Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“Thanks,” Julia murmured.

Shayne took Lucy firmly by the arm and propelled her toward the outer door.

Michael Shayne gave his new car a workout at top speed from West Palm Beach to Miami. His body was tense, and he gave his whole attention to steering the vehicle through the afternoon traffic.

Sitting beside him, Lucy’s brown eyes were angry. She made several attempts to reprimand him for his rude exit from the Connaught home, and for his lack of sympathy for Julia Lansdowne, but the offshore wind and the speed of the car whipped the words from her lips, and she gave up in favor of hanging on to her hat.

He ground to a stop at police headquarters, parked in a No Parking — Reserved for Police Only space, got out, and waited impatiently until Lucy joined him, then took her arm and trotted her into Chief Will Gentry’s office.

Elliott Gibson was striding up and down before the chief’s desk, talking rapidly and forcibly; Gentry was seated in his swivel chair listening with an expression of weariness and boredom; Henry Black and his operative, Mathews, were seated on straight chairs near the desk.

Timothy Rourke was the only member of the party who was missing.

“Come on in, Mike.” Gentry broke into Gibson’s raging. “And Miss Hamilton,” he added. “Pull up chairs and sit down.”

Shayne said, “Thanks, Will.” He nodded to the others, introduced his secretary to Black and Mathews, raised his voice, and added, “And this is Mr. Brewer’s attorney whom I’ve mentioned,” as Gibson turned in his pacing and came toward them.

Gibson acknowledged the introduction impatiently, then demanded, “What have you got to say about things now? I told you all along it was preposterous to assume the body was any other than Milton Brewer’s.”

Shayne nodded. “I’m just as happy as you are that it turned out that way.” He turned to Gentry and asked, “There’s no possible doubt, Will?”

“None whatever. Harris brought out prints that make the identification positive.”

“Have you sent the prints to Washington for comparison?” Shayne asked.

Gentry rolled his lids higher and his agate eyes showed surprise. “You mean the FBI?”

“It wouldn’t be a bad idea,” Shayne told him mildly, “to see if he has a criminal record. When a man refuses to let his picture be taken under any circumstances — even at his wedding — I always wonder why.” He toed up a chair for Lucy and another for himself, and they sat down.

“Nonsense,” said Gibson. “I explained that as merely an idiosyncrasy of Brewer’s.”

“Just the same, I’d send them in, Will,” he advised, ignoring the excited attorney. He looked across at Mathews and asked, “Did Tim show you those pictures of Godfrey?”

“He did,” Mathews answered with tight-mouthed precision. “I can’t go any further than Black in swearing he’s the man we tailed. Show me the man, and I’ll tell you quick enough.”

“There you are,” said Gibson triumphantly. “Neither man is prepared to testify that the person they followed was actually Hiram Godfrey. According to my reasoning—”

“Hi, Mike,” Timothy Rourke interrupted from the open doorway, and as his long, lanky footsteps sounded on the bare floor, he asked, “What’s this about Brewer being identified? Is that correct, Will?” He stopped at the chief’s desk and lounged against it.

“No doubt about it,” rumbled Gentry. “It knocks your fancy theory flat.”

“And leaves mine intact,” blustered Gibson, rushing up to face the chief, “and I hereby make a formal demand that Hiram Godfrey, or the man who impersonated him on the plane to New York, be arrested and brought back here for identification.”

“Have you had a report from New York, Will?” Shayne interposed, coming to his feet and crossing to the desk. “Any further information on Godfrey’s actions after he arrived — and the result of questioning the plane crew?”

Gibson glared at him while Gentry ruffled through a sheaf of loose reports on the desk. The chief carefully laid a fresh cigar in an ash tray and said, “Here’s one — middle of the afternoon. They picked him up at La Guardia and followed him to a hotel on East Fifty-Second Street. The Berkshire. Quiet, respectable place where a room had been reserved by wire two days ago. They report that Godfrey has stopped there before, couple of years ago, but no one knows him well enough to identify this man as Godfrey.”

“But what about—” Gibson began excitedly.

“Same sort of negative results from the plane crew,” Gentry rumbled on after a glowering glance at the attorney. “The plane made two stops on the way up, and no one is willing to swear that two men did or did not change places at one of those stops. There were forty passengers and one stewardess. The man occupying Godfrey’s seat was quiet and unobtrusive, and no one seems to have paid any attention to him.”

“Which is wholly negative evidence,” said Gibson briskly. “He must be brought back before he eludes the New York police and escapes.”

“Let’s have a later report,” Shayne intervened hastily. “Call New York now, Will, and see what contacts Godfrey has made since his arrival. Any business associates who can positively identify him.”

Gentry picked up the telephone, and Gibson began pacing up and down the room again.

Rourke moved closer to Shayne and muttered, “What’s this about his theory?”

Shayne grinned and swiftly outlined Gibson’s belief that Godfrey had murdered his partner while a hired impostor was being tailed by Black and Mathews to give Godfrey an alibi for the night. He kept his voice low, and as he finished the explanation, Gentry said into the phone, “Hold on a minute.”

He covered the mouthpiece with a pudgy hand and announced, “Godfrey hasn’t left his hotel room all afternoon until a few minutes ago when he went to the dining-room. He made one phone call from his room. No incoming calls.”

Shayne hurried back to the desk and asked, “Was the call made to White Plains, New York?”

Gentry nodded. “Person-to-person to Mrs. Milton Brewer in White Plains. The conversation was brief.” He paused, looked down at the report, and continued. “Godfrey said, ‘Is that you Betty? This is Hi. I’m at the Berkshire, and everything is swell.’

“And Mrs. Brewer said, ‘Wonderful. I’ll come in tomorrow.’

“And Godfrey replied, ‘Cocktails in the Five Hundred Room here at four o’clock. Right?’

“And she said, ‘Right,’ and hung up. If there’s nothing else, I’ll tell the men in New York to stay on the job.”

“Hold it a minute, Will,” said Shayne hastily. “While you’ve got the line open, ask them to check with White Plains on Mrs. Brewer — where she was yesterday, and exactly what she did.”

“Yesterday?” Gentry frowned at the look of absent concentration on the detective’s lean face, took his hand from the mouthpiece, and ordered the officer at the other end of the wire to check on Mrs. Brewer’s activities the day before, then slammed the receiver on the hook.

“What in hell are you up to now?” he demanded of Shayne. “What’s she got to do with it?”

“Maybe nothing. But doesn’t that phone conversation suggest anything to you?”

“Sure,” growled Gentry. “They were both being cagy.”

“Exactly.” Shayne turned to Gibson and said, “I presume the widow has been notified of Brewer’s death?”

“Of course. I wired her early this morning.”

“Yet she didn’t mention it to her husband’s partner over the telephone.”

Rourke thrust his thin face and quivering nostrils between them and said exultantly, “It wasn’t necessary, because she was talking to her husband, like I told you, and they plan to make a getaway.”