When Dorinda Dances

Chapter III

Michael Shayne had showered, shaved, and dressed and was knotting his tie when he heard the living-room door open. He called, “Tim?”

“Why, I thought you were expecting me, Mr. Shayne,” Timothy Rourke said in a high, cracked voice. “I’m the lissome blonde who’s been disturbing your dreams lately.”

“Fine, Hortense,” Shayne returned. “Keep your clothes on and pour yourself a drink.” He drew the knotted tie snug against his collar and went into the living-room humming an off-key version of “Has Anybody Here Seen Kelly.”

Rourke was standing beside the battered oak desk which Lucy Hamilton had refused to let him bring into the new office, whisky glass in hand, and peering down with interest at the publicity photo of Dorinda. Elongated and thin with the tough leanness of a greyhound, the reporter had black hair and cavernous slate-gray eyes that gave his face a look of settled melancholy. He looked up from the picture and said, “Nice enough, but looks like jail bait.”

“She’s supposed to be eighteen.” Shayne crossed to the built-in liquor cabinet, took out a bottle of cognac and a wineglass, set them on a low table in front of the couch, then went into the kitchen. He returned with a tumbler of ice cubes and water, settled himself on the couch, and asked, “Know anything about the girl?”

Rourke shook his head sadly and draped his long body in a comfortable chair. “Rumors have seeped around that she’s worth going to the joint to see. Are we taking Lucy with us?”

“Lucy?” Shayne’s ragged brows went up.

“I — ah — inadvertently heard part of your conversation with her before I hung up,” he admitted with a grin.

“I wouldn’t want to shock Lucy. And this is business.”

“What kind of business?”

“Thought you might like to interview her,” said Shayne casually. “Learn the facts of life.”

Rourke’s nostrils quivered. “What’s your interest?”

Shayne frowned, took a sip of cognac, and chased it with ice water. “A client saw that picture,” he said guardedly. “Thinks he recognizes the daughter of an old friend, a Washington big shot and one of the few liberals that haven’t been kicked out. Her family thinks she’s attending Rollins College.”

“Oh, my sweet grandmother — what a lovely, lovely story,” said Rourke. “Who’s the government big shot?”

“It’s not for publication,” Shayne told him flatly. “That’s my job, Tim. To get her out of there and keep it quiet if she does prove to be the right one.”

“Wait a minute, Mike.” Rourke dragged his spine from the chair cushion, his eyes feverishly bright. “I make a living with stories like that. First you say I’m to interview her—”

“You don’t use this story,” Shayne cut in sharply. “My God! Think how our conservative press would crucify her father if it leaked out. Give something like this to one of those archreactionary senators or congressmen—”

“Okay,” said Rourke reluctantly, and resumed his sprawled position. “Although why any honest liberal wants to stay in Washington these days is beyond me. How do we prove the gal’s lying when she gives us a song and dance about being an innocent farm girl from Ohio where she learned this sort of dancing at the local husking-bees?”

“You might be a little help there,” Shayne pointed out mildly. “The management certainly won’t be averse to publicity. You can nose around without anyone suspecting why you’re doing it.”

Rourke sighed. “Lot more interesting to go to the source.”

“We’ll do that, too,” Shayne agreed. He looked at his watch. “Drink up, and let’s be off.”

Rourke emptied his glass and held it out for a refill. “A swell suggestion, Mr. Shayne — knowing the kind of stuff they set out in a place like La Roma.”

Shayne poured a generous drink for Rourke, then asked absently, “Do the names of Brewer and Godfrey mean anything to you?”

“I’ve seen their advertisements. Fruit shippers. Milton Brewer and Hiram Godfrey. Should they mean something?”

“They may — by tomorrow morning. This is a story you might be able to print.” Shayne gave him a brief resume of the facts Brewer had given him.

Rourke’s face showed both interest and amusement, and when Shayne finished, he said, “What’s your bet? Will a couple of private eyes be able to prevent murder if Godfrey actually has it planned?”

