Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“Which we don’t even know is the truth. But why in hell would she toss in a piece of information like that if it wasn’t true?” He swallowed the last of his drink and got up. “Let’s take a look at that packing-plant on West Flagler.”

Rourke drained his glass and they went out to the press car. He drove at high speed, and silently, until he parked in front of a low, sprawling stucco building with a sign reading: Brewer and Godfrey. A smaller sign over the door read: Office.

They entered a small room where an elderly white-haired woman sat before a switchboard. Her eyes were red-rimmed from recent tears, and her hands lay listlessly in her lap.

She looked up as the two men approached and said, “If you’re here on business you’ll have to see Mr. Broom. He’s back in the packing-room.” She indicated a door leading off to the right and added, “There’s no one else here today.”

“We’re from the police,” Shayne told her gently.

She stiffened and asked anxiously, “Then it’s true that Mr. Brewer — is dead?”

Shayne nodded gravely. “I’m afraid it is, Miss—”

“Mrs. Grayson,” she supplied. Angry spots of color came to her cheeks. “It’s that Mr. Godfrey that did it. I know it is. They were at each other’s throats all the time. I heard him threaten Mr. Brewer.”

“Right now we want to look through the private offices of the partners,” said Shayne. “Save any statements for men from the homicide squad. They’ll be along presently.”

“That I will, and gladly. The office is right through that door marked ‘Private’ to the left.”

Shayne started to the door with Rourke following. He stopped abruptly, turned, and said, “By the way, Mrs. Grayson, how long has Mr. Brewer been dyeing his hair black?”

“Why, three or four years,” she answered, surprised and apparently annoyed at the question. “I don’t see what that has to do with it.”

“Just checking,” Shayne assured her, and went on to the door. It opened upon a large, pleasant office, paneled in pine, with a low railing dividing the room in the center. Each office was similarly furnished with a large oak desk, swivel chair, water cooler and filing-cabinets. Even the deep-pile rugs were twins, and of a cool-green color.

“What are you looking for, Mike?” Rourke asked.

“For one thing, an entrance to this office from the rear.” He strode along the dividing rail until it ended near a door. He opened it and found a dead end. The small room contained a lavatory and toilet with a medicine cabinet above the lavatory.

Before entering he switched on the ceiling light and went to the cabinet, opened the small mirrored door, and began examining its contents.

He found a small bottle labeled: Little Peerless Wonder Hair Dye and carried it into the office. With a puzzled frown between his gray eyes he muttered, “I wouldn’t think a man of Brewer’s type would dye his own hair, Tim.”

Rourke shrugged his emaciated shoulders. “Probably kept it to touch up the roots when it began to show gray,” he suggested. He took the bottle from Shayne and studied it curiously.

Shayne went over to another door on the other side of the rail. It opened into an accounting-room where typewriters and bookkeeping machines clanked at the touch of operators. The packing-department lay beyond, separated only by a crude lattice-work, and the air was almost chilly from an air-conditioning plant. He closed the door and turned to Rourke.

“Well, that’s that. Gibson knew about this rear entrance.”

“That guy seems to know everything,” Rourke observed casually as they went back to the outer office where Shayne thanked the switchboard operator for her co-operation before going out to the press car.

“Where to now?” the reporter asked.

“My office. I want to ask Lucy whether she noticed anything at all between Brewer and Mrs. Davis that would give her the idea they knew each other.”

Rourke jockeyed the car into the heavy traffic, then said, “Even if it was Brewer who was Judge Lansdowne’s friend, it wouldn’t necessarily mean that a friend of the judge’s wife would know him by sight.”

“I’m grabbing at straws right now,” Shayne grated. “Just checking — because of them being in my office at the same time.”

“I see,” said Rourke, and they fell silent during the short drive to Miami’s business center. He double-parked on Flagler and they got out and went up to Shayne’s office.

Lucy Hamilton was idly turning the pages of a fashion magazine when they entered. She looked up curiously when Shayne asked, “Do you recall whether Mrs. Davis and Mr. Brewer spoke to each other when they were in the office here yesterday afternoon?”

After a moment’s reflection she said, “No, Michael. I’m positive they didn’t. He came in after she had gone in with you. She just stayed a moment when she came out. Just long enough to leave a retainer and give her address. And — oh, I wanted to ask you—”

“It’s that moment I’m wondering about,” Shayne interrupted patiently. “When she came out and they first saw each other. Did you notice any sign of recognition, any sign that they might have been concealing the fact that they knew each other?”

Lucy Hamilton shook her brown head slowly, and her eyes were puzzled. “No. I don’t remember that they even glanced at each other. He was nervous and impatient to get in to see you.”

Shayne whirled about and faced Rourke with a wry grin.

“Let’s drop in on Will and see if he’s got anything new.”

“But Michael—” Lucy began urgently.

The door closed, and the two men went down in the elevator.

Will Gentry did not have anything new, nothing whatever on the dancer who had disappeared. The Washington street address which Mrs. Davis had given at the Waldorf Towers did not exist, and there was no Elbert H. Davis listed in the Washington directory. Authorities in that city were checking all females bearing the Davis name in an effort to learn if any had left recently on a trip. They were also making discreet inquiries among Mrs. Lansdowne’s friends for a woman answering the description of Shayne’s client.

“I even called Rollins College,” Gentry rumbled with disgust, “but no one there knows for sure the name of the girl Julia Lansdowne is supposed to be visiting in Palm Beach.”

“But she is supposed to be visiting there,” Shayne contended.

“That much of Dorinda’s story seems to be true,” the chief agreed reluctantly.

“Anything more from the doctor on Brewer?”

“Not yet. I should be getting a preliminary report shortly. It’ll take longer for a full report. After you left, though, the doc did say definitely that the hair was dyed.”

Timothy Rourke said excitedly, “I’m beginning to get a crazy hunch about this case. I keep thinking about the way the body was smashed up. Like Mike said, it looks as though a deliberate effort had been made to destroy any possible identification. Even fingerprints.”

“How about the prints, Will?” Shayne asked.

“Sergeant Harris got some, but he doesn’t know if they’re good enough for comparison. He’s out at Brewer’s house now seeing what he can find.”

“I’ll bet ten to one the body is not Brewer’s,” Rourke said eagerly. “But before I say what’s on my mind, tell me one thing, Chief. In going over Henry Black’s report on Godfrey’s movements last night, is there anything to absolutely prove that the man he was following was Hiram Godfrey?”

Gentry rolled his lids down until his agate eyes were mere slits.

“What are you driving at? As I recall Hank’s report — no.”

“Take a look at it this way. Black had never seen Godfrey. He had nothing but Mike’s description over the telephone as given by Milton Brewer. Now, Black goes out to the packing-plant and sits himself outside and waits until a man answering that description comes out of the office and gets in a blue Buick that he’d been told was Godfrey’s. Now, what did the man do then? Did he see anyone who knows Godfrey? Did he go any place where Godfrey would be recognized? Rourke shifted his feverish eyes from Shayne to Gentry. Both were listening, the chief leaning forward with his arms folded on the desk, and the detective tugging at his ear lobe with a faraway look in his eyes.