Julia swallowed dryly, moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue. “Yes. When he—when it happened—I couldn’t think of anything except running away. I knew the police would come and there’d be an investigation—and everything would come out. It just seemed to me that—well—you’d be better off if I disappeared.”
Elizabeth Connaught had gone out of the room. She returned with a glass of water, and when Julia stopped talking she pressed the glass into her hand. While she drank the water eagerly, Shayne drew a chair up, and sank into it, and lit a cigarette.
He said, “How did you get from Miami to Palm Beach at that hour?”
“I caught a bus. It just happened, really. I was running down the street, and I didn’t know what I was going to do. I came to a bus station, and there was a Palm Beach bus just loading. I bought a ticket and got on.” She paused again, and her big violet eyes turned from Shayne to Lucy and Elizabeth who had drawn up occasional chairs and sat on Shayne’s right.
“Julia knows she can always come to us,” said Elizabeth defiantly. “It’s all over now, so why can’t you leave?”
“You could have called me from here,” Shayne broke in, “and let me know you were safe.”
“I didn’t know what to do,” Julia confessed. “I talked to Elizabeth about it, and we thought it might make more trouble for you if I tried to telephone. But I was listening to the radio and watching the papers, and if you’d been arrested for what happened to Ricky, I was determined to go back to Miami and tell the truth. There wasn’t anything, so I—I just waited to see.”
“Then you didn’t hear the radio pickup put out for Dorinda last night?” Shayne asked.
“Oh, yes. That. But nothing about you, Mr. Shayne—and—Ricky.”
Shayne sighed and said, “You realize, of course, that when you put me on the spot like that I had no other course than to get in touch with your father.”
“But you didn’t—you didn’t tell him about Dorinda!” she cried out.
“No. You’re still in the clear on the dancing business. That is—unless someone else gives you away at this end.”
“But Elizabeth is the only one who knows. I had to tell her everything this morning. Can you keep it from coming out in Miami, Mr. Shayne?”
“I don’t know,” he said slowly. “If the chief of police didn’t happen to be a good friend of mine—” He hesitated, then asked, “May I use your phone?”
“Certainly,” said Elizabeth eagerly. “It’s right there on the desk. Oh, I think you’re perfectly wonderful, Mr. Shayne.”
Shayne grinned. “So does my secretary.” He stalked to the telephone, but before lifting the receiver he turned and said, “Before I call Miami I want to know if there’s anything you want to add to your story, Julia. Any detail you want to change. If you thought it necessary to lie to me in any slight particular last night, now is the time to come clean. You’re not the only person involved in this mess.”
“Every word I told you was the truth,” she vowed with wide-eyed candor.
“This is your last chance,” he told her flatly. “If I find that one word was a lie, I’ll throw you to the dogs with no more compunction than I’d throw a bone.”
Color flamed in Julia’s cheeks, but she said, simply, “I would deserve that if I lied.”
Shayne lifted the receiver, asked for long-distance, and gave Will Gentry’s private number at police headquarters. When the chief answered, he said, “I’m calling from Palm Beach, Will. Cancel that pickup for Dorinda. The Lansdowne girl is here, and verifies everything she told me last night. Why not release the Dorinda angle to the papers? But, for God’s sake, play it down and keep all pictures out.”
He paused to listen, nodding his red head, then muttered, “Yes, that’s right.”
Suddenly he jerked to attention and exclaimed, “The hell you say! Positively?” He listened again, tugging at his ear lobe and scowling across the room.
“Yeh,” he agreed after a moment. “That does change things. Lucy and I are on our way back to Miami right now, Will. Look, get them all together in your office—have them there when I arrive. I think I’ll have a proposition to put up to them. Black, Mathews, Gibson, and Tim Rourke. Thanks, Will.”
“Mr. Shayne!” Julia Lansdowne was standing stiffly erect before her chair, the color drained from her face. “What—changes things?”
“It’s just that the body fished out of the bay has been positively identified by fingerprints. It’s Milton Brewer.”