“Probably not, if he’s determined. On the other hand, Hank Black is a hell of a good man, and so is Mathews. Fifty-fifty — if Brewer’s assumption is right and it isn’t just a false alarm.” He shrugged and finished his drink, and they went out together.

It was shortly before ten o’clock when Shayne parked his car amid fifty or sixty others in the big parking-lot beside La Roma on the western outskirts of Coral Gables. The building was long, low, and unprepossessing on the outside, with a row of small windows along each side that gave out no light.

The heavy front door opened as they approached, spilling an unhealthy blue light and a miasma of stale air redolent with alcohol fumes and tobacco smoke. A burly man barred their entrance while he looked them over. He wore a dinner jacket that was too small for his formidable body, and thick, hairy wrists protruded from the sleeves. He had a blunt jaw, and his flat nose had the appearance of having been broken several times. When he was dubious about passing them in, Rourke said curtly, “I have a table reserved for ten o’clock.” He gave his name, and the big man stepped aside.

The girl at the hat-check booth on the right gave them a bright smile when they entered. Rourke dragged off his soiled, disreputable Panama, handed it to Shayne, and said, “Take care of it. I’ll go in and see about the table.”

“Okay.” Shayne took off his own snap-brim Panama, smoothed his unruly hair with his palm, took the checks, then stood for a moment looking over the interior of the club.

The stage was round, centered toward the rear of the long building, with tables crowded together on either side, leaving only a narrow corridor for an aisle. Tables circled halfway around the left side of the stage, and heavy drapes marked the entrance and exit for performers on the right. The orchestra was onstage. The conductor, a violinist, held his instrument snug under his chin and waved his bow lazily. They were playing a torch tune that seemed to match the sultry mood of the occupants.

Shayne saw Rourke shaking hands with a small man with a peaked, tired face at a ringside table near the curtains. As he neared them he heard the man say, “A pleasure, Mr. Rourke. A pleasure indeed. You gentlemen of the press are always welcome at La Roma.” His upper lip was short, and his small upper teeth, fully exposed, had a rabbity, nibbly appearance.

“The press,” said Rourke, “is always looking for news.”

Shayne’s elbow bored into the reporter’s fleshless ribs. Rourke jerked his head around. The manager’s eyes flickered far up and met the detective’s gray gaze. His Adam’s apple quivered up and down. He swallowed hard and said, “It’s Mr. Shayne, isn’t it?” as though he desperately hoped the answer would be negative.

Shayne grinned down at him. “Hello, Lawry. I didn’t know you were here. In fact, I didn’t realize you were in circulation again.”

“Oh, yes, Mr. Shayne,” he said earnestly. “It has been several months. I’m assistant manager here. I hope there isn’t going to be any trouble.”

“Why, what sort of trouble, Lawry?” said Shayne with pretended surprise. “If you’re clean—”

“Oh, I didn’t mean — I wasn’t referring to myself. But — if you’re looking for someone, I’m at your service. You know how it is with a place like this. We try to be very careful, but there are always certain characters—” he paused, nervously searching the detective’s face for reassurance, then continued — “who may recognize you and not wish to be recognized. It would be most unpleasant if anything like that should happen.”

Shayne’s grin widened. He gripped the assistant manager’s thin shoulder and said pleasantly, “Relax, Lawry. You must have a select clientele if you think the sight of me might start a riot. Just pass the word around that I’m here for pleasure.”

Mr. Lawry’s “Splendid” was throaty and hyphened by a deep sigh. He bristled with efficiency, consulted his reservation list, said effusively, “Number eight — Timothy Rourke. One of our choicest tables. Ringside.” He started forward, beckoning them to follow.

The table was only a few steps away. Mr. Lawry drew two chairs back for his guests, seated himself in a third, and looked at his watch. “You’re just in time for the first show, gentlemen.”

