When Dorinda Dances

Chapter VII

“What do you mean ‘taken’?” Shayne growled.

“What else?” Gentry made an expansive gesture. “This girl feeds you a hunk of boloney and you gulp it down without chewing. Michael Galahad Shayne mounting his white charger to save a strip-teaser from a life of shame.” He threw his head back and guffawed. “She’s heard about you, maybe, and comes to your apartment at four in the morning for a little fun — and you read her a sermon. My God, Mike.”

“Okay. Have your fun. But I swear she was on the level, Will. She wouldn’t even take a drink.”

“Then why didn’t she go to Lucy’s?”

“What’s your guess?” Shayne parried.

“It’s a cinch. She knew she’d never get by with a story like that with another woman. So she just faded out of the picture after you chased her down the fire escape — while you stay behind to break a lance against the guy she was two-timing.”

“And it could be that something altogether different happened to her,” said Shayne gravely. “If someone snatched her before she got to Lucy—”

“Who?” Gentry demanded. “You’ve admitted Moran was waiting in the lobby and he came right up.”

“He could have left a pal watching the fire escape,” Shayne growled. “Damn it, Will. If anything has happened to that girl, I sent her right into it.”

“Nuts,” said Gentry. “You’ll be dreaming up an international gang of white-slavers next.”

“I talked to the girl and you didn’t,” Shayne reminded him. “There’s one way to find out.” He went to the phone again, asked for long-distance, said, “A person-to-person call to Mrs. Nigel Lansdowne in Washington, D. C. I don’t know the number. That’s Mrs. Lansdowne.”

He waited tensely, his bleak gray eyes avoiding Chief Gentry’s amused gaze, while the operator put the call through. After a brief interval, he heard the Washington operator say, “I’m sorry but the Lansdownes have an unlisted number and we are not allowed to give the information.”

“Wait,” Shayne said sharply. “This is important. Official police business.”

“I’m very sorry.” The voice was dulcet but firm. “We would require an authorization from the authorities here.”

Shayne said, “Hold it.” He turned to Gentry and held out the receiver. “Do you know any cops in Washington who can get you an unlisted number?”

“Maybe.” Gentry got up reluctantly, took the receiver, and asked the operator to connect him with Washington police headquarters.

Shayne paced the floor and worried his left ear lobe, listening absently while Gentry spoke to half a dozen people. After a few minutes of passing the buck, the chief nodded with satisfaction and said, “Let me get a pencil.”

Shayne hurried to the desk and shoved a pad and pencil across. The chief wrote down a number, said, “Thanks... ring the number, please. It’s person-to-person for Mrs. Lansdowne.” He then handed, the instrument to Shayne and went back to his chair.

After the usual preliminaries a shocked voice said, “For Mrs. Lansdowne? Oh, that’s impossible. She’s much too ill to be disturbed.”

“This is important,” Shayne said swiftly. “This is the police in Miami — calling about Mrs. Lansdowne’s daughter.”

“I’m sorry. It’s positive orders from the doctor. What about Miss Julia?”

Before Shayne could reply the operator broke in. “Do you wish this party to accept the call, sir?”

“Yes, by all means. Who is this speaking?”

“The housekeeper. Has anything happened to Julia?”

“Do you know where she is?”

“Why — at school in Florida,” the woman faltered. “If anything has happened—”

“We don’t know yet,” Shayne said bluntly. “If I could speak to her mother for a moment.”

“But she can’t be disturbed. She’s very ill. The telephone has been disconnected in her room, and the nurse would not allow you to speak to her anyway.” The woman’s voice trembled with anxiety.

“All right,” said Shayne grimly. “Put Judge Lansdowne on.”

“The judge is out of town for the night. We expect him back tomorrow afternoon.”

“Do you know where I can reach him tonight?”

“No. I think he’s in Boston. His office would know. You could call there at nine o’clock.” She gave him a telephone number, and Shayne scribbled it on a pad.

“One thing more. Do you happen to know if Mrs. Lansdowne has a very close friend in Washington named Mrs. Davis?”

“Mrs. Davis?” There was a moment’s silence. Then she said emphatically, “No, sir. I don’t. Please tell me about Miss Julia. If there’s been an accident—”

“It’s probably not the same girl,” Shayne soothed her. “We were merely trying to check an identity. I’ll be in touch with the judge tomorrow.”

He hung up and swung around with an angry frown. “That was the housekeeper. Mrs. Lansdowne is too ill to take a call. That corroborates one thing the girl told me — without any prompting — about her mother’s illness. And Julia Lansdowne is supposed to be in school here in Florida. We’ve got to find her, Will.”

“Sure. Whether she’s the Lansdowne girl or not she’s a witness in Moran’s death. I’ll put it on the radio.” Gentry picked up the photograph and glanced at it, dropped it, and said gruffly, “How was she dressed?” on the way to the phone.

“White dress with short puffed sleeves and high neck. About five-feet-four or five — slim, short, blond hair and big violet eyes. And just put out a call for Dorinda, Will.”

Gentry grunted and arranged for the radio pickup.

Shayne had his hat on. He handed Gentry his and urged him toward the door, saying, “There’s one other chance. Let’s get to that address in Coconut Grove fast. If some pal of Moran’s did pick her up, he might have taken her there. Neither she nor Moran knew I trailed them home from La Roma.”