“Michael!” Lucy exclaimed. “You nearly scared Julia to death.” She put her arms around the shaking girl and eased her back into the chair. “It has nothing to do with you,” she soothed. “It’s something else entirely.”
“Thanks,” Julia murmured.
Shayne took Lucy firmly by the arm and propelled her toward the outer door.
CHAPTER XVI
Michael Shayne gave his new car a workout at top speed from West Palm Beach to Miami. His body was tense, and he gave his whole attention to steering the vehicle through the afternoon traffic.
Sitting beside him, Lucy’s brown eyes were angry. She made several attempts to reprimand him for his rude exit from the Connaught home, and for his lack of sympathy for Julia Lansdowne, but the offshore wind and the speed of the car whipped the words from her lips, and she gave up in favor of hanging on to her hat.
He ground to a stop at police headquarters, parked in a No Parking—Reserved for Police Only space, got out, and waited impatiently until Lucy joined him, then took her arm and trotted her into Chief Will Gentry’s office.
Elliott Gibson was striding up and down before the chief’s desk, talking rapidly and forcibly; Gentry was seated in his swivel chair listening with an expression of weariness and boredom; Henry Black and his operative, Mathews, were seated on straight chairs near the desk.
Timothy Rourke was the only member of the party who was missing.
“Come on in, Mike.” Gentry broke into Gibson’s raging. “And Miss Hamilton,” he added. “Pull up chairs and sit down.”
Shayne said, “Thanks, Will.” He nodded to the others, introduced his secretary to Black and Mathews, raised his voice, and added, “And this is Mr. Brewer’s attorney whom I’ve mentioned,” as Gibson turned in his pacing and came toward them.
Gibson acknowledged the introduction impatiently, then demanded, “What have you got to say about things now? I told you all along it was preposterous to assume the body was any other than Milton Brewer’s.”
Shayne nodded. “I’m just as happy as you are that it turned out that way.” He turned to Gentry and asked, “There’s no possible doubt, Will?”
“None whatever. Harris brought out prints that make the identification positive.”
“Have you sent the prints to Washington for comparison?” Shayne asked.
Gentry rolled his lids higher and his agate eyes showed surprise. “You mean the FBI?”
“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Shayne told him mildly, “to see if he has a criminal record. When a man refuses to let his picture be taken under any circumstances—even at his wedding—I always wonder why.” He toed up a chair for Lucy and another for himself, and they sat down.
“Nonsense,” said Gibson. “I explained that as merely an idiosyncrasy of Brewer’s.”
“Just the same, I’d send them in, Will,” he advised, ignoring the excited attorney. He looked across at Mathews and asked, “Did Tim show you those pictures of Godfrey?”
“He did,” Mathews answered with tight-mouthed precision. “I can’t go any further than Black in swearing he’s the man we tailed. Show me the man, and I’ll tell you quick enough.”
“There you are,” said Gibson triumphantly. “Neither man is prepared to testify that the person they followed was actually Hiram Godfrey. According to my reasoning—”
“Hi, Mike,” Timothy Rourke interrupted from the open doorway, and as his long, lanky footsteps sounded on the bare floor, he asked, “What’s this about Brewer
being identified? Is that correct, Will?” He stopped at the chief’s desk and lounged against it.
“No doubt about it,” rumbled Gentry. “It knocks your fancy theory flat.”
“And leaves mine intact,” blustered Gibson, rushing up to face the chief, “and I hereby make a formal demand that Hiram Godfrey, or the man who impersonated him on the plane to New York, be arrested and brought back here for identification.”
“Have you had a report from New York, Will?” Shayne interposed, coming to his feet and crossing to the desk. “Any further information on Godfrey’s actions after he arrived—and the result of questioning the plane crew?”
Gibson glared at him while Gentry ruffled through a sheaf of loose reports on the desk. The chief carefully laid a fresh cigar in an ash tray and said, “Here’s one—middle of the afternoon. They picked him up at La Guardia and followed him to a hotel on East Fifty-Second Street. The Berkshire. Quiet, respectable place where a room had been reserved by wire two days ago. They report that Godfrey has stopped there before, couple of years ago, but no one knows him well enough to identify this man as Godfrey.”
