SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames (14 page)

“Come here, Donny.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“Yah, boy-yah, boy!” Brannigan spat with gusto. “What the hell do you think? Hey?”

“Got me, Tom.”

“We got that punk identified. Louie Brown's his name. That punk you give the works, Donny. Hot dog! Yah! Ain't that hot, kiddo-ain't it? Yah! Well, we got him identified all right. A pal of a pal of a pal of mine-'Sure, I seen that guy,' he sez. 'Louie Brown's his name.' All I gotta do now, kiddo, is get my stoolies workin' to find out who was trottin' around with Louie Brown. Watch the papers, Donny. You'll be seein' things.”

Donahue forced a grin, not heartfelt. “Swell, Tom.”

“Goin' up a ways?”

“Yeah.”

“Jump in.”

Donahue dropped to the seat in the rear beside Brannigan and the police flivver started off. Brannigan erupted, slapping his knees, chewing a cigarette to rags, the feel of the hunt burning in his eyes.

“Just depend on Tom Brannigan, Donny,” he said. “I'll get that bum got away. Me, personal. Before sundown I'll have the name o' the guy was trottin' with Louie Brown. I'll bust everything but his windpipe. Yah.” Donahue got off at Eighth Street and walked west with Brannigan's voice still re-echoing in his ears. He did not doubt that Brannigan, who had a vast array of stoolies, would discover the name of the late Louie Brown's partner before sundown. Armed with the name of Eddie Bishoff, Brannigan would find his police record, get his underworld spies working, and eventually get Bishoff.

Donahue hardened in his purpose. It showed on his face. He knew of a private cop on the West Coast who had been engaged to turn over an amount of money to a gang of crooks in return for bonds that had been stolen from a Seattle bank. A bank official had engaged him. There was a slip-up. The bonds were returned well enough, but then the cops started in; hauled in the private cop for abetting the criminals, handed him a jail sentence, thereby setting a precedent.

Donahue knew he was headed for a jam. And he knew that if he got in the jam Mike Mueck would be fool enough to try to get him out and in so doing would entangle him self. And Brannigan was on a tear. Brannigan was ruthless, a hard cop, in his way a good one. But he would rough-house Donahue as quickly and as explosively as he had, on many an occasion, shaken his hand and clapped him on the back.

In Grove Street, near Sheridan Square, Donahue neared the address that corresponded with the telephone number Louie had written alongside the name of Ed. It was a speakeasy. Donahue grumbled his disappointment. But he entered, following a long corridor that terminated in a bar, with tables along the wall. He went to the corner where a telephone stood, looked at the number. It corresponded with the number on the slip of paper.

Donahue went to the bar, hooked his heel on the rail and ordered a highball. The barman whistled sleepily while he mixed the drink. Donahue took a few swallows, frowned-not because of the liquor but because of an indecisive train of thought. Finally he drained the glass, got change from a dollar, went out. He had decided not to bring up Ed's name to the barman, since he believed that nothing would have been gained by it. He didn't want to spring Bishoff's name until he could be certain that it would bring definite information.

He took a cab to Twenty-sixth Street. The address was that of a small apartment house. A row of mail slots was in the lobby, with names above. One was-
Miss Kitty Bra-don.
Donahue pushed into a narrow, bare foyer. There was no elevator. He started up a staircase. There were two apartments on each floor, the doors facing each other across a small landing. On the third landing Donahue stopped and looked at the door marked 4B. He looked at the name under the bell-button.

He listened at the door. His right hand closed around the gun in his coat pocket. He used his left thumb to press the button. He eyed the door steadily. Heard footsteps. A woman's voice. “Who is it?”

“Special delivery, ma'am.”

The lock clicked. The door opened a matter of two inches.

A blonde head appeared. A hand thrust out. Donahue grabbed it. “Quiet, sister!”

He elbowed the door violently, shouldered in, kicked the door shut. His gun was in his hand, his voice low-“Not a chirp, sister.”

“Ow-you're hurting!”

He flung down her arm, trained the gun on her, backed her down the short, narrow corridor, into a small living-room. He nodded to a divan.

“Sit down.”

