Brett Halliday - When Dorinda Dances

“She’s not in a thousand miles of Miami. I had a letter from her yesterday. She thinks I’m working in a shop here, making thirty dollars a week.” She put a sizable square of steak in her mouth, chewed it gingerly, swallowed, and said, “Um-m-m, good. I have to hurry — two more shows tonight.”

Watching Dorinda eat, Shayne swore under his breath. For two cents, he would return Mrs. Davis’s retainer and tell her to go to hell. He felt like a man who was ready to hand a child an ice-cream cone with one hand and slap her face with the other. He glanced at Rourke, but the reporter’s cavernous eyes were brooding into his empty shot glass. They both reached for the Monnet bottle at the same instant.

Dorinda laughed. “Are you two going to drink that stuff and let these marvelous steaks get cold?”

Shayne let Rourke have the bottle. The incident, though slight, dissolved his moody thoughts. He said, “It’s important that I ask you some questions. This Mrs. Davis came to my office this afternoon claiming to be your mother’s best friend. She’s greatly concerned about your being here. So much so, that when you refused to recognize her or speak to her, she went back and talked to some singer about you.”

“Billie’s the only singer,” she told him. “If some crazy dame talked to her about me, Billie didn’t tell me. And I didn’t get any note.” She took another big bite of steak and began chewing it.

Shayne shrugged and began working on his own steak. For a while they ate in silence.

After the first two bites, Rourke wolfed his food, pushed his plate back, and watched the dancers returning to their seats. Presently he said, “Don’t look now, Mike, but I think you’re being tailed.”

Shayne jerked his head around and followed the direction of the reporter’s gaze with bemused irritation. He stiffened suddenly, and anger flared in his gray eyes.

Lucy Hamilton was seated at a table for two a short distance away with a tall, blond man who leaned toward her and appeared to hang upon her every word. She wore a sea-green dinner dress with a cascade of silver loops extending from one shoulder to the waistline. Her profile was toward him, and she was either unconscious of his presence, or pretending to be. The front of her gown was modestly rounded near her throat, and Shayne had a confused illusion of sophisticated recklessness and demure youthfulness as he glowered across the room.

Lucy turned her head casually, and their eyes met. She waved gaily, smiled, then spoke to her escort who nodded and pushed his chair back.

Shayne turned back to see a satanic grin on Rourke’s thin face. The reporter stood up and said, “It’s your deal, Mike. I’ll nose around backstage and pick up some stuff.”

“Damn it, Tim,” he growled. “Hold it a minute.”

But Timothy Rourke was hurrying away, and Dorinda looked up with a little sigh of satisfaction after finishing every bite on her plate. “I think he’s cute,” she said. She saw the set expression on Shayne’s face, and the next moment Lucy was standing beside the table.

“Fancy meeting you here, Mr. Shayne,” she said sweetly, sliding into the chair Rourke had vacated. “Aren’t you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Miss Hamilton, Dorinda,” Shayne muttered.

“Dorinda?” cried Lucy. “Of course. I should have recognized you. But clothes—”

“Who’s that bird at your table?” Shayne cut in angrily.

“His name is Mr. Schlatzer.”

“Where did you meet him?”

“I picked him up in a Miami Avenue bar. Not that I concede it’s any of your business. When you stood me up tonight—”

“I told you this was business.”

“I know you did.” Lucy’s brown eyes rested thoughtfully on the dancer’s face. “Private detectives do have the most interesting business appointments.”

“Private detect—” Dorinda broke the word with a little “oh” of surprise and fright.

“Damn it, Lucy,” raged Shayne. “Just because you’re my secretary doesn’t give you the right—”

“Of course not,” she said calmly. “I wouldn’t think of interfering with a business appointment.” Lucy arose with stiff dignity and marched back to her table.

Dorinda was plucking nervously at the tablecloth, her eyes lowered and lips trembling. “I’d better — go now. I don’t care for any dessert, thank you.”

Shayne reached out and laid a big hand persuasively on her wrist. “Don’t be frightened, Julia,” he said gently.

“My name isn’t Julia,” she cried in a high, tremulous voice. “I don’t know what you mean.” She tried to withdraw her wrist, but his fingers tightened around it.

“I want you to think about one thing, Julia,” Shayne resumed. “Do you realize what will happen to your father if this ever comes out?”

“My — father?” Her face was suddenly white and her big violet eyes imploring. She stopped struggling, leaned forward, and was about to speak when a suave voice cut in from behind Shayne’s right shoulder.

“It’s all right now, Dorrie, but I’ve warned you not to sit with strange men.”

Dorinda shrank back as if from an expected lash of a whip. Her wrist was limp in Shayne’s big hand, and her eyes were dull with fear.

Shayne released her and turned to look up at a tall, dark man of thirty or so. His black eyes glittered venomously, and he ordered with smooth authority, “Go back to your dressing-room, Dorinda.”

The girl nodded listlessly, and started to get up.

Shayne said, “Stay where you are, Julia. Right now is the best time to—”

“Go to your room,” the man commanded harshly. He did not look at Shayne. His lips tightened against bared teeth, and he took a step forward. He caught her upper arm to lift her bodily from her chair.

Shayne came to his feet with fists doubled. As he moved forward, the man gave Dorinda a shove toward the stage, and she went away submissively.

The man turned to face the detective with folded arms. “I’m responsible for this girl,” he stated flatly, raising his voice in anger when he added, “You should be ashamed — a man of your age acting this way.”

Shayne’s right arm shot out, but before it reached his opponent’s lean jaw, a weight was swinging on the arc of his elbow, pulling his big fist down.

“You promised me, Mr. Shayne,” Lawry whispered hoarsely and frantically. “Please don’t make any trouble — here. Please sit down.”

Shayne shook the little man off angrily and looked around for his opponent. He was walking backstage with dignity as half the patrons watched him, and the other half were regarding Shayne with frowning displeasure. He had a fleeting glimpse of Lucy’s cold, impersonal gaze before she turned back to her escort and smiled sweetly.

A red mist of anger swam before his eyes. He whirled and started backstage.

Timothy Rourke was suddenly beside him, saying, “That must be Moran, the guy I heard about when I was nosing around. He’s Dorinda’s manager.”

He lowered his voice and added anxiously, “For chrissake, don’t start anything, Mike. There are a dozen guys in this joint who’d love to swear you insulted the girl — and a couple of thugs I’ve spotted. They’re probably not far behind us. Use your head. You won’t have a chance to get Dorinda out of here if you don’t.”

Rourke had his hand on Shayne’s elbow. “Keep on going. There’s an exit to the parking-lot back here. Slip me the hat checks and I’ll pick ’em up.” He kept on talking until they went out a rear door. “Get in the car and meet me around front.” He took the checks from Shayne’s moist hand. “I’ll saunter back and pretend I’m the little pig that liquidated the big bad wolf.” A grin relaxed the muscles in his thin face, and he turned away.