“But what about—” Gibson began excitedly.
“Same sort of negative results from the plane crew,” Gentry rumbled on after a glowering glance at the attorney. “The plane made two stops on the way up, and no one is willing to swear that two men did or did not change places at one of those stops. There were forty passengers and one stewardess. The man occupying Godfrey’s seat was quiet and unobtrusive, and no one seems to have paid any attention to him.”
“Which is wholly negative evidence,” said Gibson briskly. “He must be brought back before he eludes the New York police and escapes.”
“Let’s have a later report,” Shayne intervened hastily. “Call New York now, Will, and see what contacts Godfrey has made since his arrival. Any business associates who can positively identify him.”
Gentry picked up the telephone, and Gibson began pacing up and down the room again.
Rourke moved closer to Shayne and muttered, “What’s this about his theory?”
Shayne grinned and swiftly outlined Gibson’s belief that Godfrey had murdered his partner while a hired impostor was being tailed by Black and Mathews to give Godfrey an alibi for the night. He kept his voice low, and as he finished the explanation, Gentry said into the phone, “Hold on a minute.”
He covered the mouthpiece with a pudgy hand and announced, “Godfrey hasn’t left his hotel room all afternoon until a few minutes ago when he went to the dining-room. He made one phone call from his room. No incoming calls.”
Shayne hurried back to the desk and asked, “Was the call made to White Plains, New York?”
Gentry nodded. “Person-to-person to Mrs. Milton Brewer in White Plains. The conversation was brief.” He paused, looked down at the report, and continued. “Godfrey said, ‘Is that you Betty? This is Hi. I’m at the Berkshire, and everything is swell.’
“And Mrs. Brewer said, ‘Wonderful. I’ll come in tomorrow.’
“And Godfrey replied, ‘Cocktails in the Five Hundred Room here at four o’clock. Right?’
“And she said, ‘Right,’ and hung up. If there’s nothing else, I’ll tell the men in New York to stay on the job.”
“Hold it a minute, Will,” said Shayne hastily. “While you’ve got the line open, ask them to check with White Plains on Mrs. Brewer—where she was yesterday, and exactly what she did.”
“Yesterday?” Gentry frowned at the look of absent concentration on the detective’s lean face, took his hand from the mouthpiece, and ordered the officer at the other end of the wire to check on Mrs. Brewer’s activities the day before, then slammed the receiver on the hook.
“What in hell are you up to now?” he demanded of Shayne. “What’s she got to do with it?”
“Maybe nothing. But doesn’t that phone conversation suggest anything to you?”
“Sure,” growled Gentry. “They were both being cagy.”
“Exactly.” Shayne turned to Gibson and said, “I presume the widow has been notified of Brewer’s death?”
“Of course. I wired her early this morning.”
“Yet she didn’t mention it to her husband’s partner over the telephone.”
Rourke thrust his thin face and quivering nostrils between them and said exultantly, “It wasn’t necessary, because she was talking to her husband, like I told you, and they plan to make a getaway.”
Gibson turned away from the reporter as though offended by his breath. “It’s perfectly clear,” he went on to Gentry, “that they were both being overly cautious. I haven’t the slightest doubt that they planned it together. It won’t be a betrayal of confidence, now, to tell you that Brewer knew his wife was in love with Godfrey and that he planned to sue for divorce, naming his partner as corespondent. That was the motive. With all the evidence before you, can you refuse to bring Godfrey back to confront these two detectives?” He turned slightly and waved toward Black and Mathews. “As soon as they see him and realize that he is not the man they trailed last night, his carefully planned alibi goes up in thin smoke.”
Will Gentry sighed heavily. He took a cigar from an inner pocket and turned it over in his pudgy hands. “What do we charge him with?”
“Murder, of course.”
“Godfrey,” growled Gentry, “has an airtight alibi.”
“Which will be nullified as soon as the two detectives who tailed him see him face to face—if my theory is correct.”
“If your theory is correct,” the chief agreed wearily. “If your theory isn’t correct, we go on a wild guess. Suppose Black and Mathews positively identify him as the man they tailed all night, and couldn’t possibly have committed the murder?”
