly. “A lot of stars just have one name. You get ahead faster that way—with a sort of mystery, and—well—”

  “I didn’t realize they taught your style of dancing at Rollins College,” Shayne broke in.

  She looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. “Rollins? Are you kidding me, Mr. Shayne? My mom taught me everything I know about dancing.”

  “Your mother taught you to dance?” he asked pointedly.

  “Sure. Mom was a wonderful dancer—ballet.” Her full red lips tightened sullenly. “But she’d probably cut off my legs if she found out what I’m doing here.” Again she turned to Rourke. “That’s why I don’t want you to print my last name. Or my picture, either. She might happen to see it in the paper.” Dorinda shifted her position to face Rourke, and gazing steadily into his eyes, she told him of a childhood and early teen-years in a convent while her mother trouped around the world, dancing.

  Shayne sipped cognac and listened, studying Dorinda’s cherubic profile, and angrily wondering how long the line would extend if all the night-club dancers who claimed to have spent their youth in convents were placed horizontally head to toe. He didn’t speak until the waiter set three sizzling steaks on the table, replete with vegetables, in oblong platters. The interview ended promptly, and when she turned her attention from the reporter to the steak, Shayne said, “How do you think Mrs. Davis felt last night when she sat here and watched you dance—and when you refused to recognize her even after she sent a note back to you?”

  “Mrs. Davis?” She looked at him in astonishment. “I—I don’t remember any Mrs. Davis,” she said after a moment of frowning thought.

  Shayne was puzzled. If the girl was lying, she was not only a superb dancer, but also an actress—a second Duse. He watched her pick up her knife and fork and attack the steak with the avidity of any normal, hungry youngster.

  Rourke poured himself a double shot of Monnet, drank half of it, considered his plate with distaste, and asked, “Where is your mother, Dorinda?”

  “She’s not in a thousand miles of Miami. I had a letter from her yesterday. She thinks I’m working in a shop here, making thirty dollars a week.” She put a sizable square of steak in her mouth, chewed it gingerly, swallowed, and said, “Um-m-m, good. I have to hurry—two more shows tonight.”

  Watching Dorinda eat, Shayne swore under his breath. For two cents, he would return Mrs. Davis’s retainer and tell her to go to hell. He felt like a man who was ready to hand a child an ice-cream cone with one hand and slap her face with the other. He glanced at Rourke, but the reporter’s cavernous eyes were brooding into his empty shot glass. They both reached for the Monnet bottle at the same instant.

  Dorinda laughed. “Are you two going to drink that stuff and let these marvelous steaks get cold?”

  Shayne let Rourke have the bottle. The incident, though slight, dissolved his moody thoughts. He said, “It’s important that I ask you some questions. This Mrs. Davis came to my office this afternoon claiming to be your mother’s best friend. She’s greatly concerned about your being here. So much so, that when you refused to recognize her or speak to her, she went back and talked to some singer about you.”

  “Billie’s the only singer,” she told him. “If some crazy dame talked to her about me, Billie didn’t tell me. And I didn’t get any note.” She took another big bite of steak and began chewing it.

  Shayne shrugged and began working on his own steak. For a while they ate in silence.

  After the first two bites, Rourke wolfed his food, pushed his plate back, and watched the dancers returning to their seats. Presently he said, “Don’t look now, Mike, but I think you’re being tailed.”

  Shayne jerked his head around and followed the direction of the reporter’s gaze with bemused irritation. He stiffened suddenly, and anger flared in his gray eyes.

  Lucy Hamilton was seated at a table for two a short distance away with a tall, blond man who leaned toward her and appeared to hang upon her every word. She wore a sea-green dinner dress with a cascade of silver loops extending from one shoulder to the waistline. Her profile was toward him, and she was either unconscious of his presence, or pretending to be. The front of her gown was modestly rounded near her throat, and Shayne had a confused illusion of sophisticated recklessness and demure youthfulness as he glowered across the room.

  Lucy turned her head casually, and their eyes met. She waved gaily, smiled, then spoke to her escort who nodded and pushed his chair back.

  Shayne turned back to see a satanic grin on Rourke’s thin face. The reporter stood up and said, “It’s your deal, Mike. I’ll nose around backstage and pick up some stuff.”

  “Damn it, Tim,” he growled. “Hold it a minute.”

  But Timothy Rourke was hurrying away, and Dorinda looked up with a little sigh of satisfaction after finishing every bite on her plate. “I think he’s cute,” she said. She saw the set expression on Shayne’s face, and the next moment Lucy was standing beside the table.

  “Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Shayne,” she said sweetly, sliding into the chair Rourke had vacated. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Miss Hamilton, Dorinda,” Shayne muttered.