She fell to the divan, drawing up her legs, rubbing her hands back and forth across her chest, her eyes wide. Donahue stepped to the door, looked into a kitchenette, saw part of a bedroom. He looked quickly back to the girl, his eyes keen. “Where's Nora?”

“Nora-?”

“You heard me. Nora.”

“She's-out.”

Donahue remained standing. He pointed at the woman.

“You knew Louie Brown!”

She clasped her face between her hands.

“And”-Donahue was incisive, hard-“you know Eddie Bishoff!”

She shrieked: “Who-who are you?”

“Never mind who I am. Where's Bishoff?” She put her head back, gasping, saying nothing. Donahue hefted his gun.

“I haven't all day. Get your breath and tell me. I want to know where Bishoff is. I don't care about your girl friend-unless I have to find her to find Bishoff. But I want Bishoff. Louie Brown knew you and Nora Slaven.”

“You're a cop!” she cried. “That's what you are-a cop!”

“Yeah, I'm a cop,” Donahue drawled. She appeared to make an effort to pull herself together. She stood up, pressed her hands to her hips, moved to a half-open window and inhaled great draughts of air, kneading her hips. Then she pivoted and faced Donahue, her face very white, very grim.

“You've got to help her,” she murmured.

“Help her!”

“Nora-you've got to help her-or help me-whatever Way you want to put it.” Donahue wagged his gun. “Sister, don't try to kid me.”

“For-sake!...” She clasped her hands together, moving them up and down monotonously, emotionally. “She's a good girl-but bewitched. She's a good girl-but a fool, a little fool, an awful fool. Please-believe me!”

Donahue relaxed, a shadow falling over his face, sarcasm fading from his lips, his lips softening, his eyes keening but at the same time losing their contemptuous glitter.

Yet he spoke bluntly-“Shoot.” Willing to listen, yet still watchful, wary-still mindful of the fact that he had been bitten many times, the scars still on his memory. “It's got to sound damned good, my lady.”

The woman had not the aspect of a hot-house lily, but at the same time she had a vague prettiness. Emotion had tensed her; she stood image-like, only her lips moving.

“I don't know what he did. He came here last night-late-around midnight. He looked murderous. But he was cool, in that cool way he has. He wanted us to hide him here. I loathed him. But Nora-well, he was a friend of Louie's. She never believed they were bad men. She met them where she worked-in a night club. She came from Utica. He said he had tried to save Louie-he was wounded-in the arm.

“But I wouldn't let him stay. I didn't know what had happened, but I wouldn't let him stay. I own this flat. I got Nora to give up that night-club life, she was such a little fool. I tried to get her away from Louie. But he had that morbid fascination for her; she pitied him-he had hard-luck stories.

“So he was wounded. And we argued. He said he got wounded trying to save Louie. He must have known this would be a good place to hide. It's a respectable house. I was terrified. So then Nora said, like a baby: 'He's Louie's friend. I've got to-stand by him.' I wouldn't let him stay here. I was furious-then furious at Nora. She went with him. He said to me, while she was in the bathroom: 'You keep your mouth shut about this or I'll kill you-and her.' So she went away with him, to nurse him.”

She moved to the divan, dropped to it, rubbing her palms slowly together, elbows on knees. She stared transfixed at the carpet.

“I followed them,” she said; then looked up, startled, her eyes springing wide-open. “You've got to save her-save that little fool! She's innocent!”

“Go on,” Donahue muttered.

“So-I followed them. Nora took a suitcase. She looked dazed, and nun-like. The awful little fool!” She sobbed, then bit the sobs back. “First she bound up his arm-tightly. Then they went-and I followed. I followed them to the Hall Hotel, on Broadway, near Thirty-seventh Street. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Norman. The poor little fool!”

Donahue groaned, raised his hands, looked at the ceiling.

“I swear,” she said, “that Nora doesn't know what she's doing! Isn't there something-something you can do? I want to save her. I'll take her out of New York-take her back to Utica-anything. But, please, she's innocent!”

Donahue sat down. Sat down and shoved his gun into his pocket, lit a cigarette and eyed the woman for a long time through the smoke that dribbled upward. And she eyed him, eyes wide-open, frank, candid, deeply troubled. Donahue grunted. He slapped a palm to a knee, left it there, looking down at the fingers. He grunted again, making a face. Then his lips tightened. He looked up.

