When Dorinda Dances

Chapter V

“Ricky? How did he know?” She sprang to her feet, poised like a startled fawn for flight.

“He doesn’t,” Shayne reassured her. “Probably a guess. From my talking to you at the club, and the fact that you slipped out after pretending to go to bed.” He strode to the trembling girl and caught her arm firmly. “Take a deep breath and relax. The clerk refused to give him my apartment number, and he can’t come up until I call back.”

She whirled and faced him, her violet eyes wide and frantic. “If I go away he won’t have to know I’ve been here,” she said breathlessly. “Please don’t tell him. Isn’t there some way I can get out and back to my apartment without him seeing me?”

Shayne caught her shoulder with his free hand, pressed it hard and said, “Snap out of it. The most important thing right now is to keep your real identity out of this.”

“Let me go! Let me out,” she cried, struggling to free herself. “I can be in bed with the door locked before he gets back. If he wakes me I can tell him I just went out for a walk.”

“You’re not going back there,” said Shayne grimly. “Not until I’ve settled things with Moran — and then just to pick up your stuff on your way back to Palm Beach.”

“Not — going — back?”

Shayne released his grip on her shoulder. She pivoted and faced him. “I have to go back. He’ll do anything—”

“He’ll do nothing,” Shayne raged, looking down into her frightened eyes. “Haven’t you any friends in Miami? Someone Moran doesn’t know about?”

“No,” she sobbed, and threw her arms around him. “I don’t know what to do, Mr. Shayne.”

He held her gently with one arm and stroked her shaking shoulders. “There’s a fire escape in the back,” he said. “Don’t worry about getting away from Moran — if you really want to.”

“I do — I do.” She buried her face against his coat until her sobs subsided. She lifted her pale, tear-streaked face and confided, “My father has a friend here. I’ve been trying to remember his name. We always get a big box of fancy Florida fruit from him at Christmas, but I can’t remember his name. I think he’s in that business here in Miami.”

“Think,” Shayne commanded. “Was it Brewer? Or Godfrey?”

“That’s it — the name on the Christmas boxes. Brewer and Godfrey.” She stepped back from him and her violet eyes were bright with new hope. “It was silly of me to forget after seeing it so many times.”

“Were both of them your father’s friends?” Shayne asked.

“I — no—” Julia hesitated, a thoughtful frown between her eyes. “Why, I don’t know. Daddy used to mention one of them, but he always called him by something that sounded like a nickname.”

“Try to remember it,” he urged. “It’s very important right now.” But even as he watched her he knew that she could not recall the name. She was ready to burst into tears again.

Shayne massaged his jaw and stared past her. He realized all of a sudden that neither Brewer nor Godfrey was right for staking her out while he dealt with Moran — with one of them hiding out in fear of his life and the other being tailed by two private detectives to prevent murder. He thought of Mrs. Davis at the Waldorf Towers, but she wasn’t in her room insofar as he knew, and there wasn’t time to make another phone call.

He said abruptly, “There’s one possibility, Julia. My secretary, Lucy Hamilton.” He spun around and went to his desk, grabbed a pad, and wrote her name and address. “Lucy is a wonderful girl. All you have to do is give her this memo and say that I sent you. And stay right there in her apartment until I get in touch with you.” He straightened up, holding the slip of paper out to her, absorbed in his solution of her safety for the night. “Here’s Lucy’s address. You can go down the fire escape. Don’t worry about Moran. You won’t have to see him again. Grab a cab and go straight to Lucy’s apartment.”

Julia stared at the name, then exclaimed, “Why she’s the girl who came to your table. She hates me. She thought—”

“Lucy had a mad on because I stood her up on a dinner date to see you dance. She’s a hundred per cent when the chips are down.” He caught her arm and propelled her through the kitchen to the fire escape.

“What if Ricky got suspicious and is waiting?”

“Don’t worry. Just grab the first cab you see. Turn left at the bottom of the steps. I’ll have Moran on his way up in the elevator before you get halfway down.” He left her on the landing and long-legged it to the telephone where he called the clerk. Moran was waiting in the lobby, and he said, “Send him up.”

When Shayne opened the door Moran barged in, his black eyes darting around the living-room. “Where is she?” he demanded angrily. “Hiding under the bed?”

“I don’t know who you’re looking for,” said Shayne casually. “Want a look-see?”

“You know damned well I’m looking for Dorrie,” Moran raged. “Don’t try to deny that she slipped out of her apartment and beat it up here.”

Shayne sauntered across the room when Moran started toward the bedroom. “Hold it,” he growled. “What makes you think that?”

Moran whirled around to face him. “Where else would she go?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Shayne repeated. “She was on the verge of telling me when you came up behind me at the dinner table last night and scared her out of her wits.”

“Nuts,” Moran said angrily. He strode to the bedroom door, jerked it open, and went in. He came out fuming.

“So you kept me waiting downstairs until she got her clothes on and went down the fire escape. After all I’ve done for that little slut.”

Shayne slapped him. A hard slap from a big palm swung in a wide arc. A loud plop echoed through the apartment, and Moran’s head snapped back under the force of the blow. His knees buckled and he almost went down. Staggering sideways, his right hand moved instinctively toward a bulge under his left lapel.

“Go ahead and pull a gun, Moran,” Shayne urged. His voice was dangerously gentle, and his hands were balled into big fists. “That’s all the excuse I need to beat you into a pulp.”

