When Dorinda Dances

Chapter XII

Shayne and Rourke sat at the long table in a room adjoining the morgue in the News Building. The detective was leafing through a plump cardboard file filled with advertisements and courtesy photographs dating back ten years when the firm of Brewer and Godfrey was established. There were pictures of the plant, trucks, and employees, but no recognizable faces.

Rourke had the thin personal file of Hiram Godfrey open. He muttered, “Funny we don’t have anything personal on Brewer, but here are a couple of pretty good shots of Godfrey.” He laid two 8 x 10 glossy prints before Shayne. “These seem to be the latest on Godfrey. The dates are on the back. This one is two years old, and the other three.”

Shayne pushed the company file aside and studied the latest picture of Hiram Godfrey. It had been snapped on the golf links during an amateur tournament, and showed him bareheaded and in mid-swing. He wore plus fours and a shabby jacket, and there was a look of athletic youthfulness in his stance, and the profile of an alert, lean face.

“He looks vaguely familiar,” he muttered, “but—”

“But you don’t frequent the Miami Country Club,” Rourke broke in. “You’ve probably seen him around town without knowing who he was. Here’s another one. Full-face, but not quite so close up.”

Shayne scowled at the snap of Godfrey standing in front of the packing-plant. He was bareheaded, hair tousled, and the same careless attire that Brewer had mentioned as an outstanding characteristic. Except for his average size, there wasn’t much to identify with the mutilated body they had viewed on the beach, but Rourke continued to argue fiercely for his theory when Shayne pointed this out to him.

“You can’t deny it could be Godfrey. Forget the smashed face and the dyed hair. That makes a lot of difference.”

“Could be,” Shayne said absently. “What color hair would you say he has?”

“Blond or light brown. But dyed black—”

“We’ll see what Hank Black says,” said Shayne impatiently. He laid the print aside and drew the partnership file to him again. “I’ve gone through half of this without finding any originals.”

“They’re separate. Here, I’ll show you.” Rourke flipped the clippings over, frowned, and said, “That’s funny. There aren’t any. But I remember distinctly that the Brewer wedding was quite a social event. There’s got to be something.” His voice died to a mumble and he began riffling through the file with trembling hands.

“Brewer mentioned that he was married two years ago,” said Shayne.

Rourke stopped at a two-column story from the society page describing the wedding. “For chrissake,” he groaned. “No pics at all. Hold it a minute, Mike. Let me talk to Harrison. I’m pretty sure he was on that job.” He crossed the room with long, lanky steps and disappeared through an open door.

Shayne lit a cigarette and watched the smoke roll up through narrowed, brooding eyes. He had only begun speculating upon the possible meaning of this new development when the reporter rushed back to the room with the alacrity of a football player making a flying tackle.

“How do you like this, Mike? Harrison knows Brewer from way back. The guy’s allergic to pictures — absolutely refuses to pose, and raises hell if anybody tries to steal one. And get this! Harrison swears Brewer put the same lid on pictures of his bride. No pics of either one so far as he knows, and he’s been on the job twenty-five years.” Rourke slumped in his chair, panting for breath. “What does that mean to you?”

“What does it mean to you?” Shayne parried.

“That Brewer would have a good chance of getting away with a disappearance. Don’t you get it? Ordinarily, we’d run a shot of him on the front page in case of a mysterious death like this bay thing.” He paused and drew in deep drafts of air, then resumed. “And with him hiding out and trying to make his getaway, there’d always be the chance someone, would recognize him. But with no picture in the papers, he’s safe.”

Shayne said calmly, “Are you going to tell me that Brewer has been figuring on something like this for ten years?”

Rourke’s enthusiasm was undaunted. “Not necessarily. But you have to admit it gives him an added factor of safety when he does get in a spot where he wants to disappear.”

“There’s generally a reason when a man is allergic to having his picture taken,” Shayne granted. “I’d like to know what Brewer’s was.” He paused a moment, then suggested, “Call his house and talk to his housekeeper. Tell her the paper wants to run his picture in connection with your story on his death.”

Rourke went out to telephone. Henry Black was with him when he returned.

“Brewer really had a phobia,” the reporter said exultantly. “The housekeeper says there ain’t no such thing. Not even a snapshot. She seemed surprised that everybody didn’t know about Mr. Brewer’s little peculiarity.”

Black came over and stood behind Shayne’s chair. Shayne spread out the two photographs of Hiram Godfrey and said, “Recognize this guy, Hank?”

Black bent over the table and studied them under the bright light for a long moment. “Godfrey?” he asked uncertainly.

“You tell us,” Shayne urged.

Black pulled up a chair and sat down. “I never saw him before last night, Mike,” he protested. “Looks like him.”

“Look, Hank,” said Rourke hastily. “I don’t want to plant any ideas in your head, but would you be willing to go on the witness stand and swear these are pictures of the man you tailed from the Brewer and Godfrey plant to the airport?”

“Put it that way,” said Black, looking steadily at the glossy prints, “no. Mathews and I didn’t get too close, naturally. It wasn’t too light when we picked him up at the plant. The best we saw him was when he came out of a restaurant after he’d been home and got fixed up to go to dinner.”

“That’s what I thought,” said Rourke triumphantly.

“One thing more, Hank. Think back hard. Did you see him stop and speak to anyone all evening? Any friend? Or anyone who called him Godfrey?”

Henry Black frowned and rubbed his blunt jaw. “No. I don’t believe he spoke to anybody that we saw. But he got on that morning plane. We could check the passenger list. What’s up, anyway? Are you saying the guy wasn’t Godfrey?”

“Checking the passenger list is out,” said Rourke. “Naturally, his reservation would be in Godfrey’s name. How do you like it now, Mike?”

Shayne shook his red head guardedly and didn’t answer. He explained to Black. “Tim has a crazy theory that the man you followed had been hired to impersonate Hiram Godfrey. Take another look at the pictures and give it to me straight.”

Black looked again, rumpling his thin hair nervously. “Offhand, I’d say there’s no doubt about it. Same sort of general appearance. But you know how it is on a tailing job. You spot your man and concentrate on staying on him without tipping your hand.”

“Then you wouldn’t swear to it?” said Rourke.

“Not from these pictures. Give me the man himself — let me see him walk, get in his car and drive it — and I’ll tell you definitely one way or the other.”

“If Tim is right, I’m afraid that isn’t feasible,” Shayne told him. “Take those pictures along; go with Hank and try them on Mathews,” he suggested to Rourke. “Maybe you’ve got something at that.” Shayne stood up.

“I’m betting on it.” Rourke scooped up the prints, then asked, “What’s your next move, Mike?”

“A private talk with Attorney Elliott Gibson. I want to know why Brewer didn’t go to his office as he told me he planned; and I want to know something about Brewer’s background before he came to Miami. Why, for instance, he was so damned careful not to have any pictures of him floating around where they might be printed in a newspaper.”