“You've got to get them out of that hotel,” he said. “Get them-Why?”

“If I went there and crashed in their room there wouldn't be a chance of getting your friend in the clear. It would be slaughter and she'd bounce into trouble. We've got to get them out of that hotel-that's final.”

“But then what?”

He jabbed a finger towards the floor. “Telephone her. Tell her you're sorry you acted the way you did. You've thought it over-and you're sorry. Tell them to come here. Impress on them that you think it would be safer here than in that hotel.”

“But”-she spread her hands-“there would be slaughter here and she'd be drawn in anyhow. And so would I. It would be an awful mess.”

“Listen,” Donahue said, getting up. “I can go over to that hotel and crash it. Or you can do as I say. I want Bishoff. For the information you've given me, I'm willing to try my best to keep Nora out of it. And to do that, we've got to get both of them out of that hotel first.”

“But don't you see-”

“Be quiet. I see. I know. You've got to depend on me-and the breaks. Telephone the hotel. Talk them into coming over to hide out here. Leave the rest to me.”

She held her breath for a long minute. Then she said quietly: “All right.” She rose and walked white-faced to the telephone.

He said in a hoarse whisper: “Now remember-convince her. Don't get out of town too suddenly. Wait a while. And never say anything about my being here. If I get him out-and I hope to-I do!-never say anything about it.

This guy Bishoff has a record against him a mile long.”

She whispered, “I'll do my best.”

They went on sitting, listening, looking at the clock. The woman bit her lip, knotted her hands, moved her lips without audible sound. She got up and paced back and forth, feeling her throat, touching her lips with her tongue.

“Steady,” Donahue murmured.

She sat down again, fanning herself with a newspaper, rolling her eyes.

Donahue muttered: “You've got to look natural when you meet them. The way you are now-”

“I know-I know,” she said, trembling. “Oh...-!”

“Sh!” He looked around. “Got any liquor?”

“I never use it.”

“Hell!”

She got up and went into the bathroom, washed her face with cold water. It seemed to steady her. She came back into the living-room, holding her chin up. Sat down again.

The door-bell rang.

Donahue stood up, putting a finger to his lips. The woman rose. Oddly enough, she looked calm-suddenly calm. She even smiled grimly. She went swiftly out into the little corridor.

Donahue stepped to one side of the console, flattening against the wall. He held his gun waist-high. The radio downstairs had stopped. He could hear every sound. He heard the latch click as the woman opened the door.

“Hello, Nora, dear-Eddie.”

“Oh, Kitty-you're so sweet!”

The door closed. “Hello, Kitty,” a man's voice said. “I'm glad you changed your mind. I'll lay up here for a couple of days, then breeze.”

The footsteps came scuffling down the corridor. Donahue dropped to one knee behind the console. Nora came into the room first. Hardly twenty, a slip of a starry-eyed kid. Then Bishoff came in, his left hand in his pocket, resting there.

Donahue stood up, stepped out. “All right, Eddie.”

Bishoff stiffened. His right hand swept towards his left armpit.

“Cut it, kid!” Donahue muttered. “Keep that hand away!”

Bishoff's lip curled; he snarled at Kitty: “You dirty little two-timer!”

Starry-eyed was Nora-still unable to grasp the situation.

“Why-why, what's the matter?” she asked.

“You see what's the matter!” snapped Bishoff. “Your friend laid a trap for me!”

“Kitty-”

“Sit down, Nora,” Kitty said, breathless. “I had to get you out of this. This man's a murderer.”

Nora cried: “Kitty, how could you? He's not a murderer! He tried to save Louie. He told me how the cops had been persecuting them. He told me how cops beat poor men in station-houses with everything they can lay hands on.”

“He told you a pack of lies,” cut in Donahue. “This man has a fat police record. He's an old offender. And he's a killer. He came here after he killed a cop for protection, knowing what a little fool you are. This flat offered the best kind of protection. He was a louse to try to drag you into it.”

“Yeah, was I a louse!” snarled Bishoff.