The orchestra announced the number with a rolling of drums and the clanging of cymbals. A spotlight picked up a voluptuous girl wearing a silvery form-fitting gown when the curtains parted. Her body was bare well below the swell of her breasts, and her hips writhed inside the gown when she crossed the stage to the piano to the introductory chords of a torch song. She began singing in a sultry contralto.

“That’s Billie Love,” Lawry told them in a hoarse whisper. “Not bad — not bad at all.” His rabbity teeth showed in a wide smile.

“What about the dancer — Dorinda — I’ve heard so much about?” Rourke asked in a low voice.

“Ah, yes. That’s the moment we all wait for. When Dorinda dances.” Lawry’s tone was warm and humble.

“Thought I might do a publicity piece on her,” said Rourke casually. “Human interest stuff.”

“That would be fine.” Lawry dry-washed his hands, and his round black eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. “A little discreet publicity, you understand.”

“With a picture spread,” said Rourke with a crooked grin. “Something along the lines of — show him that sample, Mike.”

Shayne took the photograph from his pocket and held it out to Lawry.

The assistant manager was aghast. “Oh, no! I beg you not to publish that. We have others I’ll get for you. This one is — you certainly must understand — for only the most limited distribution.”

Shayne said, “Don’t needle him, Tim,” then suggested to Lawry, “Perhaps Dorinda could come to our table after she finishes her act and changes her costume.”

Lawry gave him a quick, suspicious look, then said, “Of course, Mr. Shayne. I’ll speak to her.”

Patrons at tables near them were calling, “Sh-h-h,” and the three men discontinued their low conversation. The lush blond contralto ended her first number to enthusiastic though not demanding applause, but Billie Love caught the downbeat and went into a risqué encore with full gestures. This time, the applause was thunderous when she finished; and she began, without pause, a vulgar recitative, throatily intoning the melody at the end of each line, and maintaining a demure expression which heightened the indecency of the words.

During the number Lawry crooked a thin forefinger at a waiter who glided over, removing a clipped-on pencil from his breast pocket and an order pad from the side pocket of his white jacket. He bowed politely and said, “Are the gentlemen ready to order?”

“The best of everything, Jock,” said Lawry genially. “It’s on the house.” He stood up and added, “Take good care of them.”

The waiter looked at him with some surprise before he moved away to mingle with other patrons, then hovered over Shayne and Rourke with his pencil ready.

Without hesitation, Shayne said, “A fifth of Monnet — sealed. Two shot glasses and two glasses of water with ice.” Out of the corner of his eye he saw the waiter wince slightly, but he bowed politely, said, “Yes, sir,” and went away.

Again there was applause. Billie Love was bowing low and spilling her full breasts farther out of the feather-boned baskets supporting them. She was apparently just getting into her stride, but the master of ceremonies forestalled a third encore by stepping forward. The singer exited, smiling and throwing kisses.

A microphone rose up from the floor. The slender, effeminate young man caught it and clung to it. A spot highlighted his make-up as he began a risqué monologue that might have gotten laughs from a more rugged comedian. After a few titters from the women in the audience, he gave up. He introduced a boy-and-girl dance team as the next attraction. The mike slid back into the floor as he backed away, and a circle of bright lights came on above the stage when the team came on turning cartwheels.

The waiter brought the bottle of Monnet, with glasses and ice water. After Shayne examined the seal the waiter opened it, poured two drinks, set the bottle on the table, and went away.

Rourke grinned and said, “Here’s to the unmitigated nerve of a certain private eye,” lifting his drink and touching Shayne’s before downing it with one swallow.

“Let’s call it guts,” Shayne replied mildly. “I’ve got more respect for mine than to drink the stuff they empty into a Monnet bottle.”

Rourke refilled his shot glass. “Lawry seems to have hit his stride in this job,” he said musingly. “I’ve been watching him—”

“His last trip up was for peddling dope,” Shayne cut in. “He’s probably back at it and worried about his personal customers.”

