When Dorinda Dances

by Brett Halliday

  Judge Nigel Lansdowne! Shayne didn’t try to hide his surprise and his sudden interest. The whole pack of hysterical right-wingers had been yapping at the judge’s heels since Roosevelt’s death. Such a scandal would be headlined throughout the country.

  While he hesitated, Mrs. Davis reopened her purse and drew out a sheaf of bills.

  “The Lansdownes are not wealthy,” she told him. “Our democratic government doesn’t overpay its civil servants. The judge left a lucrative law practice to go to Washington in the early days of the New Deal, and has remained there at a great financial sacrifice.”

  She removed a rubber band from the bills and spread them out. “I have two thousand dollars here in hundreds. All that Sally had in her personal account. If more money is needed she will have to tell the judge the truth.” Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were moist.

  Shayne waved impatiently and said, “Put it back in your purse for the time being, Mrs. Davis. How can I get in touch with you?”

  “I’m at the Waldorf Towers. But I insist—and I’m sure Sally would insist—that you accept a retainer.” She separated four one-hundred dollar bills from the others and pushed them toward him. “Is that sufficient? You will take the case, and you’ll start at once? Tonight?” She was grateful, eager, and her voice rose and fell musically.

  “My secretary will give you a receipt,” Shayne told her, “on your way out. Leave the money with her.” He rocked back in his chair. “I’ll see Dorinda tonight and size things up as best I can.”

  She returned the money to her purse and stood up. There was a vibrant lilt in her voice when she said, “I know you will succeed, and I am grateful. I felt utterly hopeless when I came here, Mr. Shayne, but now I know I can trust you. I know you are good—and—”

  “Think nothing of it.” Shayne came to his feet, embarrassed over her effusive thanks. Other people had trusted him, but he couldn’t recall anyone ever having call him “good” before, and certainly not with so much enthusiasm. He took her arm and ushered her into the outer office.

  Shayne glanced casually at a man seated across the room, waiting, as he took Mrs. Davis to Lucy’s desk and said, “Give Mrs. Davis a receipt, and get her telephone number.”

  “Of course.” Lucy smiled at the woman and drew a receipt pad toward her, then said in a low voice, “This gentleman is anxious—”

  “He’ll have to wait until I make a telephone call,” Shayne interrupted. “Bring him in in five minutes.” He stalked back to his private office without turning his head.

  On the way to his desk he pulled off his coat and hung it up. His left hand reached for the telephone the moment he sat down, but he didn’t lift the receiver immediately. Instead, he flipped Dorinda’s picture over with his right hand and studied the nude young dancer with bleak eyes, his red head wagging slightly and moodily from side to side.

  He lifted the receiver slowly. When Lucy answered she said, “Michael, I think there’s been a mistake. Mrs. Davis insisted—”

  “Get me Tim Rourke—in a hurry,” he cut in sharply.

  “But, Michael, I think I should—”

  “If you want me to stick around and see that goof waiting out there, get me Tim quick.”

  “Oh, well.” Lucy sighed and dialed the number.

  When Timothy Rourke answered, he said, “How about going slumming tonight? Expense account.”

  “Sure, Mike. What’s up?”

  “You know anyone connected with La Roma who could reserve a ringside table?”

  “La Roma? You weren’t kidding when you said slumming.”

  “Can you get a table?”

  “For the press? Sure. What time?”

  “There’s a number I want to catch. Dorinda.”

  A low and prolonged whistle came over the wire.

  “You know her?” asked Shayne.

  “May my dear, dead Aunt Agatha forgive me,” said Rourke fervently, “yes. That is, I heard.”

  “We’ll make it for dinner, then?”

  “I’ll drop by your apartment after we put the rag to bed.”

  Shayne started to hang up, but he heard Lucy’s voice over the extension.

  “I hope you haven’t forgotten our dinner date tonight,” she said.

  Shayne thought fast. He remembered promising Lucy a week ago that they’d have dinner together tonight. He said, “No, angel. I haven’t forgotten, but something has come up. Business.”

  “At La Roma?”

  “You’ve been eavesdropping,” he accused.

