Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

Shayne closed the door firmly and threw on the extra latch. “What would he do if he knew you were here?” he asked when she stopped talking. He turned to see tears in her eyes. Her mouth was trembling, and she caught her lips between her fine white teeth. Shayne took her gently by the arm and led her to the deep chair that Timothy Rourke had drawn up close to the table and opposite the couch. “Sit down here. Make yourself comfortable and tell me all about it.” When she was seated, he went back to his place on the couch.

“I’ve been an awful fool,” she began. “I’m half crazy with shame — and I’m scared to death. If you’ll only h-help m-m-me.” She swayed sideways, folded her arms on the arm of the chair, and buried her face against them, sobbing convulsively.

“Of course I’ll help you, Dorinda. But crying won’t. You’re safe here, and everything is going to be all right.” He took a handkerchief from his pocket, reached across, and tucked it in her hand. She caught it and inched it up to her face, but she kept on crying. Occasionally she blew her nose, and after a long time she sat up.

“I’m not a crybaby, Mr. Shayne. I’m sorry.”

“Take your time,” he said hastily. “Would you like a drink to settle your nerves? A little sherry?”

“Oh no, thanks. I don’t drink. I’m all right now.” She bent toward him and said earnestly, “I’ve gotten myself into a horrible mess, and I was determined to get myself out of it without Mother and Father ever finding out about it.” She paused, staring at the nude photograph of herself propped against the lamp. “I’m not like that, Mr. Shayne. Not really. I nearly die every time I see one of them — and I’m terribly ashamed.”

Shayne glanced aside at the picture. “You haven’t anything to be ashamed of. And you did sign them, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I signed a lot of them, but that was back in the beginning. I thought I was being smart and sophisticated. But when you said what you did about Mother and Father tonight—” She stopped, and her lips began trembling, but after a moment she continued. “I’ve known it all the time — from the very first day — but I wanted to be a good sport, you see.”

“I don’t see very much yet,” said Shayne. He lit a cigarette and leaned back with his eyes half closed. “If I’m to be any help at all, I’ll have to know the truth this time.”

“That’s why I came. I don’t know anyone else in Miami, and after tonight, I just had to talk to someone.”

“Then you are Julia Lansdowne?”

“Yes. I thought you knew when you asked me tonight.”

“And your parents think you are visiting a college friend in Palm Beach during the spring vacation at Rollins?”

“Yes. She’s the only one who knows — and she doesn’t know all of it. Not the worst part.” Color flooded into her cheeks.

“You arranged with this friend to pretend you were visiting her while you slipped away to dance at La Roma?”

“Yes. I write to Mother and send the letters in a separate envelope. She sends them on to her.” She paused, and for a moment she looked down at her small white hands, clasping and unclasping them nervously. Suddenly she sat erect and lifted her head high. “Mr. Shayne, you said something about a Mrs. Davis, Mother’s best friend, coming to your office about me. Does that mean that Mother knows?”

Shayne nodded. “Your mother asked her to come down.”

“But I don’t know anyone by that name. I’ve thought and thought, and I can’t remember any Mrs. Davis.”

“She may have given me a false name,” said Shayne, “but you certainly must have recognized her last night at La Roma when she sat at a table near the stage and afterward sent a note back to you.”

Dorinda bit her lower lip, and a frown threaded her smooth brow. “I never really see anyone,” she told him, “and I didn’t get any note. There must be some mistake. Maybe it’s someone Mother knows, but I haven’t met. Or one of her friends who was a widow and married a Mr. Davis.”

“Mrs. Elbert H. Davis was engraved on the card she gave me,” said Shayne. He gave her a detailed description of the woman, and added, “She claimed to have known you all your life — said she was your mother’s best friend and was sure she had gained your complete confidence as you grew up.”

The frown in her forehead deepened. “I don’t know any woman like the one you described, Mr. Shayne. I just don’t understand it.”

Shayne shrugged. “I’m only telling you what she said. She offered me two thousand dollars belonging to your mother to get you away from La Roma without any publicity.”

The girl gasped audibly. “Two thousand dollars! How did Mother find out? And Father? Does he — know — too?” Her eyes were stark with terror and her face was white.

“Not yet.” He felt impelled to give her that assurance, but he had to get the truth from her and he couldn’t afford to ease up yet. He needed a drink, decided against drinking from the bottle, got up, and went into the kitchen.

He returned with a shot glass, filled it, drank it down, and sat down again. He didn’t speak immediately and he avoided looking at her directly. She looked like a child waiting for a promised whipping from a stern parent.

“Here’s the way I got it, Julia,” he finally said in an even tone. “Your mother received one of those pictures in the mail with an unsigned note that hinted at blackmail.”

“Mother — saw one of those?” she gasped. She turned in the chair and flung both arms on one arm of the chair and buried her face against them. “Oh, God!” she moaned. “I wish I were dead! It will kill Mother, and I don’t want to live.”

“Snap out of it, Julia. Mothers are more understanding than you think. The picture hasn’t killed her. On the contrary, she acted promptly to prevent your father from learning the truth. No matter who the mysterious Mrs. Davis may be, she has retained me to see that this thing is hushed up and the blackmailer dealt with. Sit up and tell me how you got mixed up in this mess.”

Julia lifted her head high and her eyes flashed defiantly. “Because I want to dance more than anything in the world. I was born to dance. And what happened? I was sent to stuffy private schools when I was little. I was taught to be a perfect lady. Well, I knew what I wanted. I wanted to dance. So I practiced in my room when everybody thought I was asleep.”

Shayne was staring at her. Seeing the fire in her eyes, he wondered why he hadn’t recognized her as the daughter of Nigel Lansdowne before, for he had seen the same fire of conviction and purpose in her father’s eyes. In newspaper photographs, in movie shorts, and television.

“But why La Roma?” Shayne asked gently. “Why risk the reputation of your father by dancing there?”

“It was just — just a lark,” she cut in sharply, but she turned her eyes away from his probing gaze.

“When did you meet Moran?”

“A couple of months ago. I spent a week-end in Fort Lauderdale with a girl I knew in school. She seemed to be nice and friendly, but she — well, she didn’t tell me her parents were away and we’d have the house to ourselves. It was a big estate, and I felt free for the first time in my life. The first afternoon I danced on the lawn and went swimming in the pool, then danced some more.

“I didn’t know until that evening she had invited two men she knew to spend the week-end with us. It seemed awfully grown-up, and I wasn’t afraid. I knew most of the facts of life, and I thought I could take care of myself — not do anything really wrong.” She paused, and once more she concentrated upon lacing her slender fingers together, opening them, lacing them again.