Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“Did he stay at the club after I left?”

“I don’t know,” she confessed. “He was waiting for me when I finished my last number and went out.”

Shayne’s thoughts were racing in circles. There was that sixteen hundred dollars Mrs. Davis had in cash. There was his stop with Rourke at the Daily News and the drive to Farrell’s — which might have given Moran time to get from La Roma to the Waldorf Towers ahead of him when he left the note.

He came to his feet abruptly and asked, “Do you think Moran had any suspicion that you were coming here tonight?”

“Oh, no. I’m sure he didn’t. I went in my own apartment just as though I was going to bed, and waited a few minutes until he went in. Then I slipped out and down the back stairs and came straight here.”

“How did you know my address?”

“The taxi driver knew where to bring me.”

Shayne said, “I want to have a talk with Moran. You’d better stay right here.”

He was interrupted by the ringing of the telephone.

For the second time since three o’clock he hurried to answer it, expecting to hear Mrs. Davis’s voice, and for the second time he was disappointed.

The desk clerk said, “There’s a man here who wants your room number, Mr. Shayne,” in a low, hurried voice. “He offered me twenty bucks for the information without announcing him — and another twenty if I’d tell him whether you had a girl up there. He didn’t get either one.”

“Thanks, Dick. What name?”

“He won’t give a name, but says it’s important.”

Shayne said, “Describe him.”

Dick described Ricky Moran in a couple of dozen well-chosen words.

Shayne said, “Tell him I’ll see him in a few minutes, Dick, but don’t give him my number until I call you back.” He hung up and turned to Julia.

“Your boy friend is downstairs and wants to see you,” he said in a harsh tone.

“Ricky? How did he know?” She sprang to her feet, poised like a startled fawn for flight.

“He doesn’t,” Shayne reassured her. “Probably a guess. From my talking to you at the club, and the fact that you slipped out after pretending to go to bed.” He strode to the trembling girl and caught her arm firmly. “Take a deep breath and relax. The clerk refused to give him my apartment number, and he can’t come up until I call back.”

She whirled and faced him, her violet eyes wide and frantic. “If I go away he won’t have to know I’ve been here,” she said breathlessly. “Please don’t tell him. Isn’t there some way I can get out and back to my apartment without him seeing me?”

Shayne caught her shoulder with his free hand, pressed it hard and said, “Snap out of it. The most important thing right now is to keep your real identity out of this.”

“Let me go! Let me out,” she cried, struggling to free herself. “I can be in bed with the door locked before he gets back. If he wakes me I can tell him I just went out for a walk.”

“You’re not going back there,” said Shayne grimly. “Not until I’ve settled things with Moran — and then just to pick up your stuff on your way back to Palm Beach.”

“Not — going — back?”

Shayne released his grip on her shoulder. She pivoted and faced him. “I have to go back. He’ll do anything—”

“He’ll do nothing,” Shayne raged, looking down into her frightened eyes. “Haven’t you any friends in Miami? Someone Moran doesn’t know about?”

“No,” she sobbed, and threw her arms around him. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Shayne.”

He held her gently with one arm and stroked her shaking shoulders. “There’s a fire escape in the back,” he said. “Don’t worry about getting away from Moran — if you really want to.”

“I do — I do.” She buried her face against his coat until her sobs subsided. She lifted her pale, tear-streaked face and confided, “My father has a friend here. I’ve been trying to remember his name. We always get a big box of fancy Florida fruit from him at Christmas, but I can’t remember his name. I think he’s in that business here in Miami.”

“Think,” Shayne commanded. “Was it Brewer? Or Godfrey?”

“That’s it — the name on the Christmas boxes. Brewer and Godfrey.” She stepped back from him and her violet eyes were bright with new hope. “It was silly of me to forget after seeing it so many times.”

“Were both of them your father’s friends?” Shayne asked.

“I — no—” Julia hesitated, a thoughtful frown between her eyes. “Why, I don’t know. Daddy used to mention one of them, but he always called him by something that sounded like a nickname.”

“Try to remember it,” he urged. “It’s very important right now.” But even as he watched her he knew that she could not recall the name. She was ready to burst into tears again.

Shayne massaged his jaw and stared past her. He realized all of a sudden that neither Brewer nor Godfrey was right for staking her out while he dealt with Moran — with one of them hiding out in fear of his life and the other being tailed by two private detectives to prevent murder. He thought of Mrs. Davis at the Waldorf Towers, but she wasn’t in her room insofar as he knew, and there wasn’t time to make another phone call.

He said abruptly, “There’s one possibility, Julia. My secretary, Lucy Hamilton.” He spun around and went to his desk, grabbed a pad, and wrote her name and address. “Lucy is a wonderful girl. All you have to do is give her this memo and say that I sent you. And stay right there in her apartment until I get in touch with you.” He straightened up, holding the slip of paper out to her, absorbed in his solution of her safety for the night. “Here’s Lucy’s address. You can go down the fire escape. Don’t worry about Moran. You won’t have to see him again. Grab a cab and go straight to Lucy’s apartment.”

Julia stared at the name, then exclaimed, “Why she’s the girl who came to your table. She hates me. She thought—”

“Lucy had a mad on because I stood her up on a dinner date to see you dance. She’s a hundred per cent when the chips are down.” He caught her arm and propelled her through the kitchen to the fire escape.

“What if Ricky got suspicious and is waiting?”

“Don’t worry. Just grab the first cab you see. Turn left at the bottom of the steps. I’ll have Moran on his way up in the elevator before you get halfway down.” He left her on the landing and long-legged it to the telephone where he called the clerk. Moran was waiting in the lobby, and he said, “Send him up.”

When Shayne opened the door Moran barged in, his black eyes darting around the living-room. “Where is she?” he demanded angrily. “Hiding under the bed?”

“I don’t know who you’re looking for,” said Shayne casually. “Want a look-see?”

“You know damned well I’m looking for Dorrie,” Moran raged. “Don’t try to deny that she slipped out of her apartment and beat it up here.”

Shayne sauntered across the room when Moran started toward the bedroom. “Hold it,” he growled. “What makes you think that?”

Moran whirled around to face him. “Where else would she go?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Shayne repeated. “She was on the verge of telling me when you came up behind me at the dinner table last night and scared her out of her wits.”

“Nuts,” Moran said angrily. He strode to the bedroom door, jerked it open, and went in. He came out fuming.

“So you kept me waiting downstairs until she got her clothes on and went down the fire escape. After all I’ve done for that little slut.”

Shayne slapped him. A hard slap from a big palm swung in a wide arc. A loud plop echoed through the apartment, and Moran’s head snapped back under the force of the blow. His knees buckled and he almost went down. Staggering sideways, his right hand moved instinctively toward a bulge under his left lapel.