Rourke’s cavernous eyes strayed idly over the patrons. “With the stage lights on, I’ve been looking them over. They don’t look so vicious. Shipping-clerks, mostly, with maybe a sprinkling of Rotarians and Sunday School superintendents.” He gave Shayne a lopsided grin and added, “I’m betting that the ‘on the house’ thing was for the press, but thanks for the Monnet.”

“Maybe.”

They fell silent, sipping cognac and ice water until the dance team cartwheeled from the stage as they had come on. A polite spattering of applause ensued, then died away when the M.C. took a few steps forward and raised his hands, palms outward, and signaled for silence. He made no announcement, but the overhead lights went out. Gradually, every other light in the room blinked out. For an instant there was complete darkness and an expectant hush.

Suddenly, there was an electrifying fanfare from the orchestra, and bright-blue moonlight fanned out from a semicircle of concealed spots on the floor.

Dorinda leaped from nowhere, landed on the toes of one foot, the clean lines of her slim, nude body scarcely visible in the whirling, twirling dance. She was never still for an instant. As illusive as quicksilver, and graceful as a faun dancing to the pipes of Pan. The routine was descriptive, portraying the joy of youth, freedom, gay abandon, desire, and capricious flirtation.

The low background of music interpreted her every move, yet never intruded, and her dance seemed unrehearsed, spontaneous, gay, and magically evocative.

Time seemed to stand still. Shayne sat tensely forward, trying to catch some facial expression, some clue to her character, but her head with its fair, short-cropped hair moved with the gyrations of her body.

There was a lump in his throat when the lights went out. In the black darkness he heard the exhalations of breaths long held, then thunderous applause that mounted higher yet when the dim, pale-blue and orange lights came on in the room.

The stage was empty except for the orchestra. They struck up a lively tune that was drowned by the continued clapping and the stomping of feet and wild cries of “Dorinda!”

The M.C. came forward. With a wave of a hand he silenced the orchestra, and the microphone once again slid up from the floor as he approached it. Several minutes passed before he quieted the audience, and then he said simply and gravely, “Dorinda thanks you all.”

The orchestra resumed its sprightly number, and Rourke said, “I was just getting set when she stopped. If she were my daughter I’d want her to keep on dancing if it meant the fall of democracy all over the world.”

Shayne nodded. “Why here — at La Roma? Why not Carnegie Hall?”

“In the course of human events we run into such things as Federal Statutes and State Laws,” said Rourke with heavy sarcasm, “and they insist on accentuating the positive with scraps of cloth.” His thin nostrils quivered and he added, “Maybe Dorinda figures she can get away with it here, while her folks would get onto her if she branched out.”

“Yeh,” Shayne muttered. He filled his two-ounce shot glass to the brim and drank it in one gulp.

Lawry came up to their table smiling obsequiously and hopefully. “You liked Dorinda?”

Rourke brightened. “Terrific,” he said. “You’ll need rubber walls in this joint when—”

“We must be discreet,” Lawry reminded him. “And now if you would like to dance—” He indicated a dance floor beyond the curtains which were now drawn aside.

“No, thanks,” said Shayne. “I understand that Rourke came here for a story.”

“Of course,” Mr. Lawry said amiably. “I spoke to her.” He glanced up. “Here she comes now.”

Dorinda was threading her way past the dancers on the crowded floor. She wore a simple white dress with short, puffed sleeves and a high neck, white socks, and flat-heeled, two-toned sandals. Her face was oval, her features regular, and except for her eyes she had the normal appearance of any one of a hundred coeds.

When she came up to the table Lawry introduced her, explaining that Rourke was a newspaper reporter who wanted to interview her. He made no mention of Shayne’s profession. All three men were standing, and as Shayne looked down into her enormous eyes he saw that they were deep violet and glistened with the vitality and youthful elation that had been in her dance.

He noticed, too, that a cloud of doubt, or of fear, came into them when Rourke was introduced as a reporter, and he was sure she flashed him a searching appeal before saying, “I’m pleased to meet — both of you.”

