Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“But you didn’t drag Godfrey off the plane,” Rourke pointed out wearily, “because he had an unimpeachable alibi — cleverly provided by Brewer. Don’t you get it? That was the essence of his plan. He had to fix things so Godfrey couldn’t possibly be suspected — at least until the man impersonating him had a chance to reach New York and drop out of sight.”

Gentry had been jotting notes on a pad. He pushed it away, took out a handkerchief and mopped perspiration from his beefy face, and said, “It’s getting too damned complicated for me. You pick some holes in it, Mike.”

“There are a few things,” Shayne said absently. “How, for instance, did the bottle of hair dye get back in Brewer’s office laboratory if he used it out on the bay to dye Godfrey’s hair after murdering him?”

“Might be a dozen explanations,” said Rourke promptly. “This could be a bottle he bought beforehand to try it out on himself. Or maybe he forgot to take it along, and had to pick up another bottle on the way to the boat.”

“Could be,” Shayne agreed. There was an expression of searching concentration on his lean face. “But what about Hank Black’s seeing a picture of Godfrey in the papers and swearing he was not the man he tailed all night?”

“Not much chance of that,” said Rourke. “On a job like that, Hank wouldn’t get too close. Besides, in a news photo you don’t get coloring — hair, eyes, and so on. Of course,” he continued thoughtfully, “Black is a pretty smart cookie, and he might catch on. But don’t forget, Brewer didn’t pick out a really smart operator like Hank for the job. That was accidental. Because you already had a client and couldn’t take him on. What he did was go to a dumb Irish Shamus named Mike Shayne — who doesn’t recognize a murder solution when it’s handed to him on a silver platter.”

Shayne grinned. “Might be something in that.” He turned to Gentry with a frown. “Crazy as this sounds, Will, it can’t hurt anything to have the New York cops pick up Hiram Godfrey — or the man who’s impersonating him.”

“I can do better than that,” growled Gentry. “After listening to Gibson this morning I thought it might be smart to check on Godfrey. I arranged with New York to have a couple of men on his tail at La Guardia when his plane lands.”

Shayne nodded agreement. “One sure way of checking Tim’s theory is to show Black a picture of Godfrey. Think you’ve got one in the morgue, Tim?”

“Should have several. Both Brewer and Godfrey were pretty well known in business circles. Let’s go see.”

Shayne stood up and suggested to Gentry, “Why not get hold of Black and have him meet us in the Daily News morgue?”

“Sure. Right away, Mike.”

Shayne and Rourke sat at the long table in a room adjoining the morgue in the News Building. The detective was leafing through a plump cardboard file filled with advertisements and courtesy photographs dating back ten years when the firm of Brewer and Godfrey was established. There were pictures of the plant, trucks, and employees, but no recognizable faces.

Rourke had the thin personal file of Hiram Godfrey open. He muttered, “Funny we don’t have anything personal on Brewer, but here are a couple of pretty good shots of Godfrey.” He laid two 8 x 10 glossy prints before Shayne. “These seem to be the latest on Godfrey. The dates are on the back. This one is two years old, and the other three.”

Shayne pushed the company file aside and studied the latest picture of Hiram Godfrey. It had been snapped on the golf links during an amateur tournament, and showed him bareheaded and in mid-swing. He wore plus fours and a shabby jacket, and there was a look of athletic youthfulness in his stance, and the profile of an alert, lean face.

“He looks vaguely familiar,” he muttered, “but—”

“But you don’t frequent the Miami Country Club,” Rourke broke in. “You’ve probably seen him around town without knowing who he was. Here’s another one. Full-face, but not quite so close up.”

Shayne scowled at the snap of Godfrey standing in front of the packing-plant. He was bareheaded, hair tousled, and the same careless attire that Brewer had mentioned as an outstanding characteristic. Except for his average size, there wasn’t much to identify with the mutilated body they had viewed on the beach, but Rourke continued to argue fiercely for his theory when Shayne pointed this out to him.

“You can’t deny it could be Godfrey. Forget the smashed face and the dyed hair. That makes a lot of difference.”

“Could be,” Shayne said absently. “What color hair would you say he has?”

“Blond or light brown. But dyed black—”

“We’ll see what Hank Black says,” said Shayne impatiently. He laid the print aside and drew the partnership file to him again. “I’ve gone through half of this without finding any originals.”

“They’re separate. Here, I’ll show you.” Rourke flipped the clippings over, frowned, and said, “That’s funny. There aren’t any. But I remember distinctly that the Brewer wedding was quite a social event. There’s got to be something.” His voice died to a mumble and he began riffling through the file with trembling hands.

“Brewer mentioned that he was married two years ago,” said Shayne.

Rourke stopped at a two-column story from the society page describing the wedding. “For chrissake,” he groaned. “No pics at all. Hold it a minute, Mike. Let me talk to Harrison. I’m pretty sure he was on that job.” He crossed the room with long, lanky steps and disappeared through an open door.

Shayne lit a cigarette and watched the smoke roll up through narrowed, brooding eyes. He had only begun speculating upon the possible meaning of this new development when the reporter rushed back to the room with the alacrity of a football player making a flying tackle.

“How do you like this, Mike? Harrison knows Brewer from way back. The guy’s allergic to pictures — absolutely refuses to pose, and raises hell if anybody tries to steal one. And get this! Harrison swears Brewer put the same lid on pictures of his bride. No pics of either one so far as he knows, and he’s been on the job twenty-five years.” Rourke slumped in his chair, panting for breath. “What does that mean to you?”

“What does it mean to you?” Shayne parried.

“That Brewer would have a good chance of getting away with a disappearance. Don’t you get it? Ordinarily, we’d run a shot of him on the front page in case of a mysterious death like this bay thing.” He paused and drew in deep drafts of air, then resumed. “And with him hiding out and trying to make his getaway, there’d always be the chance someone, would recognize him. But with no picture in the papers, he’s safe.”

Shayne said calmly, “Are you going to tell me that Brewer has been figuring on something like this for ten years?”

Rourke’s enthusiasm was undaunted. “Not necessarily. But you have to admit it gives him an added factor of safety when he does get in a spot where he wants to disappear.”

“There’s generally a reason when a man is allergic to having his picture taken,” Shayne granted. “I’d like to know what Brewer’s was.” He paused a moment, then suggested, “Call his house and talk to his housekeeper. Tell her the paper wants to run his picture in connection with your story on his death.”

Rourke went out to telephone. Henry Black was with him when he returned.

“Brewer really had a phobia,” the reporter said exultantly. “The housekeeper says there ain’t no such thing. Not even a snapshot. She seemed surprised that everybody didn’t know about Mr. Brewer’s little peculiarity.”