  “You know I always listen in and take notes on your phone calls,” she said crisply. “What do you think would happen to the business—”

  “All right. So it’s business at La Roma.”

  There was a brief silence. Then Lucy said gaily, “All right, Michael. I don’t mind at all if Tim comes along on our date. I’ll meet you two at the apartment.”

  “La Roma,” he growled, “is not the sort of dump I’d take you to. The answer is no. Some other night. And bring that man in if he’s still waiting.” He hung up, frowning. Lucy wasn’t, of course, an innocent young girl who would be shocked by La Roma, but on the other hand—

  Lucy opened the door and said, “Just one minute, Mr. Brewer,” before closing it. She walked over to Shayne with her head high and with anger in her brown eyes.

  “I bought a new dinner dress yesterday for our date tonight,” she told him. “If you can’t take me out, I’m sure I won’t have any trouble—” She glanced down at the upturned photograph of Dorinda. Shayne grabbed for it, but she was too quick for him.

  After studying the print intently, she said, “Nice. Beautiful, in fact. Actually, I think those scraps of cloth and fig leaves dancing girls wear are what makes them vulgar—and the way men—”

  “I told you this was business,” Shayne growled.

  Lucy’s cheeks flushed. She turned quickly, opened the door wide, and said, “Mr. Shayne will see you now, Mr. Brewer.”

  CHAPTER II

  Mr. Brewer was of medium height and build, fortyish, and foppish. He walked with short, mincing steps, and his small feet were encased in white-and-tan sports shoes. He wore a creamy tropical suit with a silky shirt a shade lighter, and a conservative tie was knotted precisely between the buttoned tabs. His trousers were creased razor-sharp, and he sported a brown linen handkerchief in his breast pocket with all four points carefully arranged to show. His hair was glossy black, and quite evidently dyed, and he carried a spotless Panama in his hand. He laid his hat on the desk, and Shayne said, “Have a seat, Mr. Brewer.”

  Mr. Brewer sat down in the chair recently vacated by Mrs. Davis. His eyelids fluttered behind rimless glasses pinched on his nose. He removed the glasses and laid them beside his hat, then took a pigskin billfold from his pocket. His hands shook as he opened it and said, “I’ve come to you, Mr. Shane, to engage your services to prevent a murder.”

  He withdrew a card and handed it across the table.

  Shayne read: Mr. Milton Brewer. He laid it beside Mrs. Davis’s card and asked, “Whose murder?”

  “Mine. I’m living in hourly fear of death, Mr. Shayne. I’ve been suspicious of this for some time—for months, actually.” He returned the billfold to his pocket, leaned forward, and gripped the edge of the desk hard. “But this afternoon I felt the shadow of death cross over me,” he whispered hoarsely. “I heard the beat of unseen wings—and I witnessed—actually witnessed with my own eyes the lust for murder etched on the face of a man. A man who is my friend, a man whom I’ve trusted.” He moistened his lips. “He meant to kill me. If I hadn’t turned at that precise moment and faced him—”

  Milton Brewer’s voice rose to a thin, high pitch. “It was a horrible experience. Monstrous, fiendish, evil. I must have protection. I can’t walk alone with this—this fear any longer.” He relaxed his grip on the desk and settled back, making a visible effort to get hold of himself. Beads of perspiration stood on his forehead and trickled down the sides of his nose. />
  “A friend, you say?” said Shayne frowning.

  Mr. Brewer nodded mutely.

  Shayne swung his chair a little to the right and pulled the bottom drawer of the filing-cabinet open, took out a bottle of cognac, then opened the desk drawer and brought out two glasses.

  “What you need is a drink,” he said, and began filling a glass.

  “Nothing for me, thank you,” Mr. Brewer said hastily. “And I suggest that you stay sober for this engagement. Even the slightest dulling of your faculties might prove fatal. You must seriously consider that my very life depends upon your ability to protect me from now on.”

  Shayne set the bottle on the floor and lifted his brows quizzically. “From now on?”

  “From now until tomorrow morning.”

  Shayne took a sip of cognac and asked, “Who tried to murder you this afternoon?”