Moran was breathing hard. Blood trickled from the left corner of his mouth. He lowered his right hand, averted his eyes, and took a step backward. “Take it easy,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean what I said. I just got sore. Who the hell wouldn’t?” he went on in a tone of righteous indignation. “A dame steps out on you the minute you turn your back. You give her everything in God’s world, and—”

“Shut up!” Shayne lashed out. “I know the girl is Julia Lansdowne, and I know how much you’ve done for her, you lousy, blackmailing punk. Before God, Moran—”

“Wait a minute — wait a minute.” Moran was swaying and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “What the hell are you talking about? What kind of song and dance did Dorrie feed you? Me — with my hooks in her! After I picked her up in the gutter and coached her until she could hold down a job in a second-rate joint like La Roma? That’s all the thanks I get.”

“Do you deny that her real name is Julia Lansdowne?”

“Hell, I don’t know what her real name is. Neither does Dorrie.”

“Do you deny that you got her to smoke marijuana at a house party in Fort Lauderdale and got a picture of her dancing nude with you — and used it to coerce her to take this job?”

Ricky Moran frowned with a look of honest perplexity. “That Dorrie,” he marveled. “How she can spoon it out. I’ve felt all along that she belongs on Broadway.” A slow smile spread his mouth and his black eyes glittered. “Tell me the rest of it. What’s the fancy name she gave you?”

Shayne studied Moran’s face for a long moment. He turned away abruptly and seated himself on the couch near the cognac bottle, pushed the unused glass to the other side and said, “Sit down. Pour yourself a drink. You and I are going to have a long talk.”

Moran seated himself in the chair recently vacated by the girl. “I should be plenty sore.” He poured a small drink. “Not that I blame you so much. Dorrie does get under a man’s skin. I know she fed you some kind of sob story at the table tonight — until I came along and broke it up.” He took a small sip of cognac. “So she made a date with you.” He spread out his long, thin hands and shrugged indifferently.

“Okay,” he continued. “Do you blame me for getting sore? Wouldn’t you?” He settled back with the glass in his hand. “I know a man is a fool to try and hang onto a dame if she’s tired of him. But with Dorrie and me — it’s been different, see? It hurts, damn it.”

Shayne took a leisurely drink and said, “You’re a lousy liar, Moran.”

“You mean you still believe the crap that little—”

“Hold it,” Shayne growled. “Calling Julia names won’t get you anything except maybe some teeth knocked out. What about Mrs. Davis?”

“What about who?” Moran jerked himself erect.

“Mrs. Elbert Davis.”

“I don’t know any Mrs. Davis,” Moran protested sullenly.

“What else were you doing at the Waldorf Towers tonight?”

Moran averted his eyes from Shayne’s hard gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Didn’t you intercept the note Mrs. Davis sent backstage to Dorinda night before last?”

“Lotsa folks send notes back to Dorrie. If I get hold of them first she doesn’t see them.” Moran drank the last of his drink.

“What about this?” Shayne picked up Dorinda’s publicity photograph from the table where it had fallen, face down. “Attempted blackmail is a felony. I’ve got the note you sent along with the picture to Mrs. Lansdowne.”

Ricky Moran appeared to be completely mystified. He only glanced at the photograph, then looked angrily at the detective and said, “That’s twice you’ve mentioned blackmail.”

“I’m in a mood to do more than talk about it, Moran. For my money you stink worse than a skunk.” He came to his feet with big fists swinging.

Moran arose hastily and took a backward step, licking the crack in his lip where the blood was clotted. “You can’t say things like that to me, Shayne.”

“I can take you apart and see what makes a rat like you tick,” he said pleasantly. “When I kick you out the door you’ll have an idea of what will happen to you if you ever try to see Julia Lansdowne again, or ever mention her name.” As he spoke, he advanced steadily.

Moran was backing away. Suddenly, with a snarled oath, he leaped sideways and clawed inside his coat for the weapon concealed there.

Shayne sprang, a long left striking Moran’s shoulder as the automatic came out, spinning the man around. Circling his right arm around, the redhead’s fingers caught Moran’s gun hand in a merciless grip. With his left forearm under his opponent’s chin, Shayne exerted leverage that lifted the man’s body free from the floor where he hung for a moment, gagging and kicking wildly.

There was a muffled shot, and Moran’s body went limp. The smell of burned powder drifted into Shayne’s nostrils as he relaxed his hold, and Moran’s body slumped to the floor.

Shayne stood very still, looking down with brooding hatred at the motionless figure. Presently he leaned down and turned Moran’s body over. His eyes were wide and glazed, the jaw sagging open. Blood trickled from a powder-burned hole in the front of his shirt just below the breastbone, and the automatic was still gripped in his right hand.

Shayne felt the man’s wrist for a pulse. There was no sign of life, and he went directly to the telephone. In a steady voice he asked the desk clerk to ring Police Chief Will Gentry’s telephone at home. He gave the number and waited.

A sleepy voice rumbled, “Gentry.”

“Mike Shayne, Will. There’s a hunk of dead skunk in my apartment. I wish you’d send the boys to cart it away.”

“Are you kidding, Mike? How did—”

“You know I never kid about a stiff.”

“Oh — that. For a minute I thought one of your relatives—”

“Cut it, Will.” Shayne sighed wearily and audibly. “He’s messing up my floor, and the city pays you to take care of things like that.” He hung up, poured himself a drink, and a few minutes later the homicide squad was swarming over the apartment.