Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

Elliott Gibson sat in a swivel chair behind the desk. He remained seated, nodded to the detective, and waved a manicured hand toward three straight chairs and said, “I rather expected you would be around.”

Shayne toed one of the chairs across the polished floor and sat down. “We’re trying to confirm your identification of the body. We need a picture of Brewer. Do you happen to have one around?”

“I do not,” said Gibson. “Not only that, but I seriously doubt whether there is a photograph of Mr. Brewer in existence.”

Shayne stared at him with feigned surprise. “Not even a snapshot?”

“I’m afraid not, Shayne.” Gibson rocked back and smiled indulgently. “A strong antipathy toward photographs was one of Brewer’s few idiosyncrasies. It amounted to a phobia with him. I recall once that a caricaturist who made his living in a night club drew a comical picture of him one night. Brewer paid him ten dollars for it, and ripped it to pieces before the man’s eyes. Otherwise, he was perfectly normal, and this is utter nonsense about wanting further identification. What reason have the police for doubting it is Brewer’s body?”

“Something queer has come up,” said Shayne cautiously. “For instance, I presume you knew Hiram Godfrey.”

“Quite well.”

“Think carefully before you answer,” Shayne urged him. “Get a mental picture of Godfrey in your mind and then think back to the murdered man. With his hair dyed black and dressed in Brewer’s clothes and mutilated as the body was — could it possibly be Godfrey instead of Brewer?”

“No.” Gibson’s reply was prompt and positive. “They were nothing at all alike. Brewer was quiet and studious — a thorough gentleman.” He paused, frowning thoughtfully, then resumed. “I’d say Godfrey is a complete extrovert who never matured beyond a pleasure in boyish games and practical jokes. He drank heavily and ran around with a sporty crowd. The two men were completely dissimilar.”

“None of these things have much to do with physical appearances,” Shayne pointed out. “Particularly after one is dead. Brewer began by saying he and Godfrey were about the same size and weight when I had Black on the phone and gave him a description of Godfrey.”

“It’s preposterous,” said Gibson. He smiled faintly, almost as though he pitied Shayne. “Aside from the sheer impossibility of such a thing, have you forgotten that this Black and his man watched Godfrey board the New York plane this morning?”

“I haven’t forgotten that,” said Shayne quietly.

“Then you’re beginning to doubt the truth of his story, too — and agree with me that it was trumped up to provide Godfrey with an alibi. Are you confessing that you were in on the plan, as I suggested to Chief Gentry?”

“I’m not ready to confess anything yet,” Shayne told him, then demanded, “How long have you known Brewer?”

“About six years. He was one of my first clients after I opened this office.”

“What do you know about his past — before you met him — before he teamed up with Godfrey in the fruit business?”

Gibson hesitated, and his whole expression changed. “Why, I really don’t know. We were friends, you understand, but not particularly intimate. I believe he was originally from New York — and inherited a small fortune—” His voice trailed off for a moment, then he asked impatiently, “What has Brewer’s past to do with his death?”

“I don’t know,” Shayne admitted. “But I’ve known men who didn’t want their pictures published because they had something to hide — a previous identity that they were trying to live down. It occurred to me that Brewer’s phobia might be—”

“Nonsense,” Gibson cut in sharply. “I don’t believe it. Not Milton Brewer. I’ve never known a man who was more essentially honest and straightforward in all his dealings.”

Shayne struck fire to a cigarette and took a couple of deep puffs. He asked abruptly, “Have you thought of any explanation for his not coming here from my office yesterday afternoon?”

“No. But I have thought of the new note you interjected when you suggested the possibility that the man whom Black trailed all night and saw board the plane this morning was not Godfrey. Let’s see how that works out.” He rocked forward and narrowed his eyes.

“Let’s assume for the moment that you are telling the truth about your interview with Brewer at five-thirty,” he resumed in crisp, professional tones. “Let’s assume further that Godfrey got wind of Brewer’s intention of hiring a private detective to follow him all night.”

Gibson jerked himself erect and slapped his open palm resoundingly on the desk. “That’s it!” he exclaimed. “Godfrey sent a man out to the plant, dressed as he was dressed and superficially resembling him, to lead the detectives on a wild-goose chase. In the meantime, Godfrey was waiting outside your office for Brewer to come out. Instead of only a few minutes, he had all night to commit the murder while your friend and his associate faithfully trailed a hoax. Good heavens, man! Can’t you see the damnable duplicity of it?”

Shayne sighed and ground out his cigarette. “Every time I turn around someone hands me a ready-made solution,” he said amiably.

“But this is so obviously the answer,” Gibson raged. “That eight-o’clock plane isn’t due in New York yet. I’ll call the police at once. The man posing as Godfrey must be intercepted.”

“Hold it,” said Shayne. “Gentry has taken care of it. He’ll be picked up the minute he steps off the plane.”

“Good — good! That will be all the proof you need. If the man isn’t Hiram Godfrey, then—”

“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple,” Shayne interrupted gravely. “I’ll lay you even money the man is Godfrey.”

“I don’t believe it. Just because you failed to see the obvious truth—”

“Skip it,” Shayne broke in again. He lit a fresh cigarette and resumed. “I admit I sort of like your theory, even though there are a few things that don’t click. But theory or no theory,” he added, “the man will be Godfrey — if he was smart enough to work out all those angles.”

Gibson’s jaws dropped. “I don’t see how,” he sputtered. “If the private detective — Black — is right, and he didn’t lose his man all night — watched him board the plane—”

“I’ll take Black’s word for that,” Shayne told him. “But if I were Godfrey and planning a perfect alibi, I’d be on that plane when it lands at La Guardia. Look at it this way. He had all night to grab an earlier plane and wait at one of the stops for the eight-o’clock plane to land. He could then change places with his confederate, pick up the ticket and baggage checks, and board the plane in his place. If he was smart, that’s what he’d do.”

Gibson swallowed the last of a drink of ice water he had poured from a silver Thermos on his desk, set the glass on the tray, and said, “The stewardess would recall the switch.”

“Not if they were dressed alike and resembled each other,” Shayne argued. “But here’s something else I want to know about. Did you ever hear Brewer speak of Judge Lansdowne?”

“Judge Nigel Lansdowne?” Horizontal lines creased the attorney’s smooth brow. “Why — no. Not that I recall.”

“Could you tell me whether Brewer frequented a night club — La Roma — featuring a dancer called Dorinda?” Shayne watched the attorney narrowly, and he thought he detected a flicker of nervousness or of recognition on his bland features.

After a moment of thought Gibson shook his head and said, “Not Mr. Brewer. He wasn’t the type. That sort of thing would be more in Godfrey’s line.”