Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“I went backstage,” she resumed after a brief pause, “and asked a singer to show me Julia’s dressing-room. She refused.” Mrs. Davis took a handkerchief from her purse and caught the tears that stood like big raindrops in her eyes before they ran down her cheeks.

“Perhaps Julia didn’t recognize you,” Shayne suggested.

“I’ve known her all her life. Sally — her mother — is my dearest friend. Of course she knew me.”

After a moment’s frowning thought Shayne said, “If she’s eighteen and has decided on a dancing career, I don’t know how anyone can stop her.”

“A career? In night clubs like La Roma?” Horror sounded through her cultured tones. “Julia must be brought to a realization of the awful thing she is doing to her mother and father. If it becomes public, the judge will be ruined politically, and politics is his life, Mr. Shayne,” she ended significantly.

“Her father doesn’t know yet?” Shayne asked.

“Oh, no. That’s the one thing Sally fears most. That’s what you must prevent.”

“How did her mother learn the girl was dancing at La Roma?”

“She received an anonymous letter.” Mrs. Davis opened her purse and withdrew a four-by-six Manila envelope, pulled the flap back and extracted a glossy photograph and a folded sheet of paper. Her fingers were steady, but flags of scarlet sprang into her cheeks as she bent forward to hand the enclosures to Shayne. “These came in an envelope similar to this,” she explained, “addressed to her mother personally. I’m afraid the original was destroyed.”

Shayne looked at the photograph first, his expression showing nothing more than professional interest.

The girl was young and beautiful and nude. The picture had been snapped in the midst of her act onstage. Poised on her toes, the clean, taut lines of her body were breathtakingly lovely. Her face was lifted, wide mouth smiling, while her arms strained upward as if to pluck a star with the tips of her reaching fingers. There was an eager, questing look in her eyes, and it seemed to Shayne that the massed background of watching diners, and not the girl, was the offending note.

Beyond her on the stage a six-piece orchestra was caught in action by the sensitive camera, and the painted legend on the bass drum was clearly readable. La Roma.

Written slantingly in a bold hand across the glossy print was the name Dorinda.

Shayne queried Mrs. Davis with quirked brows and repeated the name.

“That’s the stage name Julia uses,” she explained. The blush was gone from her cheeks, leaving only a warm sun tan. “I tried to talk to the manager last night, but he was out,” she continued; and her voice grew intimate and appealing when she added, “I could find no one to talk to but one of the singers, and she told me that none of them knew anything about Dorinda except her dancing.”

Shayne laid the photograph face down on the desk. He said absently, “They don’t know who she really is?”

“I’m not quite certain, Mr. Shayne. She was evasive, and — rude.”

Shayne didn’t reply. He picked up the note and spread it out on the desk. The paper was cheap and the penciled print smudged from much handling. It read: Would this sort of publicity help Julia’s father? It was signed: A Friend.

“Someone,” said Shayne after studying the note, “knows what Dorinda’s real name is.”

“Yes,” she agreed quietly and with a hint of resignation. “The person who mailed that note to Sally’s home in Washington.”

“And you’ve heard nothing further?”

“Nothing. Sally called for me to come to her the moment she received the note. I agreed to come to Miami at once. She has been quite ill, and the shock resulted in a relapse.”

Shayne tapped the note with a forefinger and said, “Do you think this is a threat? Or, is there a possibility that it’s a friendly gesture by someone who felt her parents should know the truth?”

“Why — how can I judge, Mr. Shane? It could be either, I suppose.”

Her perceptible hesitation indicated to the detective that his second suggestion had not actually occurred to her before. He said, “If the girl refused to talk with you — refused to even recognize you—”

“That’s what frightens me,” she broke in. “Why? Why would she do that to me?”

“Because she’s eighteen.”

“You don’t understand,” she persisted. “We’ve always been very close. I’ve tried to understand Julia, particularly during her teen-age years, and I was so sure I had gained her confidence. But now—” Her voice trailed off in a whisper, and she was smoothing her gloves again.

Shayne rocked back in his swivel chair and studied her face intently. Her long black lashes were moist, but otherwise she maintained her composure.

He said, after a short silence, “I don’t know how I can help you, Mrs. Davis. At eighteen, Julia has a legal right to live her life as she chooses.”

“But we can’t consider the legality of her age,” she cried, and her eyes widened with terror. “The child must be under some horrible compulsion. It can’t be Julia’s choosing — this thing she’s doing. She knows what it would do to her father if it came out publicly.”

Shayne lit a fresh cigarette before answering. “I know it’s difficult for parents when their children throw off all restraints. But it happens every day. This is probably just a phase with Julia—”

“Just a phase!” Her voice cut in like a whiplash. “It’s preposterous to think of her dancing in the nude in that dreadful place — before those men! If you could have seen the lust on their faces last night—”

“It’s her choice,” he said impatiently. “I wouldn’t interfere if I could see my way to do so. I think that would be the worst thing you could possibly do. She will come to her senses a lot faster if you stand back and let her work it out her own way.”

Mrs. Davis stared at him in amazement for a long moment. Her tone was crisp and cold when she said, “I’m not a prude, Mr. Shayne. I realize that nude dancing in a night club, even in a place like La Roma, doesn’t necessarily mean that a girl’s life is ruined.” She lifted her dark head proudly, and the artistic droop of her wide-brimmed hat quivered with the sudden move. “I’ve watched Julia’s mind and character develop from childhood. I trust her instincts implicitly. If her own life were the only one involved, I assure you I could trust Julia to work out her own destiny without interference. Unfortunately, there is a great deal more involved than a young girl’s restless fling.”

“Look, Mrs. Davis,” said Shayne, propelling his swivel chair forward and folding his arms on the desk, “if you think this girl’s fling may affect her father’s political ambitions or her mother’s social position you overestimate a scandal in the world of today.”

“It’s because it is today’s world that it does matter,” she said earnestly. “Her father has a high position in the government. He is an uncompromising idealist who followed Franklin Roosevelt to Washington and who refused to alter his fundamental beliefs after Mr. Roosevelt’s death. Within the past two years he has been investigated by three Congressional committees seeking to unseat him.

“Thus far, they have not succeeded,” she continued, warmth and pride rising in her voice. “You are acquainted with the witch hunts going on in Washington, Mr. Shayne, the badgering of liberals, the manner in which one after another of Mr. Roosevelt’s original appointees has been driven from public life.” She paused expectantly, breathlessly, her wide dark eyes level with Shayne’s.

“So what?” he said amiably. “Julia loves dancing. Her father loves politics.”