Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“I don’t think he did,” Gentry said. “According to Black’s report he went directly home from the plant — a small bungalow where he lives alone and has a cleaning woman come in by the day.”

Gentry paused long enough to hurl a soggy cigar butt toward a wastebasket, then resumed. “The woman wasn’t there at night. Godfrey changed into a business suit and went out to dinner at a small restaurant. We can easily check on whether he usually went there, if necessary. After dinner, he went home and went to bed about eleven o’clock. Black and Mathews stayed up all night watching the house, both front and back exits. Then they tailed him to the airport this morning. He called a taxi. They watched him board the plane for New York and saw the take-off. That finished their job.”

“So, anybody who superficially resembled Godfrey could have done exactly that,” Rourke pointed out with satisfaction, “and Black would not have been any wiser.”

“Wait a minute,” Shayne interposed sharply. “What the devil makes you think it wasn’t Godfrey?”

“I’ll come to that in a minute,” Rourke resumed. “Right now, I think we’ll all agree that Black would swear on the witness stand that he had followed Godfrey all night, because he tailed a man answering the general description Shayne gave him over the telephone.”

“That’s true enough,” the detective granted. “But what does it get you?”

For answer Rourke took the small bottle of dye from his pocket. “I read the directions on this when you handed it to me in the plant, Mike. You didn’t. Listen to this:

“‘May be easily applied within minutes. Moisten a piece of absorbent cotton with the dye and apply thoroughly to dry hair. Can be washed out with any soap or shampoo and leave no trace. To achieve a permanent effect, the hair should be wet before application with a strong salt solution, and must be rinsed within fifteen minutes with a further salt solution to set dye.’”

Shayne lifted one shoulder negligently and said, “I don’t get your angle.”

“I’m betting big odds that the man Black saw board that plane this morning was not Hiram Godfrey.”

“Then who was it?” Shayne exploded.

“Anyone answering the general description Black had. Somebody who had been coached for the role and who had Godfrey’s car and house keys.”

“According to your theory,” Gentry rumbled, “maybe you can tell us where Godfrey was all this time.”

“Dead — murdered,” said Rourke. “Hiram Godfrey was murdered before Black went out to the plant to get on his tail.”

Shayne started to protest, but the telephone on Gentry’s desk interrupted him.

The chief answered, listened a moment, then hung up. He said, “That was Sergeant Harris out at the Brewer house. He picked up some prints, but reports that it will be difficult to make a definite comparison with what he got from the corpse. It looks as though we’re stymied — unless we can get hold of enough of Brewer’s teeth for a dentist to work on. If Doc doesn’t find some scars, or other identifying marks, we may never know for certain who the corpse is.”

“That,” said Timothy Rourke, “is what I’ve been waiting to hear. The dead man is Hiram Godfrey, of course.”

“You’re nuts, Tim,” Shayne said impatiently.

“I don’t think so.” The reporter bent forward and tapped the bottle of hair dye. “This is the clue you’re neglecting. You pointed it out yourself at the plant. A man like Brewer isn’t the type to use a cheap article and apply it himself. He would have a professional job.”

“So?”

“So, what was this bottle doing in the lavatory unless Brewer used it to dye his partner’s hair black after killing him in the boat yesterday afternoon?”

Gentry grunted, and Shayne started to offer an argument, but Rourke held up his hand and said, “Wait — let me tell it my way, all of it. Don’t you realize how peculiar it was for Brewer to go out in the boat with Godfrey — alone? We know he was deathly afraid his partner was planning to murder him. Yet he makes this trip on the bay the day before Godfrey is due to leave for New York. Why?” His eyes glittered in their deep sockets as he flashed them from Shayne to Gentry. He stood up and began pacing the floor.

“I’ll tell you why,” he continued. “I’m guessing that Brewer planned to get the jump on Godfrey when he went for the boat ride. He provides himself with a bottle of hair dye that can be applied instantly, and an outfit of his own clothes. You told me yourself, Mike, that Brewer said he and his partner were about the same build.

“When they’re out on the bay, Brewer simply pulls a switch — gets his lick in first. After killing Godfrey, probably in the same manner as he described Godfrey’s attack on himself, he wet his partner’s head with salt water, applied the dye, stripped off his clothes, and dressed him in the suit he had brought along. He then put his own wallet and other identification in the pockets, smashed up Godfrey’s face beyond recognition, and even took the precaution of mangling the fingertips to destroy any possibility of prints. After that — splash — and Godfrey’s body is in the water, and he hightails it to your office to give you that cock-and-bull story.”

There was a faint smile on Shayne’s wide mouth. “It makes a pretty story, Tim, but I still don’t get the basic angle.”

“It’s perfectly logical,” Rourke contended. “Here’s this situation between the partners coming to a climax. Brewer realizes he will be the best suspect if Godfrey is found murdered. So he figures out the plan I’ve outlined. It won’t be Godfrey who is found murdered. It will be Brewer. He will disappear, and no one will bother to look for Brewer, because he will be dead and buried.”

“What good would all that hocus pocus do him in the long run?” Gentry demanded. “He can’t ever reappear to get his share of the business.”

“Brewer happens to be a married man,” Rourke reminded him. “His estate will go to his wife eventually. All he has to do is stay out of sight, and have her meet him later in South America or some place with the money — and a new name.”

“You’re forgetting another thing in your fantastic theory,” said Shayne bluntly. “Brewer’s wife was in love with Godfrey, according to his story.”

“Sure. According to Brewer’s story,” gibed Rourke. “You have only his word for it, and who is there to deny it? He knew Godfrey couldn’t. Godfrey was dead before Brewer came to your office.”

Shayne quirked a ragged red brow at Will Gentry. “Does any of this make sense to you?”

“When did Tim Rourke ever make sense?” rumbled Gentry. “You stick to writing fairy tales in your newspaper,” he added to Rourke.

“Wait a minute,” Shayne interposed abruptly. “Let Tim go on with it. Why did Brewer come to my office with that story if he’d done what you suggest?”

“Because he had to establish the fact that the corpse is his and not Godfrey’s,” Rourke told him in the patient tone of one explaining a simple problem to a mental deficient. “He can’t afford to have both partners disappear after that boat trip. He’d be afraid there would be an element of doubt as to which body it was, and a more thorough investigation would be made, ending in the positive identification of Godfrey.

“To forestall that, he hires a private detective who will swear that Godfrey got on the plane for New York this morning. That leaves only Brewer missing — and a body is washed up wearing Brewer’s clothes and hair dyed black. Ergo. It is accepted as Brewer with no questions asked.”

“But Godfrey is immediately our best suspect,” Gentry argued. “So we jerk him off his plane — the man Brewer has hired to impersonate Godfrey — and bring him back on a murder charge. The man obviously wouldn’t be Godfrey, and couldn’t pass for him in Miami for a minute. So the whole plot falls flat on its face.”