“I'm not wasting words on you,” Donahue said. “You're going out of here with me. You're cheap, Bishoff-you're so damned cheap that you hadn't a crowd to hide out in. You had to drag in a fool jane. Why, damn you, you didn't even have a fence. I said it-you're a louse.”

“Oh, Eddie, I'm sorry-I'm sorry,” cried Nora Bishoff whirled on her, started to say something, changed his mind. She was staring at Kitty.

“Oh, Kitty, how could you do a thing like this!”

“Nora, it's for your own good. Can't you see? Do you want to go to jail? Do you?”

“We're going,” Donahue broke in, moving towards Bishoff.

Nora sprang at him, blind to the gun.

“Run, Eddie!”

Donahue fell back. He saw Bishoff bolt for the door. He did not strike Nora. He tussled half-heartedly with her. Kitty sprang and gripped Nora's arms, pleaded with her. The hall-door banged.

Donahue tore free. “That's all right,” he said. “I'll get him, Kitty. But keep your friend here. Knock her senseless if you have to. She's probably the dumbest animal I've ever seen. But keep her here. She's in your hands. And your hard luck. Get her out of town. She hasn't been told the facts of life.”

“Thanks-thanks!”

“So long, sister.”

Donahue reached the foyer as the front door was closing. He saw Bishoff heading west at a brisk walk. As he stepped from the lobby, Bishoff looked back and saw him. Donahue started after him, stretching long legs in a fast walk.

At Eighth Avenue Bishoff dived into a taxicab. Donahue broke into a run and hailed another cab at the corner.

“Follow that yellow,” he said.

The yellow cab swung west into Twenty-fifth Street, and Donahue's taxi followed. The two cabs snaked among slow trucks. The yellow crossed Ninth Avenue, swung south on Tenth. Bishoff leaped from it at the corner of Twenty-second Street and headed west on foot. Donahue left his cab there and followed.

At Eleventh Avenue Bishoff ran into the middle of the street and leaped aboard a cruising taxi. Donahue broke into a run. The cab started south. There was not another nearby, but one was coming north. Donahue ran towards it, out in the street. The cab stopped.

“Swing around and tail that checker,” Donahue said.

He sat on the edge of the rear seat. His cab gathered speed. The checker ahead was speeding on its way south; it struck West Street and went flying past the pier sheds. It looped around slow-moving trucks. It swayed dangerously. Then suddenly it stopped. Bishoff leaped out and ran pell-mell across the wide thoroughfare, dodging northbound traffic.

Donahue tossed a dollar to the chauffeur and tailed Bishoff into Barrow Street. Bishoff started running and Donahue ran after him. Bishoff darted across Washington Street, across Greenwich, turned north into Hudson. He had long legs. He was fast.

He turned east on Christopher Street and then swung right into Bedford. People stopped and stared after him, only to be surprised again by the appearance of Donahue, his coat flapping about his legs. Others darted into convenient doorways, sensing trouble, the possibility of gunfire.

At the corner of Grove a policeman appeared, idly swinging a nightstick. He took one look at Bishoff, saw the light in his eyes. He shouted: “Hey, you, wait-” Bishoff's gun came out of his pocket for the first time during the chase. It blazed. The cop got it in the throat and crumpled, gurgling.

A pedestrian screamed and flung herself to the sidewalk, hugging a house front.

Donahue leaped over the fallen policeman. He saw Bishoff crash into a store on Grove Street. Donahue crashed in after him. There was a door open in the rear. He started for it. He heard a snarl and threw himself down as a gun boomed. A bullet smashed into the wall back of him. He saw Bishoff reeling towards the front door again. He fired. The bullet shattered a window.

Bishoff plunged back into Grove Street, sideswiped a woman, kicked over a child. The woman started to rise. She saw Donahue heaving out of the door and fell down again. The child screamed. People were on the corner-a dozen or more. But they did nothing. They stood petrified.

