Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“No. Why should she, Michael? I don’t think I’m the right—”

“This is serious. I sent her there about four-thirty.”

“Well, she didn’t get here,” said Lucy. “Perhaps she met a man on the way.”

“You’ve been right there and haven’t heard anything from her?” Shayne asked, alarmed.

“I’ve been right here, Michael, ever since about eleven o’clock.”

“Stay right there until you hear from me, Lucy. If she shows up, don’t let her get away. If she calls up, get hold of her somehow — and fast. You can contact me through Will Gentry.” He spoke rapidly, hung up, and turned with sweat streaming down his face.

Will Gentry regarded him with a faint twinkle in his agate eyes and said, “I think this is one time Mike Shayne got taken — but good.”

“What do you mean ‘taken’?” Shayne growled.

“What else?” Gentry made an expansive gesture. “This girl feeds you a hunk of boloney and you gulp it down without chewing. Michael Galahad Shayne mounting his white charger to save a strip-teaser from a life of shame.” He threw his head back and guffawed. “She’s heard about you, maybe, and comes to your apartment at four in the morning for a little fun — and you read her a sermon. My God, Mike.”

“Okay. Have your fun. But I swear she was on the level, Will. She wouldn’t even take a drink.”

“Then why didn’t she go to Lucy’s?”

“What’s your guess?” Shayne parried.

“It’s a cinch. She knew she’d never get by with a story like that with another woman. So she just faded out of the picture after you chased her down the fire escape — while you stay behind to break a lance against the guy she was two-timing.”

“And it could be that something altogether different happened to her,” said Shayne gravely. “If someone snatched her before she got to Lucy—”

“Who?” Gentry demanded. “You’ve admitted Moran was waiting in the lobby and he came right up.”

“He could have left a pal watching the fire escape,” Shayne growled. “Damn it, Will. If anything has happened to that girl, I sent her right into it.”

“Nuts,” said Gentry. “You’ll be dreaming up an international gang of white-slavers next.”

“I talked to the girl and you didn’t,” Shayne reminded him. “There’s one way to find out.” He went to the phone again, asked for long-distance, said, “A person-to-person call to Mrs. Nigel Lansdowne in Washington, D. C. I don’t know the number. That’s Mrs. Lansdowne.”

He waited tensely, his bleak gray eyes avoiding Chief Gentry’s amused gaze, while the operator put the call through. After a brief interval, he heard the Washington operator say, “I’m sorry but the Lansdownes have an unlisted number and we are not allowed to give the information.”

“Wait,” Shayne said sharply. “This is important. Official police business.”

“I’m very sorry.” The voice was dulcet but firm. “We would require an authorization from the authorities here.”

Shayne said, “Hold it.” He turned to Gentry and held out the receiver. “Do you know any cops in Washington who can get you an unlisted number?”

“Maybe.” Gentry got up reluctantly, took the receiver, and asked the operator to connect him with Washington police headquarters.

Shayne paced the floor and worried his left ear lobe, listening absently while Gentry spoke to half a dozen people. After a few minutes of passing the buck, the chief nodded with satisfaction and said, “Let me get a pencil.”

Shayne hurried to the desk and shoved a pad and pencil across. The chief wrote down a number, said, “Thanks... ring the number, please. It’s person-to-person for Mrs. Lansdowne.” He then handed, the instrument to Shayne and went back to his chair.

After the usual preliminaries a shocked voice said, “For Mrs. Lansdowne? Oh, that’s impossible. She’s much too ill to be disturbed.”

“This is important,” Shayne said swiftly. “This is the police in Miami — calling about Mrs. Lansdowne’s daughter.”

“I’m sorry. It’s positive orders from the doctor. What about Miss Julia?”

Before Shayne could reply the operator broke in. “Do you wish this party to accept the call, sir?”

“Yes, by all means. Who is this speaking?”

“The housekeeper. Has anything happened to Julia?”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Why — at school in Florida,” the woman faltered. “If anything has happened—”

“We don’t know yet,” Shayne said bluntly. “If I could speak to her mother for a moment.”

“But she can’t be disturbed. She’s very ill. The telephone has been disconnected in her room, and the nurse would not allow you to speak to her anyway.” The woman’s voice trembled with anxiety.

“All right,” said Shayne grimly. “Put Judge Lansdowne on.”

“The judge is out of town for the night. We expect him back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Do you know where I can reach him tonight?”

“No. I think he’s in Boston. His office would know. You could call there at nine o’clock.” She gave him a telephone number, and Shayne scribbled it on a pad.

“One thing more. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Lansdowne has a very close friend in Washington named Mrs. Davis?”

“Mrs. Davis?” There was a moment’s silence. Then she said emphatically, “No, sir. I don’t. Please tell me about Miss Julia. If there’s been an accident—”

“It’s probably not the same girl,” Shayne soothed her. “We were merely trying to check an identity. I’ll be in touch with the judge tomorrow.”

He hung up and swung around with an angry frown. “That was the housekeeper. Mrs. Lansdowne is too ill to take a call. That corroborates one thing the girl told me — without any prompting — about her mother’s illness. And Julia Lansdowne is supposed to be in school here in Florida. We’ve got to find her, Will.”

“Sure. Whether she’s the Lansdowne girl or not she’s a witness in Moran’s death. I’ll put it on the radio.” Gentry picked up the photograph and glanced at it, dropped it, and said gruffly, “How was she dressed?” on the way to the phone.

“White dress with short puffed sleeves and high neck. About five-feet-four or five — slim, short, blond hair and big violet eyes. And just put out a call for Dorinda, Will.”

Gentry grunted and arranged for the radio pickup.

Shayne had his hat on. He handed Gentry his and urged him toward the door, saying, “There’s one other chance. Let’s get to that address in Coconut Grove fast. If some pal of Moran’s did pick her up, he might have taken her there. Neither she nor Moran knew I trailed them home from La Roma.”

“We’ll probably find her there, all right,” rumbled Gentry, “asleep in her own little bed. Ten to one she went straight back there after failing to make time with you.”

“Cut it, Will. She’s just a kid.” Shayne yanked the door shut, and they went down the corridor to the elevator. In the lobby he stopped long enough to tell the clerk to try to get a message from anyone who called him, then hurried out to join Gentry in his car.

“Out Brickell will be fastest,” he muttered, repeating the address he had memorized earlier. He sank back against the cushion and occupied himself with unwelcome imaginings as Gentry sent the heavy sedan swiftly across the Miami River into the fresh radiance of a new day.

They parked in front of the building under the fronds of leaning coco palms and went into a small foyer with a double row of mailboxes.

“She went into an apartment on the second floor, front and right,” Shayne muttered.

“Two-B,” Gentry said, after checking, “is Moran’s. Two-A is marked ‘Dorinda.’ Looks like she did tell the truth about separate apartments.” He started to push the button.