Rourke hastily pulled out a chair and seated her beside him and across from Shayne. Lawry sauntered away. Shayne sat down and asked, “What would you like to eat, Dorinda? We were just ordering.”

“Oh — I’m starved. I’d love a steak. A thick, juicy one, rare.” Her voice was pleasant, with a hint of dropped rs, yet with cultural overtones.

“So say we all,” Rourke chimed in, and leaving the ordering to Shayne he turned on all his professional charm and engaged Dorinda in conversation.

The hovering waiter appeared at Shayne’s side. He ordered steak dinners with carefully selected vegetables, salad, and dessert. When the waiter left the table, Dorinda was saying, “I–I’ve never been interviewed before, Mr. Rourke. You’ll have to help me.”

“Just give me some general background first,” he told her cheerfully. “What’s your real name?”

“Julia?” Shayne interjected.

She flashed him a puzzled glance. “Julia? I don’t understand. I was christened Dorinda.” She appealed to Rourke, asking, “Isn’t that enough? You don’t need my last name.”

“Just for the record,” he coaxed.

“I’d rather not,” she said calmly. “A lot of stars just have one name. You get ahead faster that way — with a sort of mystery, and — well—”

“I didn’t realize they taught your style of dancing at Rollins College,” Shayne broke in.

She looked at him with wide, surprised eyes. “Rollins? Are you kidding me, Mr. Shayne? My mom taught me everything I know about dancing.”

“Your mother taught you to dance?” he asked pointedly.

“Sure. Mom was a wonderful dancer — ballet.” Her full red lips tightened sullenly. “But she’d probably cut off my legs if she found out what I’m doing here.” Again she turned to Rourke. “That’s why I don’t want you to print my last name. Or my picture, either. She might happen to see it in the paper.” Dorinda shifted her position to face Rourke, and gazing steadily into his eyes, she told him of a childhood and early teen-years in a convent while her mother trouped around the world, dancing.

Shayne sipped cognac and listened, studying Dorinda’s cherubic profile, and angrily wondering how long the line would extend if all the night-club dancers who claimed to have spent their youth in convents were placed horizontally head to toe. He didn’t speak until the waiter set three sizzling steaks on the table, replete with vegetables, in oblong platters. The interview ended promptly, and when she turned her attention from the reporter to the steak, Shayne said, “How do you think Mrs. Davis felt last night when she sat here and watched you dance — and when you refused to recognize her even after she sent a note back to you?”

“Mrs. Davis?” She looked at him in astonishment. “I–I don’t remember any Mrs. Davis,” she said after a moment of frowning thought.

Shayne was puzzled. If the girl was lying, she was not only a superb dancer, but also an actress — a second Duse. He watched her pick up her knife and fork and attack the steak with the avidity of any normal, hungry youngster.

Rourke poured himself a double shot of Monnet, drank half of it, considered his plate with distaste, and asked, “Where is your mother, Dorinda?”

“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.

Shayne shrugged, and slowly allowed reason to rule his anger. Rourke was right, of course. La Roma was no place for a private detective to start a brawl over one of the entertainers. He got in his car, gunned the motor, backed out, and drove to the front of the building.

Rourke was waiting with their hats. He got in and breathed a long sigh of relief. “Lawry’s punks were tailing us, all right. Stuck with me until Sluggo let me out the front door.”

Shayne pulled away, racing the engine, his gray eyes bleak with anger. “What did you find out?”

“That all the hired help is afraid of Moran, and they all lay off Dorinda. He hardly allows the kid to speak a word to any of the other performers.”

“She was on the verge of talking,” Shayne grated, “when that guy came up behind me. Who is Moran?”

“Dorinda’s manager — so far as any of them know. But he rides herd on her like he might be something more than that. Delivers her at the stage door every night at nine-thirty and picks her up in his car after the two-thirty show. Nobody knows a damned thing about them — where they live or anything. They disappear together at night and turn up again the next night.”

“Did you find out her last name? Any background?”