“They won’t,” raged Gibson. “And it’s your duty to arrest him and bring him back.”
“I can have him picked up in New York,” Gentry agreed. “If he is a murderer, he’ll fight extradition, because his one chance of getting away with it is to stay away from Miami and out of Black’s sight.”
“Isn’t the evidence you have enough to extradite a man on?” Gibson demanded.
Gentry puffed on his cigar until the end glowed red. “The only evidence we have so far,” he said placidly, “is a perfect alibi. Unless we have something concrete, a smart criminal lawyer would make fools out of us.”
His telephone rang. He answered it, listened briefly, and said, “Thanks.”
Shayne went back to the desk and asked, “Anything on Mrs. Brewer?”
“Nothing suspicious. She spent yesterday afternoon shopping in New York. Went to the theater and returned home on the midnight train.”
Shayne turned away, tugging at his ear lobe.
Lucy Hamilton came up from her chair and said, “Why are you worried about that, Michael? It’s just what a woman would do if she were in New York—and if she knew her lover had murdered an unwanted husband last night. Hadn’t I better get back to the office? Just in case something comes up?”
Shayne caught her arm in a tight grip. “Wait a minute, Lucy. How do you figure Mrs. Brewer would go shopping and to a theater?”
“To get her mind off of it, naturally. And it kept her away from home during the evening so she could receive a long-distance call from her paramour in Miami—without it being traced—to say the job was done. That’s why they didn’t have to discuss it today.”
Shayne squeezed Lucy’s arm and whispered, “Sit down. Never mind the office.” He turned to Gibson and asked, “Are you willing to bet your theory is correct?”
“Why—I—Almost any sum.”
“All right.” Shayne lowered one hip to the edge of Gentry’s desk where he could face both the chief and the others with a slight turn of his head.
“I felt something like this was going to come up as soon as I learned that Brewer’s body had been positively identified. That’s why I asked Will to get you all together in his office.”
He paused and looked around at the gr
oup. Timothy Rourke was sprawled in his accustomed manner, his emaciated legs lost in his trousers. His neck lolled on the top chair rung and his eyes were closed. Henry Black and Mathews were sitting erect, thin faces lined with weariness from lack of sleep, but their eyes were alert. Lucy Hamilton’s soft brown eyes were fixed on Shayne, proud and confident, and her slender body was relaxed. Elliott Gibson was still standing, his hands rammed deep in his pockets and his head bent forward like a bull ready to charge.
Shayne said quietly, “Pull up a chair and rest your ego, Gibson.”
“I’m waiting to hear what you have to say.”
“It’s a long story. Sit down.”
Gibson started with Gentry, glanced around at the others, and sat down.
“As I see it,” said Shayne, “we’ve reached an impasse. We have no proof on which we can extradite Godfrey. Without positive evidence we can’t bring him here to confront Black and Mathews; which means that we’ll never get any proof. If he is guilty,” he added gently.
“What do you propose?” Gibson exploded.
“I propose that you back up your accusations with round-trip fares to New York for yourself and Henry Black.”
“Hold it, Mike,” Black said. “I don’t go anywhere until I collect my fee and expenses. That goes for Mathews, too.”
Shayne looked at Black and shook his head slightly. “We’ll all fly up together,” he continued, “and let Hank have a look at the man in his hotel. If he doesn’t identify him as the person he tailed last night, we’ll have a perfect case against him.”
“And if he does identify him?” Gibson asked.
Shayne shrugged. “Then you’ll have to forget the whole thing, because Godfrey will have an airtight alibi.”
“I’m staying right here until I get my two hundred and expenses,” Henry Black asserted in his monotonous nasal twang, “and catch myself ten hours’ sleep.”
Elliott Gibson hesitated for a moment, then said peevishly, “Since you insist that Brewer came to your office and had you engage this man to protect him, I’m willing to take the responsibility of billing his estate for the price he promised, and the cost of sending a man to New York to identify his murderer, but it would be difficult to justify my going. What could I do?”
When Dorinda Dances Page 14
