Brett Halliday: When Dorinda Dances

“Don’t be a fool,” she burst out angrily. “You’re taking advantage of my hesitancy in revealing the names of my friends. But I assure you that one breath of scandal would be enough to ruin the judge’s career. A tiny hint would start a whispering campaign, give columnists fuel for invectives. Julia knows this. She knows it would kill her father. Can’t you see why her mother and I are convinced that there is some hidden compulsion — something secret and evil that has forced her into this terrible thing against her will?”

“Are you intimating that her father’s political enemies have plotted this thing to discredit him?” Shayne asked dryly.

“I’m not intimating anything. I have given you facts. Do you still refuse to help me?”

Shayne spread out his big hands in a gesture of futility. “What can I do?”

“Find out the truth. Meet Julia and talk to her. Decide for yourself the sort of girl she is, and why she is doing this awful thing. You can talk to the manager of the club and learn who her associates are. You can discover the author of that anonymous note and find his motive.”

Shayne drummed a two-fingered tattoo on the desk. He didn’t like it. The pattern was too familiar. Presently he took a pencil from a wire rack, drew a pad of paper toward him, and said quietly, “Before I can decide whether to take your case, I’ll have to know your real name.”

Mrs. Davis bridled with resentment. “I’ve told you—”

“I can’t act officially for an unnamed client,” Shayne interrupted sharply. “If you don’t trust me enough to give me your name, you certainly shouldn’t trust me in a matter as important as this. Frankly, I don’t relish interfering between a child and her parents. On the other hand, I have great sympathy for an honest liberal trying to buck the tide in national politics.”

“I assure you I am Mrs. Davis,” she insisted with dignity. “I live in Washington.” She opened her purse and took out a card which she passed to him. “I am here on behalf of a very dear friend who was too ill to come herself. Won’t you — can’t you trust me? Believe that the situation is exactly as I have stated?”

Shayne read: Mrs. Elbert H. Davis, dropped the card on the desk, and said, “I trust you just as far as you trust me. I can’t go into a thing like this without full information.”

Her red mouth puckered nervously, and for a moment there was an expression of defeat in her eyes. “I — promised Sally,” she began, stopped, then met his gaze squarely and continued, “but I suppose you are right. Julia’s father is — Nigel Lansdowne. Now do you understand how important this is?”

Judge Nigel Lansdowne! Shayne didn’t try to hide his surprise and his sudden interest. The whole pack of hysterical right-wingers had been yapping at the judge’s heels since Roosevelt’s death. Such a scandal would be headlined throughout the country.

While he hesitated, Mrs. Davis reopened her purse and drew out a sheaf of bills.

“The Lansdownes are not wealthy,” she told him. “Our democratic government doesn’t overpay its civil servants. The judge left a lucrative law practice to go to Washington in the early days of the New Deal, and has remained there at a great financial sacrifice.”

She removed a rubber band from the bills and spread them out. “I have two thousand dollars here in hundreds. All that Sally had in her personal account. If more money is needed she will have to tell the judge the truth.” Her voice trembled a little, and her eyes were moist.

Shayne waved impatiently and said, “Put it back in your purse for the time being, Mrs. Davis. How can I get in touch with you?”

“I’m at the Waldorf Towers. But I insist — and I’m sure Sally would insist — that you accept a retainer.” She separated four one-hundred dollar bills from the others and pushed them toward him. “Is that sufficient? You will take the case, and you’ll start at once? Tonight?” She was grateful, eager, and her voice rose and fell musically.

“My secretary will give you a receipt,” Shayne told her, “on your way out. Leave the money with her.” He rocked back in his chair. “I’ll see Dorinda tonight and size things up as best I can.”

She returned the money to her purse and stood up. There was a vibrant lilt in her voice when she said, “I know you will succeed, and I am grateful. I felt utterly hopeless when I came here, Mr. Shayne, but now I know I can trust you. I know you are good — and—”

“Think nothing of it.” Shayne came to his feet, embarrassed over her effusive thanks. Other people had trusted him, but he couldn’t recall anyone ever having call him “good” before, and certainly not with so much enthusiasm. He took her arm and ushered her into the outer office.

Shayne glanced casually at a man seated across the room, waiting, as he took Mrs. Davis to Lucy’s desk and said, “Give Mrs. Davis a receipt, and get her telephone number.”

“Of course.” Lucy smiled at the woman and drew a receipt pad toward her, then said in a low voice, “This gentleman is anxious—”

“He’ll have to wait until I make a telephone call,” Shayne interrupted. “Bring him in in five minutes.” He stalked back to his private office without turning his head.

On the way to his desk he pulled off his coat and hung it up. His left hand reached for the telephone the moment he sat down, but he didn’t lift the receiver immediately. Instead, he flipped Dorinda’s picture over with his right hand and studied the nude young dancer with bleak eyes, his red head wagging slightly and moodily from side to side.

He lifted the receiver slowly. When Lucy answered she said, “Michael, I think there’s been a mistake. Mrs. Davis insisted—”

“Get me Tim Rourke — in a hurry,” he cut in sharply.

“But, Michael, I think I should—”

“If you want me to stick around and see that goof waiting out there, get me Tim quick.”

“Oh, well.” Lucy sighed and dialed the number.

When Timothy Rourke answered, he said, “How about going slumming tonight? Expense account.”

“Sure, Mike. What’s up?”

“You know anyone connected with La Roma who could reserve a ringside table?”

“La Roma? You weren’t kidding when you said slumming.”

“Can you get a table?”

“For the press? Sure. What time?”

“There’s a number I want to catch. Dorinda.”

A low and prolonged whistle came over the wire.

“You know her?” asked Shayne.

“May my dear, dead Aunt Agatha forgive me,” said Rourke fervently, “yes. That is, I heard.”

“We’ll make it for dinner, then?”

“I’ll drop by your apartment after we put the rag to bed.”

Shayne started to hang up, but he heard Lucy’s voice over the extension.

“I hope you haven’t forgotten our dinner date tonight,” she said.

Shayne thought fast. He remembered promising Lucy a week ago that they’d have dinner together tonight. He said, “No, angel. I haven’t forgotten, but something has come up. Business.”

“At La Roma?”

“You’ve been eavesdropping,” he accused.

“You know I always listen in and take notes on your phone calls,” she said crisply. “What do you think would happen to the business—”

“All right. So it’s business at La Roma.”

There was a brief silence. Then Lucy said gaily, “All right, Michael. I don’t mind at all if Tim comes along on our date. I’ll meet you two at the apartment.”

“La Roma,” he growled, “is not the sort of dump I’d take you to. The answer is no. Some other night. And bring that man in if he’s still waiting.” He hung up, frowning. Lucy wasn’t, of course, an innocent young girl who would be shocked by La Roma, but on the other hand—