“Nope. This Moran showed up with her in tow a few weeks ago. He got her an audition, and she was in. He signed the contract as her manager at two hundred smackers a week. He collects the dough. Her name is Dorinda, and she can dance. There ain’t no more.”

Shayne’s anger gradually subsided, and the car slowed. For a while they rode in silence, then Shayne said, “Anything about a woman being there last night to talk to her?”

“If there was,” Rourke said drowsily, “nobody’s admitting it.”

“Did you talk to Billie Love? Mrs. Davis claims she talked to a singer about Dorinda.”

“Miss Love,” said Rourke, “is the only singer, and she denies it flatly. But hell! She could be lying. People in show business have always been superstitious and clannish as the devil. And ever since Red Channels has been published, half of them are scared to death.”

“Yeh,” said Shayne. “But that wouldn’t affect the entertainers at La Roma. They’re after the higher-ups.”

“What do you think about Dorinda?”

“I don’t — know.” Shayne spoke in a bemused tone, and after a thoughtful silence he said, “She’d have to be quite an actress not to react at all to her own name and to the name of the school she’s supposed to be attending.”

Rourke’s head lolled comfortably against the cushion of Shayne’s new car, and his eyes were closed. “Not if she was forewarned and on the lookout not to be caught up on anything. And that visit from her mother’s friend last night did give her warning that the cat was out of the bag.”

“Right. But — damn it, Tim, I’d swear she was telling the truth when she said she didn’t know any Mrs. Davis. I’d swear she was as honestly surprised as she acted.”

“I agree on that, Mike. But here’s a possible angle. Suppose the woman’s name isn’t Mrs. Davis? She might be as important in Washington as the girl’s parents are supposed to be. Maybe she doesn’t want to get mixed up in any publicity. She may even be the girl’s mother and didn’t want to admit it.”

Shayne carefully went over his interview with Mrs. Davis, recalling her words, her moods. She had actually looked under thirty when he first saw her, but she seemed older, more mature, when she left. He figured ages. She could easily be only thirty-five or six and have a daughter eighteen.

He said, “What are you getting at, Tim?”

“That Dorinda denied a friend of her mother’s was there last night — claims not to know any Mrs. Davis — and that maybe she sounded truthful because it was the truth.”

“My client,” said Shayne, “gave me a card with the name Mrs. Elbert H. Davis engraved on it.”

Rourke rolled his head lazily on the back of the seat. “Anybody can get a card with any name engraved on it,” he scoffed.

“Yeh.” Shayne was driving slowly and thinking fast. “Got time to drop by the paper and help me look up some dope in the files?”

“Sure.” Rourke yawned and added, “There’s a poker game at Jack Farrell’s, but it’s early yet.”

“You’ll make it in time to lose your shirt.” Shayne sped the car forward, and neither of them spoke again until they were in the Daily News morgue and Rourke switched on the overhead lights.

“What do you want, Mike?”

“Whatever you’ve got on Nigel Lansdowne and his family.”

Rourke’s nostrils quivered. “Judge Lansdowne?” He gave a low, impressive whistle.

“Strictly off the record, Tim. If you print a word—”

“What do you think I am?” Rourke demanded hotly. “My God, Mike, if he’s the man—” He paused, his cavernous eyes boring into Shayne’s. “Lansdowne is practically slated to take over as Industrial Administrator of the whole country. One whisper of this—”

“Right,” Shane cut in. “The country needs a man like Judge Lansdowne in that job more than it needs a thousand H-bombs. So, let’s see where we stand.”

Rourke turned away, saying, “We’ll have a hell of a file on him — going back fifteen or twenty years.”

Shayne lit a cigarette, eased himself down on a long table, and puffed smoke toward the ceiling until the reporter returned with a bulging file.

“This is the latest one. From nineteen forty-five. There are two earlier ones just as full.”

“We need to know if he has a daughter named Julia,” said Shayne. “How old she is and what she looks like.”