  “Dorinda?” cried Lucy. “Of course. I should have recognized you. But clothes—”

  “Who’s that bird at your table?” Shayne cut in angrily.

  “His name is Mr. Schlatzer.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “I picked him up in a Miami Avenue bar. Not that I concede it’s any of your business. When you stood me up tonight—”

  “I told you this was business.”

  “I know you did.” Lucy’s brown eyes rested thoughtfully on the dancer’s face. “Private detectives do have the most interest
ing business appointments.”

  “Private detect—” Dorinda broke the word with a little “oh” of surprise and fright.

  “Damn it, Lucy,” raged Shayne. “Just because you’re my secretary doesn’t give you the right—”

  “Of course not,” she said calmly. “I wouldn’t think of interfering with a business appointment.” Lucy arose with stiff dignity and marched back to her table.

  Dorinda was plucking nervously at the tablecloth, her eyes lowered and lips trembling. “I’d better—go now. I don’t care for any dessert, thank you.”

  Shayne reached out and laid a big hand persuasively on her wrist. “Don’t be frightened, Julia,” he said gently.

  “My name isn’t Julia,” she cried in a high, tremulous voice. “I don’t know what you mean.” She tried to withdraw her wrist, but his fingers tightened around it.

  “I want you to think about one thing, Julia,” Shayne resumed. “Do you realize what will happen to your father if this ever comes out?”

  “My—father?” Her face was suddenly white and her big violet eyes imploring. She stopped struggling, leaned forward, and was about to speak when a suave voice cut in from behind Shayne’s right shoulder.

  “It’s all right now, Dorrie, but I’ve warned you not to sit with strange men.”

  Dorinda shrank back as if from an expected lash of a whip. Her wrist was limp in Shayne’s big hand, and her eyes were dull with fear.

  Shayne released her and turned to look up at a tall, dark man of thirty or so. His black eyes glittered venomously, and he ordered with smooth authority, “Go back to your dressing-room, Dorinda.”

  The girl nodded listlessly, and started to get up.

  Shayne said, “Stay where you are, Julia. Right now is the best time to—”

  “Go to your room,” the man commanded harshly. He did not look at Shayne. His lips tightened against bared teeth, and he took a step forward. He caught her upper arm to lift her bodily from her chair.

  Shayne came to his feet with fists doubled. As he moved forward, the man gave Dorinda a shove toward the stage, and she went away submissively.

  The man turned to face the detective with folded arms. “I’m responsible for this girl,” he stated flatly, raising his voice in anger when he added, “You should be ashamed—a man of your age acting this way.”

  Shayne’s right arm shot out, but before it reached his opponent’s lean jaw, a weight was swinging on the arc of his elbow, pulling his big fist down.

  “You promised me, Mr. Shayne,” Lawry whispered hoarsely and frantically. “Please don’t make any trouble—here. Please sit down.”

  Shayne shook the little man off angrily and looked around for his opponent. He was walking backstage with dignity as half the patrons watched him, and the other half were regarding Shayne with frowning displeasure. He had a fleeting glimpse of Lucy’s cold, impersonal gaze before she turned back to her escort and smiled sweetly.

  A red mist of anger swam before his eyes. He whirled and started backstage.

  Timothy Rourke was suddenly beside him, saying, “That must be Moran, the guy I heard about when I was nosing around. He’s Dorinda’s manager.”

  He lowered his voice and added anxiously, “For chrissake, don’t start anything, Mike. There are a dozen guys in this joint who’d love to swear you insulted the girl—and a couple of thugs I’ve spotted. They’re probably not far behind us. Use your head. You won’t have a chance to get Dorinda out of here if you don’t.”

  Rourke had his hand on Shayne’s elbow. “Keep on going. There’s an exit to the parking-lot back here. Slip me the hat checks and I’ll pick ’em up.” He kept on talking until they went out a rear door. “Get in the car and meet me around front.” He took the checks from Shayne’s moist hand. “I’ll saunter back and pretend I’m the little pig that liquidated the big bad wolf.” A grin relaxed the muscles in his thin face, and he turned away.

  Shayne shrugged, and slowly allowed reason to rule his anger. Rourke was right, of course. La Roma was no place for a private detective to start a brawl over one of the entertainers. He got in his car, gunned the motor, backed out, and drove to the front of the building.

  Rourke was waiting with their hats. He got in and breathed a long sigh of relief. “Lawry’s punks were tailing us, all right. Stuck with me until Sluggo let me out the front door.”

  Shayne pulled away, racing the engine, his gray eyes bleak with anger. “What did you find out?”

  “That all the hired help is afraid of Moran, and they all lay off Dorinda. He hardly allows the kid to speak a word to any of the other performers.”

  “She was on the verge of talking,” Shayne grated, “when that guy came up behind me. Who is Moran?”