Blindly the chase led to Sheridan Square, across the Square while a policeman directed heavy-traffic, up to Waverley Place, then east. At Sixth Avenue Bishoff turned and fired a shot. It went through Donahue's hat without budging the hat. Donahue fired and his bullet rang against an L post, and Bishoff turned up Sixth Avenue. He turned and saw Donahue taking aim again. He flung himself against a door. The door gave and he plunged into a hallway. Donahue reached the door and saw him at the top of a staircase. He dived in headlong as Bishoff fired. He felt a jolt in his right arm and dropped his gun. He fell to the floor as another shot boomed and gouged the floor behind him. He grabbed up the gun in his left hand and started up the staircase.

Bishoff broke through a door on the second floor. A woman cried out and dropped a skillet to the stove. He struck her with the gun and she fell to the floor. His teeth were bared, his eyes blazed and sounds grated in his throat. The woman kept moaning and he cursed her. Food from the overturned skillet hissed and sputtered on the hot stove.

Donahue crept to the end of the hall, climbed out to a fire-escape, swung to the kitchen window. Bishoff saw his shadow, swivelled. Donahue fired across the woman on the floor. Bishoff's bullet struck the upraised window; glass rained down on Donahue as he fired again. Bishoff fell; back against the wall, grimacing, trying to raise his gun.

Donahue jumped through the window, stepped over the woman. Bishoff cursed him, still tried to raise the gun. He groaned. The gun went off and a bullet banged into the floor. He couldn't raise the gun. He fell down, belching. The woman was creeping towards the door. Donahue laid his gun down, tore open Bishoff's coat, plunged his hand into Bishoff's pocket. He drew out a thick sheaf of bills held together by an elastic band. He transferred them to his own pocket.

As he stood up he heard heavy shoes rapping up the stairs, hard voices exclaiming. Tom Brannigan loomed in the doorway, his gun leveled.

“Hands up!”

“Your eyesight bad, Tom?”

“Jeeze, it's Donahue! What you been-Jeeze you got him!” Brannigan tramped across the room. “I told you, Donny, to save him for us! Watcha want to go and-Say, I would ha' had that baby. I got tipped off an hour ago it was him was runnin' with Louie Brown. Louie, we find, is wanted in Denver. He cleared outta there six months ago after knifin' a woman!”

Half a dozen cops crowded in.

Brannigan bent over Bishoff. “Well, you wiper! Well-Hey, he's dead! Well, c'n you tie that!” He turned to Donahue. “How come you meet up with him?”

“Well, Tom, I was strolling up Broadway in the Twenties, when I saw him. He saw me at the same time. I said to myself: 'I'll tail him and hole him up somewhere and then call Tom Brannigan.' I tried to, Tom. But he got loose with his gun. He got me in the arm. I-I've got to get to a hospital, Tom. Look me up there.” He put his gun away. “You're not sore, are you, Tom?”

“Well”-Brannigan scowled-“what's the use o' gettin' sore. I'll okey this, Donny.” He jerked his head. “Beat it to the hospital before you get infection. I'll see you there later.”

Donahue went downstairs, pushed through the curious mob, found a taxicab. He climbed in, fell back, called out the Agency's address. He got white on the way downtown. Getting out of the cab in Park Row, he staggered.

He walked stiff-legged into Hinkle's office. Hinkle shoved his chair back.

“My-! Donny, what's the matter!”

Donahue flopped to a chair, drew out the sheaf of bills.

“Count them, Asa.”

“But you-you-you're sick.”

Donahue licked his lip. “Upset stomach, I guess. Count them, Asa.”

Hinkle pulled off the rubber bands, began counting. As he counted, his eyes grew wider. Donahue sighed in the chair, dropping his chin to his chest.

Asa said: “Exactly twenty thousand!”

“Good. He must have been afraid to spend any of it so soon. See that gets back to Mrs. Jennifer, Asa. Do it now. And tell her to forget about it. I'm pretty sure I've burned all my bridges behind me. Tell Mike Mueck to come over to the hospital to see me sometime, if he's not busy.”

He stood up. His right hand was red. The blood had come down his sleeve. He took a handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand.

Hinkle said, jumping up: “Why didn't you tell me you were wounded, you idiot?”

Donahue went towards the door. “It's not much, Asa. The punk just gave me a little something to remember him by.”

Asa heaved towards the clothes-tree. “I'll go with you.”

“You'll take that money right up to Mrs. Jennifer, that's what you'll do!” He went out alone.