Rourke laid the big cardboard file on the table and began examining the clippings. Shayne stood beside him, and when he turned over a double-column spread with the photograph of a woman and a young girl at the top, they read:

“There she is,” Rourke exulted. “Her name is Julia, and this would be her sophomore year at Rollins. Do you like it?”

Shayne had the clipping in his hand, studying the photograph carefully. The girl looked about sixteen, poised and beautiful beside her mother, and there was at least a superficial facial resemblance to the nude dancer at La Roma.

“Damn these lousy newspaper reproductions,” he growled. “Never can tell much from them. Could easily be Dorinda, but — is it?”

“If you paid more attention to the gal’s face,” said Rourke acidly, “or if she had posed for this in the all-together, you might recognize her.”

Shayne snorted. “Is it Dorinda?”

“Hell, I don’t know any more than you do,” the reporter confessed cheerfully. “If you think I was memorizing facial characteristics, you’re nuts.”

Shayne continued to study the picture, turning his attention from the daughter to mother. The woman was tall and slender. She wore a flowered afternoon dress and a wide-brimmed garden hat that shadowed her face. She appeared to be much older than the woman who had visited his office, and there seemed to be no marked facial resemblance. He realized, however, that there was nothing definite or conclusive. He had seen too many newspaper photographs of himself that were scarcely recognizable to accept this as positive evidence that Mrs. Davis was not Mrs. Lansdowne.

“What do you think?” Rourke asked seriously.

Shayne dropped the clipping in the file and said, “Offhand, I think the girl is Dorinda, all right. But I don’t believe that’s a picture of the woman who called herself Mrs. Davis.” He paused, tugging at his left ear lobe. He looked at his watch. “I’m afraid it’s too late to call Rollins College and get any answers. Besides, it’s spring vacation. But I want to see Mrs. Davis right away.”

Rourke took the folder back to the files, and they went down in the elevator and out to Shayne’s car. Rourke gave him the address where the poker game was in session.

Thirty minutes later Shayne stepped into the ornate lobby of the Waldorf Towers Hotel, went directly to a row of house phones, picked up a receiver, and asked for Mrs. Elbert H. Davis.

After a slight delay the operator said, “Mrs. Davis is in four-eighteen,” and began to ring.

He waited for the tenth ring before hanging up, then went to the desk and spoke to the clerk. “I’d like to leave a message for Mrs. Davis in four-eighteen, if she’s out.”

The clerk handed him a memo pad and pen, checked the mail and key cubicles, then reported, “Her key is in the box, so she must be out.”

Shayne wrote: Very important that you phone me at once. He scribbled the telephone number at his apartment, and added: Will be out between 2:00 a.m. and 3:00 or 3:30. Please call before or after that period.

On the way to the door he dragged his hat off, and outside in the cool night air he mopped perspiration from his face. In his car, he tossed the Panama on the seat beside him and let the wind blow through his hair as he drove back to his apartment where he relaxed with a drink and a lot of questions that apparently had no answers.

His telephone hadn’t rung, and it was two o’clock.

There was a worried frown between his eyes when he went down to his car and drove slowly to La Roma. He parked half a block east of the driveway, got out, and sauntered back to the next cross street east, turned left, and circled the block to come up to the night club from the rear. He found a comfortable grassy spot against the trunk of a coconut palm where he could watch the parking-lot, lit a cigarette, and settled himself to wait.

He was tossing away the fourth cigarette butt when patrons of the final show began to stream through the front door and back to their parked cars. Shayne got up and edged forward until he stood against the rear of the building to watch the stage exit. Several men were grouped around the door, and among them he recognized the tall figure of Mr. Moran.

Members of the orchestra filed out, and Billie Love was clutching the arm of the leader. Then he saw Dorinda’s bare head in the lighted doorway. She hesitated on the threshold, flashing her eyes around, and as the others moved away, she stepped out to join Moran.