  “Hiram Godfrey, my partner. Perhaps you’ve heard of Brewer and Godfrey. We ship the cream of the crop of tropical fruits all over the country.”

  Shayne took a large swallow from his glass, nodded impassively, and said, “I’ve heard the name. Judging by your advertisements in the local papers, you’re one of the largest in Miami. With such a lucrative business, why do you think your partner plans to murder you?”

  “I don’t think, Mr. Shayne. I’m positive of it. I’m also positive he plans to murder me tonight.” Mr. Brewer’s lips were compressed and he looked at the liquor glass with stern disapproval.

  “If the trouble between you has been going on for months, why are you so sure he’ll do it tonight?”

  “Because Hiram leaves on a business trip to New York early tomorrow morning, to be gone several weeks. I’m sure he plans it for tonight, after failing this afternoon. If you had seen the naked hatred in his eyes.” Mr. Brewer’s tone was not vindictive. Conversely, there was an occasional catch in his throat, an expression of wonderment in his brownish eyes as though he couldn’t quite believe such a thing had happened to him.

  “Go back and give me the background,” Shayne suggested. “Work up to what occurred this afternoon. If Godfrey made an attempt on your life, why not have him arrested?”

  “I can’t do that, Mr. Shayne. In the first place, the publicity would ruin us. Secondly, I have no witnesses. Hiram would deny my accusations and sue me for false arrest and defamation of character.” He spread out his hands in a gesture of despair.

  “Why does your partner hate you?”

  “Because I married the woman he loved,” said Mr. Brewer. “I’m sure he has hated me during the two years of our marriage, even though he was best man at our wedding. I didn’t suspect anything at first. Both of us were in love with Betty, but she chose me. We continued, however, as a sort of friendly threesome.

  “Betty and I had a few months of happiness together. Then it began to happen. Hiram had never actually given up, and he continually showered her with compliments and flowers and gifts—which she accepted with pretended annoyance.

  “But in a few short months I became conscious of my wife’s increasing coolness. It’s true I had married late in life, but Betty was a mature woman. For a while I attributed our unhappiness to the fact that I was so busy. I wanted her to have everything she wanted. Hiram was the contact partner, the outside man, you understand. He had a way with people, took care of the advertising, while I superintended the factory and saw that only top-quality stuff was shipped. Working together in this way we built up a business from a small beginning to a fifty-thousand net profit last year.

  “Then I found out that Hiram was meeting Betty secretly during his absence from the office—and had been since a few months after our marriage.”

  “Do you have proof?” Shayne asked.

  “I have proof,” said Mr. Brewer. His head drooped for an instant, but he jerked it up and continued. “The main proof was in their guilty expressions when I accused them. Naturally, they denied it, but Betty went away. She’s with her parents now, in White Plains, New York.”

  “And Hiram Godfrey?” Shayne queried.

  “I thought we could let bygones be bygones for the sake of the business,” Mr. Brewer told him. “But now he doesn’t care. He’s been worrying me to sell out for weeks. We have an offer that will expire in ten days from now—before Hiram returns from his trip north. That’s why I am convinced he plans to murder me before he leaves in the morning.”

  “So he will be free to sell the business?”

  “That is one compelling motive,” Brewer admitted. and after a slight hesitation resumed bitterly. “I know he has been corresponding with my wife since she left me. I think that’s why he wants to sell the business for cash—two hundred thousand—half its actual value—so he can take his share and run away with Betty.”

  “Why doesn’t Godfrey sell his share, if he wants to run away with Betty?”

  “The offer is for all or nothing,” said Brewer. “Besides, there are two other very good reasons. Hiram and I each carry fifty thousand dollars partnership insurance payable to the other. Also, my wife will inherit my estate. Together, Betty and Hiram will have everything if I die, and Hiram will be able to dispose of the business as he wishes.”

  “Motive enough for murder,” Shayne agreed absently. “What happened this afternoon?”

  “I foolishly agreed to go for a run on the bay with Hiram in his power cruiser. Frankly, I was anxious for us to work harmoniously again, in spite of Betty. We’re a good team, as I told you, and he has been quite pleasant these past few weeks. I hoped we might talk the whole thing out and come to some amicable agreement.”