“We’ll probably find her there, all right,” rumbled Gentry, “asleep in her own little bed. Ten to one she went straight back there after failing to make time with you.”

“Cut it, Will. She’s just a kid.” Shayne yanked the door shut, and they went down the corridor to the elevator. In the lobby he stopped long enough to tell the clerk to try to get a message from anyone who called him, then hurried out to join Gentry in his car.

“Out Brickell will be fastest,” he muttered, repeating the address he had memorized earlier. He sank back against the cushion and occupied himself with unwelcome imaginings as Gentry sent the heavy sedan swiftly across the Miami River into the fresh radiance of a new day.

They parked in front of the building under the fronds of leaning coco palms and went into a small foyer with a double row of mailboxes.

“She went into an apartment on the second floor, front and right,” Shayne muttered.

“Two-B,” Gentry said, after checking, “is Moran’s. Two-A is marked ‘Dorinda.’ Looks like she did tell the truth about separate apartments.” He started to push the button.

“Wait,” said Shayne hastily. “If someone is holding her up there, I’d like to break in on them.” He went to the inner door and tried it. It was locked. He turned back, frowning thoughtfully. He took a well-filled key ring from his pocket, but Gentry said firmly, “That leaves the manager.” He found the button and pressed it until the door swung open.

A heavy-set, dark-featured man confronted them, wearing green-and-white-striped pajama tops, an angry scowl, a growth of stubbly black beard, and a pair of trousers which he was buckling as he growled, “What the hell—”

“Police,” Gentry said, showing a badge. “Two-B and Two-A. What about them?”

“Moran and his dancer. What about ’em?” The manager’s first belligerence changed to righteous indignation.

“Are they in?”

“How should I know? I don’t stay up till three-four in the mornin’ checkin’ my tenants in.”

“You haven’t seen them tonight?” Gentry persisted. “Either in or out?”

“Not for days,” he answered sullenly. “They stay pretty close and don’t make no trouble.”

“Get a passkey and take us up,” ordered Gentry.

The manager slouched away, grumbling under his breath. He returned with a brass key dangling from a metal ring, led the way up a flight of stairs complaining. “Don’t blame me if there’s something goin’ on between them two. I rent out my apartments and got no call to see they sleep in their own beds.”

Shayne said, “Keep it quiet, and try the girl’s door first.”

When the door was unlocked Shayne motioned the man aside, opened it quietly, reached in, and turned on the light. A naked hundred-watt bulb in the ceiling revealed a small, one-room apartment with a studio couch. Two inner doors stood open, and he stalked first into a tiny bathroom, then into a kitchenette.

Dorinda was not there.

When he returned to the hallway Gentry and the manager were at the door of 2-B. It was a replica of the girl’s apartment. The day bed was opened out and made up for sleeping, but had not been slept in. Crumpled newspapers and cigarette butts littered the table and chests of drawers. A half-empty whisky bottle stood on the floor beside the one comfortable chair, and dirty dishes were piled in the sink.

“That’s all,” said Gentry, dismissing the surly manager. “We’ll look around up here and then seal this room for a day or two. Moran won’t be back. He’s at the morgue right now, and after I’m through here I’ll take you down to identify the body.” He closed the door firmly in the man’s gaping face. He asked Shayne, “You want to take this chance to look for anything?”

“Just enough to see if we can get any sort of line on Moran,” said Shayne, opening the closet door and pushing half a dozen suits back on their hangers. He came out with two suitcases, and added, “The girl’s room, too. If we can find something there to prove she’s Julia Lansdowne we’ll be that much ahead.”

One of Moran’s suitcases was empty. The other contained a frayed scrapbook filled with theatrical clippings from five years back, which indicated that he was exactly what the girl had claimed, a small-time booking agent for talent in second-rate night clubs.

Dorinda’s apartment yielded nothing to prove or disprove the story she had told. There was no scrap of paper with her name, nothing whatever to reveal her identity. Except for a few simple summer frocks, her clothing consisted of underthings that looked expensive to the men. A smart traveling bag with matching hatbox, and her toilet articles, seemed more expensive than a protégé of Ricky Moran’s was likely to possess. These were the only indications that she had been telling the truth about her background, and they were not conclusive.

Shayne rode back to the city with Gentry and the apartment house manager. He got off at his hotel, and Gentry promised to let him know the moment anything turned up on the girl.

He stopped at the desk to inquire for messages, and Dick said, “Not a single call. Gee, Mr. Shayne, did you really blast that guy? He pulled a gun, huh? Was the girl still there? Was that it? I thought he was trouble when he came in offering me money to give him your number without announcing him. But I wouldn’t do that.”

“That’s right, Dick.” Shayne grinned and took some bills from his wallet. “It was forty bucks you turned down, wasn’t it?” He laid two twenties on the desk.

A fair-haired young man and an ardent worshiper of the detective, Dick colored to the roots of his hair. “Golly, no, Mr. Shayne. I didn’t mean—”

“You earned it, Dick. Comes off the expense account.” He swung away and went up to his apartment.

It was a little after six o’clock, and he was groggy from lack of sleep. He couldn’t get through to Judge Lansdowne’s Washington office until nine o’clock, so he set the alarm for that hour, kicked off his shoes, and dropped into the bed.