Shayne followed unobtrusively until they got in a maroon coupe parked in the driveway beside the building. In the slow-moving traffic he came up behind the coupe, memorized the license number, then cut diagonally across toward his own parked car. The maroon coupe made a left turn from the drive and passed him on the other side of the street as he slid under the wheel. He waited until it had gone a couple of blocks before wheeling in a U-turn into the thin stream of vehicles trickling away from La Roma.

The routine of tailing them was simple. He followed the coupe to a four-story stuccoed apartment house on a quiet street in Coconut Grove. Dorinda got out when Moran swung the car across the walk, and he drove on to the garage in the rear.

Shayne parked across the street and waited. Three minutes after the dancer unlocked the front door and entered the building, lights showed in the two front windows of the second-floor apartment on the right. The shades were up, and he saw her clearly when she went to the windows to pull them down.

Shayne drove back to his hotel. The switchboard operator told him there had been no calls in his absence.

He went up to his apartment frowning thoughtfully and tugging at his ear lobe. None of it made sense. If the girl was Julia Lansdowne he felt inclined to lay off completely and let her sleep in the bed she’d made. She could probably take care of herself quite well.

But the thought of her parents in Washington kept coming back as he shrugged off his coat and made himself comfortable in the swivel chair behind his battered desk. Ordinarily, even a man in Judge Lansdowne’s position would be able to weather a minor scandal such as the papers would make of Dorinda’s dancing if her identity became known. But these were not ordinary times. They were damned extraordinary times, with men of high integrity being hounded in the reactionary press by charges of subversion and the wildest sort of unprovable accusations.

Shayne shook his red head moodily, and his gray eyes brooded into space. No. Mrs. Davis had not exaggerated the effect the disclosure of the nude dancer’s real name might have on her father’s career.

Suddenly he was glaring at the silent telephone on the desk. He looked at his watch. Where the devil was Mrs. Davis? It was almost four o’clock, and no call from her. Plenty of women, he realized, stayed out much later than that in Miami, but she hadn’t seemed to be the type. Particularly when she was so worried about her friend’s daughter. Had she tried again to get in touch with Dorinda? Found out where she lived — gone there and run into Moran?

He came to his feet and stalked to the liquor cabinet, got a bottle of cognac, thumped it down on the low table in front of the couch, and went to the kitchen for ice cubes and water. Returning, he sank down on the couch and took Dorinda’s photograph from his pocket. Propping it against the lighted end-table lamp, he studied it, comparing the whirling nude dancer with the shy, sweet girl who sat at the dinner table and unaffectedly consumed a thick steak with the relish of any healthy, hungry schoolgirl.

He rubbed his angular jaw, and the lines deepened in his gaunt cheeks. How could it possibly add up? If, of course, she were Julia Lansdowne. Where did Moran fit into the picture? Without doubt, the girl was deathly afraid of the man.

Shayne took a long drink from the bottle and chased it with ice water. His mouth tightened, and his fingers instinctively closed into fists. Why hadn’t he followed his first impulse and forced a showdown with Moran at La Roma? He could have shaken Lawry off and, if necessary, made a forward pass to the opposite wall with his slimy little body if Tim—

He relaxed abruptly. Tim was right, of course. Attacking Moran at La Roma would undoubtedly have brought the publicity which had to be avoided at all costs if the girl was Judge Lansdowne’s daughter.

The telephone rang. He sprang to his feet, relieved by the expectation of hearing Mrs. Davis’s voice and finally hearing an explanation for her failure to call earlier. He reached the desk in three long strides, snatched up the receiver, and said, “Shayne speaking.”

The apologetic voice of the night clerk said, “I hope I didn’t waken you, Mr. Shayne.”

“That’s okay, Dick. What is it?”

“There’s a girl down here asking for you. She looks scared. Says her name is Dorinda.”

“Send her up. And shoot through any telephone calls that come in.” He replaced the receiver slowly, wonderingly. He heard the elevator stop at his floor, and high heels tapping down the hall. He went to the door and flung it open to admit his late visitor.