  Mr. Brewer paused. His eyelids twitched and his face was pale. “We were alone on the water,” he said jerkily. “We’d had a pleasant day, but when we turned back toward the mainland Hiram suggested I. take the wheel. I told him I didn’t know much about steering, but he assured me he would be right back. Said he wanted to get a bottle of beer.

  “I—well, I admit that I was enjoying steering, and I was intrigued with the instruments. Hiram was gone for quite some time. I heard him moving about and uncapping the beer. Then there was a long silence. I can’t explain it, Mr. Shayne, but I felt something. It was like a cold chill running down my spine. I turned my head instinctively, and called out to Hiram.” Mr. Brewer shuddered convulsively and covered his eyes with his hands.

  Shayne waited silently for him to continue.

  He recovered quickly, murmured an apology, and went on in a shaky voice. “Hiram didn’t answer. He was three feet behind me, moving like a cat with a boat hook lifted high, and there was murder in his eyes. If I hadn’t looked back at the instant I did, I would be floating in the bay with my skull crushed in.”

  “A boat hook is a nasty weapon,” Shayne agreed. “You were unarmed, I presume. One swing would have been enough. Why didn’t he take it?”

  “Because Hiram is a coward. He was capable of striking me down from the back, but his nerve failed him when I faced him.” He stopped suddenly, and frowned reflectively.

  “What happened then?” Shayne prompted him.

  “Nothing. I was afraid to force a showdown, and I had to think fast. I pretended to believe him when he explained why he happened to have the boat hook. I also had the presence of mind to suggest that we were off our course and that he had better take the wheel. He did, and I stayed behind him until we moored the boat in his private slip. Then I came directly to your office.” Mr. Brewer took a fresh linen handkerchief from his hip pocket, mopped his face dry, picked up his glasses, and pinched them on his nose.

  Shayne turned the cognac glass slowly on the plastic coaster, studied the man for a moment, then asked, “What do you expect me to do?”

  “Follow Hiram tonight. Don’t lose him for a minute. I know your reputation, and you can save my life if any man can.”

  “I’m not for hire as a bodyguard,” Shayne told him flatly. “If your partner is determined to kill you, there are dozens of ways he can get at you, no matter who’s tailing him. I strongl
y advise you to go to the police. Tell them your story, and they’ll assign a couple of men to protect you—unless you want to swear out a warrant and put Godfrey in jail for the night.”

  “No. I can’t do that, Mr. Shayne.” Mr. Brewer shook his glossy black head slowly. “If I go to the police with my story they’ll insist that I confront. Hiram, accuse him of attempted murder. I can’t do that. Not any more than he could kill me with a boat hook.”

  Shayne shrugged his wide shoulders, picked up his glass, and drained it. “Then you had better put a tail on your partner,” he said with a note of finality. “A good man who knows the score and what he’s to look out for. That way, you might live through the night, if you’re lucky.”

  “You’re the one man in Miami I trust, Mr. Shayne. Use as many operatives as you need to do the job thoroughly.” Mr. Brewer heaved a sigh of relief.

  “I have no operatives,” said Shayne. “This is a one-man agency.”

  “Then do it alone. I know your reputation.”

  “What you need is two good men on Godfrey.”

  “Very well. Get another man to help you,” said Mr. Brewer. “Hiram is at our plant on West Flagler now. You can pick him up there when he leaves. He drove to the plant to clean up any last-minute things on his desk before leaving in the morning. His car will be parked outside. A blue Buick convertible. I’ll write down the license number for you.”

  Shayne shook his head emphatically. “You’ll have to get someone else, Mr. Brewer. I’m all tied up.”

  “Whatever you’re working on can wait for one night,” Brewer returned with the arrogance of a man accustomed to getting whatever he wanted by paying for it. He had his wallet out and was taking bills from it.

  “I have another client,” said Shayne.

  “Forget it. I’ll pay you twice whatever—”

  “Put your money back. I don’t sell out one client just because someone else walks in and offers me more money.”

  Mr. Brewer looked shocked. “What can I do? I had depended on you, Shayne.”

  “There are other men in Miami. Good men.”