Brett Halliday
When Dorinda Dances
Chapter I
Michael Shayne’s swivel chair was slued sideways behind his office desk to accommodate the stretch of his long legs and generally slumped position. His right arm lay along the desk top, his hand conveniently near a drink of cognac. After each sip he carefully centered the glass on the plastic coaster which Lucy Hamilton had placed there to preserve the shining surface from rings. The afternoon was hot and humid; not a breath of air stirred. With his shirt sleeves rolled up and collar open he stared moodily at two rectangles of sunlight coming through the open west windows, and perspired profusely.
Upon renting the office on Flagler Street he made a pact with Lucy to keep regular office hours when he was not actively engaged in a case. Closing-time was near, and he had decided some time ago that sipping cognac the last few minutes was more pleasant than facing his efficient secretary’s accusation of not attending to business. He could hear the faint tapping of her typewriter through the closed door, and he grinned lazily, wondering what the devil she was finding to do.
The typing stopped abruptly. Shayne lit a cigarette, swallowed the last of his drink, and squinted at the door through a cloud of smoke, expecting to see Lucy appear with fresh make-up and purse in hand ready to go. He looked at his watch. The time was five minutes to five.
He had both sleeves rolled down and the cuffs buttoned when the door opened quietly, then closed again. “Quitting-time?” he muttered.
“It’s three minutes of five,” Lucy informed him crisply, “and we have a client.”
“Send him away,” said Shayne promptly. “Tell him it’s too late and too damned hot.”
“Button your collar and straighten your tie — and brush the ashes off your front, Michael.” Her tone was low, yet peremptory, and her brown eyes flickered over him and over the desk critically. “You’d better put on your coat. And for goodness’ sake hide that bottle before I bring her in.”
Shayne yanked the knot of his tie straight and said flatly, “I wouldn’t put on a coat in this heat for the Duchess of Windsor.”
“If you weren’t so stubborn — Really, Michael.” She stepped aside to a fan mounted on a tall pedestal and flipped the switch. “You don’t have to look like a limp dishrag.”
“All that thing does is stir up the heat,” he complained, squaring the swivel chair around and reaching out a long arm to stash the cognac bottle in a lower drawer of the steel filing-cabinet.
Lucy took his Palm Beach jacket from the hanger and held it for him. “Hurry up. The lady is waiting.”
Shayne dropped the empty glass into a desk drawer, stood up, and shrugged into the coat, growling, “Just because some dame—”
“She isn’t a dame. I said lady.” Her cool voice emphasized the final word. “And please try to pretend you’re a gentleman,” she added, walking around the desk to face him.
“Money?” He resumed his seat and grinned up at her.
“If clothes are an indication, yes.”
The grin stayed on Shayne’s wide mouth. He sat up straight, combed his bristly red hair with blunt fingers, rubbed his palm over the damp shirt front where the ashes had fallen, and said, “Picture of an alert private investigator about to interview a client — with money. Send her in.”
“Oh — you.” Lucy gestured impatiently, chuckled, and went to the door. She opened it wide, stepped out, and said, “Mr. Shayne will see you now, Mrs. Davis.”
Shayne was halfway across the room when Lucy closed the door. One glance at the patrician beauty of the young woman corroborated his secretary’s impressions.
A true brunette, Mrs. Davis was tall, slim, poised; and the simple elegance of her sheer black dress revealed, without accentuation, her perfect figure. The three-strand necklace of pearls hugging her throat seemed to reflect the warmth of her delicately tanned complexion. She looked under thirty, Shayne thought swiftly, except for her big dark eyes. Shadowed by the drooping brim of a black hat, they were wide and unblinking, desperate from fear or tragic despair. Her voice, though, was low and controlled when she said, “I’m Mrs. Davis, Mr. Shayne. I trust my coming at this hour is not an imposition.”
“Not at all. Please sit down.” He slid a chromium-frame chair upholstered in blond plastic close to the desk, waited until she sat down, then went around to seat himself facing her. “Now, what can I do for you?” he said pleasantly.
“I’ve come to you because of my own inadequacy — my utter failure to accomplish a delicate but terribly important mission,” she began with a forthrightness in keeping with her poised assurance. “I was given your name by friends before leaving Washington, on the chance that I might require the services of someone like you when I reached Miami. You are recommended as efficient and discreet and — trustworthy.”
Shayne nodded gravely without speaking. Her eyes were fixed on his face as she sat gracefully erect with her gloved hands folded in her lap.
“I have to trust someone,” she said simply. “After last night’s experience I feel quite incompetent and not a little frightened.”
“What,” asked Michael Shayne, “frightened you last night?”
“First, I must explain that I’m acting for a friend. A very dear friend whose name I trust I shall not have to reveal.”
Shayne struck a match to the cigarette between his lips, and lowered lids momentarily hid his open disbelief. He leaned back and puffed smoke toward the ceiling as he swiftly recalled the many clients who had brought the intimate problems of “friends” to his office, or insisted upon setting forth “hypothetical” cases.
He asked again, “What frightened you last night?”
“An experience with my friend’s daughter, Julia,” said Mrs. Davis with a hint of a sigh. “A lovely girl. She’s a sophomore at Rollins College in Winter Park.”
Again Shayne nodded and waited for her to continue.
“During the spring vacation she has been visiting a college chum who lives in Palm Beach. That is, her parents have believed her to be visiting there. Actually, Julia has been here in Miami during the entire period.” She paused, and for the first time since the interview began she turned her eyes away from Shayne. She smoothed her lacy black gloves, and her lips tightened a little.
Watching her narrowly, he couldn’t figure whether she was overcome by some inner emotion, or searching her mind for the right words to present her problem. He had deliberately refrained from helping her, but now the silence was becoming awkward. “Is visiting Miami so bad?” he asked casually.
“Very bad,” she murmured, and her courage seemed restored when she looked up and added, “Julia has been dancing in a local night club — La Roma. From a few discreet inquiries I have learned that it is a place of ill repute.”
Shayne’s bristly red brows lifted a trifle, and a muscle tightened in his cheek. He said, “I know the joint.”
“Then you can understand,” she began eagerly, tensing forward, her eyes glowing; but she settled back at once and continued. “Forgive me. I must remain calm, Mr. Shayne. You see, Julia is only eighteen. She’s impetuous and willful, and she doesn’t realize what a terrible thing she is doing. I went to that place last night at her mother’s request to plead with her to return to school before there is any publicity.”
“And?”
“She refused to speak to me or recognize me.” There was no rancor in her voice; only a hint of sadness. “I sat alone at a table near the stage, and she saw me at once. I sent a note back to her, but the waiter returned with a message that she didn’t know me and had no desire to make my acquaintance.
“I went backstage,” she resumed after a brief pause, “and asked a singer to show me Julia’s dressing-room. She refused.” Mrs. Davis took a handkerchief from her purse and caught the tears that stood like big raindrops in her eyes before they ran down her cheeks.