  “Dorinda’s manager—so far as any of them know. But he rides herd on her like he might be something more than that. Delivers her at the stage door every night at nine-thirty and picks her up in his car after the two-thirty show. Nobody knows a damned thing about them—where they live or anything. They disappear together at night and turn up again the next night.”

  “Did you find out her last name? Any background?”

  “Nope. This Moran showed up with her in tow a few weeks ago. He got her an audition, and she was in. He signed the contract as her manager at two hundred smackers a week. He collects the dough. Her name is Dorinda, and she can dance. There ain’t no more.”

  Shayne’s anger gradually subsided, and the car slowed. For a while they rode in silence, then Shayne said, “Anything about a woman being there last night to talk to her?”

  “If there was,” Rourke said drowsily, “nobody’s admitting it.”

  “Did you talk to Billie Love? Mrs. Davis claims she talked to a singer about Dorinda.”

  “Miss Love,” said Rourke, “is the only singer, and she denies it flatly. But hell! She could be lying. People in show business have always been superstitious and clannish as the devil. And ever since Red Channels has been published, half of them are scared to death.”

  “Yeh,” said Shayne. “But that wouldn’t affect the entertainers at La Roma. They’re after the higher-ups.”

  “What do you think about Dorinda?”

  “I don’t—know.” Shayne spoke in a bemused tone, and after a thoughtful silence he said, “She’d have to be quite an actress not to react at all to her own name and to the name of the school she’s supposed to be attending.”

  Rourke’s head lolled comfortably against the cushion of Shayne’s new car, and his eyes were closed. “Not if she was forewarned and on the lookout not to be caught up on anything. And that visit from her mother’s friend last night did give her warning that the cat was out of the bag.”

  “Right. But—damn it, Tim, I’d swear she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t know any Mrs. Davis. I’d swear she was as honestly surprised as she acted.”

  “I agree on that, Mike. But here’s a possible angle. Suppose the woman’s name isn’t Mrs. Davis? She might be as important in Washington as the girl’s parents are supposed to be. Maybe she doesn’t want to get mixed up in any publicity. She may even be the girl’s mother and didn’t want to admit it.”

  Shayne carefully went over his interview with Mrs. Davis, recalling her words, her moods. She had actually looked under thirty when he first saw her, but she seemed older, more mature, when she left. He figured ages. She could easily be only thirty-five or six and have a daughter eighteen.

  He said, “What are you getting at, Tim?”

  “That Dorinda denied a friend of her mother’s was there last night—claims not to know any Mrs. Davis—and that maybe she sounded truthful because it was the truth.”

  “My client,” said Shayne, “gave me a card with the name Mrs. Elbert H. Davis engraved on it.”

  Rourke rolled his head lazily on the back of the seat. “Anybody can get a card with any name engraved on it,” he scoffed.

  “Yeh.” Shayne was driving slowly and thinking fast. “Got time to drop by the paper
and help me look up some dope in the files?”

  “Sure.” Rourke yawned and added, “There’s a poker game at Jack Farrell’s, but it’s early yet.”

  “You’ll make it in time to lose your shirt.” Shayne sped the car forward, and neither of them spoke again until they were in the Daily News morgue and Rourke switched on the overhead lights.

  “What do you want, Mike?”

  “Whatever you’ve got on Nigel Lansdowne and his family.”

  Rourke’s nostrils quivered. “Judge Lansdowne?” He gave a low, impressive whistle.

  “Strictly off the record, Tim. If you print a word—”

  “What do you think I am?” Rourke demanded hotly. “My God, Mike, if he’s the man—” He paused, his cavernous eyes boring into Shayne’s. “Lansdowne is practically slated to take over as Industrial Administrator of the whole country. One whisper of this—”

  “Right,” Shane cut in. “The country needs a man like Judge Lansdowne in that job more than it needs a thousand H-bombs. So, let’s see where we stand.”

  Rourke turned away, saying, “We’ll have a hell of a file on him—going back fifteen or twenty years.”

  Shayne lit a cigarette, eased himself down on a long table, and puffed smoke toward the ceiling until the reporter returned with a bulging file.

  “This is the latest one. From nineteen forty-five. There are two earlier ones just as full.”

  “We need to know if he has a daughter named Julia,” said Shayne. “How old she is and what she looks like.”

  Rourke laid the big cardboard file on the table and began examining the clippings. Shayne stood beside him, and when he turned over a double-column spread with the photograph of a woman and a young girl at the top, they read:

  August 16th, 1949. Mrs. Nigel Lansdowne of Washington, D. C., and her daughter Julia, prior to the popular young debutante’s departure to enter Rollins College in Winter Park, Florida, for her freshman year. Mrs. Lansdowne is the wife of Judge Lansdowne who holds the important government position of Federal Security—