SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames (3 page)

He was still in the same apartment. He said, “Hell and damn,” earnestly, and prowled around, wearing a brown predatory look. The bedroom was empty. Bureau drawers were open-empty; clothes closet was open-empty. He went around into the bath-room. It had been cleaned out except for a bottle with a little Listerine in it. Donahue poured it into a glass, added water, slushed his mouth out, spat noisily.

Alfred and the girl Irene had pulled a fade-away. Donahue wet his hair, brushed it back with his fingers, washed face and hands and dried them. Returning to the living-room, he saw his gun lying on the divan. He picked it up, saw it was still loaded and replaced it in his overcoat pocket. His brown face was hard, sullen; he muttered diatribes in his throat behind his narrow clenched teeth. He went into the bedroom again, looked beneath twin beds, dumped out the contents of a waste basket.

He threw aside crumpled empty cigarette packets, a tooth-paste box, a copy of the
Evening Sun,
a theatre program of the Lyric showing
Fifty
Million
Frenchmen,
a Bascom ticket envelope, a passenger list of the
S. S.
Driatic, a dry cleaner's bill, a colored cardboard box that had contained hairpins, an empty vanishing-cream jar, an empty rose-colored bottle-that had contained fingernail polish.

Donahue reclaimed the passenger list of the S. S. Driatic. Under the C's he found Robert C. Crosby. Under the T's he found Alfred P.
Tenquist;
beneath this, Miss
Leone Tenquist.
He folded the booklet and thrust it into his pocket. His dark eyes glittered as he bent to throw the other articles back into the waste-basket.

He returned to the living-room, picked up his Borsalino, slapped it carelessly on his head and cringed, exploding, “Damn!” It was the bump on his head. He drew in a breath and went towards the door, making a sour face. He passed into the corridor, buzzed for an elevator. When one stopped he got in. When the doors slid open on the main floor, a man squeezed in as Donahue was going out, and as Donahue walked away he heard a bass voice say:

“I want A-455.”

Donahue stopped in his tracks, stood rooted but did not look around. Then he went on walking through the lobby, passed out into the street and turned south. Half a block away three taxis stood in a row at the curb. Donahue passed the first and walked up to the second. He handed the driver a dollar.

“This guy ahead of you may get a call any minute,” he said. “Maybe I'll want you to follow him.”

The driver reached back an arm and opened the door. “Okey, chief.”

Donahue climbed in the back, lit a butt and watched the entrance of the Avalon-Plaza. About five minutes later a man came out. The doorman blew a whistle and the first taxi got into gear and drove up to the hotel entrance.

“Follow that guy,” Donahue said.

The driver started his motor, meshed gears but held the clutch out. When the first taxi pulled away from the curb the second did likewise.

The first taxi turned east on Seventy-ninth Street, south into Riverside Drive. Donahue's man stayed half a block behind, but sped up when a Packard sport and a checkered cab got in between him and the
green
cab he was trailing. He passed the Packard and the checkered job and followed the green taxi around the blinker into Seventy-second Street, then south on West End Avenue. At Fifty-ninth Street, West End Avenue becomes Eleventh and shoots south past railroad yards and switching engines; becomes a rough, shoddy and dark street without traffic stops, where trucks and taxis slam recklessly on their way. The tail turned east into Fortieth Street, crossed Tenth Avenue, roared beneath the Ninth Avenue Elevated and started to slow down just west of Eighth Avenue. The green taxi was pulling into the curb; Donahue's was a hundred yards behind, drifting leisurely. The green cab was stopped when Donahue's rolled past, and the big man was getting out in front of a lighted doorway that was flush with the street.

Donahue leaned forward and said, “I'll get out at Eighth.” When he alighted he gave the driver another dollar, then walked west on Fortieth until he came to the lighted doorway. He walked into the open lobby, looked around for a button, saw none. He got on his toes and ran his fingers along the top of the door frame. He found a button there, pressed it. A minute later the door opened and Donahue walked in saying, “Hello, buddy.”

He walked on down a narrow low-ceiled corridor, passed a kitchen, entered a small bar beyond which was a dining-room where a slot gramophone was raising a lot of noise and dancing feet were shuffling.

The man who had come out of the Avalon-Plaza was standing at the far end of the short bar watching the spectacled bartender mix a whiskey-sour. Donahue put a foot on the rail a dozen feet from the man and watched him in the mirror. When the bartender came down the line mop ping the bar Donahue said:

“Scotch and soda.”

“Punk night out, eh?”

“Pretty lousy.”

Donahue was trying his drink when the big man ordered another whiskey-sour. The big man wore a voluminous tan polo coat, a brown silk muffler, and a rakish large-brimmed brown hat. His face was big, bronzed and bulged at the eyebrows. His gimlet eyes were hidden in tight folds of flesh, and his mouth was wide and drooped at the corners. When he had drunk half of the second whiskey-sour he turned and rolled to a telephone-booth, closed himself in, talked on the telephone briefly, came out again and finished the drink. He threw a bill on the bar, said “Night,” gruffly and stamped down the narrow corridor, wearing a scowl. Donahue had finished the Scotch and soda. The bartender took sixty cents out of a dollar and Donahue left the bar, pocketing the change.

When he came out into Fortieth Street he saw the big man half a block away heading east. Donahue tailed him to Broadway, where the man climbed into a yellow cab. Donahue boarded a black-and-white, said, “Follow that yellow,” and sat on the edge of the back seat watching. The yellow cab turned east into Thirty-fourth Street, crossed Fifth, Madison and Park; turned north on Lexington and west into Thirty-seventh Street and crawled into the curb on the upgrade. Donahue told his driver to keep going, spotted the three story graystone in front of which the yellow had stopped and told the driver to pull up at the taxi stand at Thirty-seventh and Lexington.

He walked down Thirty-seventh on the left side of the street, watched the right. He was opposite the graystone walk-up when he saw lights appear on the third floor behind windows that had shades drawn all the way down. All other windows were dark-had been dark when the taxi drew up. Donahue walked a little farther down, crossed the street, came back up and climbed six stone steps to an open vestibule door. Stepping into the vestibule, he saw a brass plate with four buttons running vertically beside four niches for name. The top niche was the only one that had no name.

He pressed the top button. A minute later the door clicked and Donahue opened it, looked into a dimly lighted corridor. He stood there, reached out and pressed the button again. He listened, looking at the latch. It began clicking again. When it stopped Donahue waited another minute, pressed it again, still holding the door open. The lock began clicking. Donahue smiled to himself, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. While the lock was clicking Donahue pressed his finger against the button, held it there for half a minute. The lock stopped clicking. Donahue gave the button another short push, then shoved his head into the hall and listened. He heard footfalls somewhere above.

He stepped into the hall, closed the door, went quickly and silently to the rear of the lower hall. He turned and waited in the shadows. The footfalls came down, walked the length of the corridor above, then came down the staircase to the lower hall.

Donahue saw the big man striding towards the hall door. The big man reached the door, drew the curtains aside, peered through the glass. He listened. His actions indicated that he was becoming suspicious.

Meanwhile Donahue was sliding through the shadows, hugging the shadowy base of the staircase. His right hand came out of his pocket holding the Colt's revolver. He held the gun in front of him and was ten feet behind the big man when he said:

“Suppose you raise 'em, Babe.”

The big man whirled hugely, sucking in a breath, and his right hand tightened on something in the pocket of his coat.

“What the hell is this?-”

“Those hands, Babe!”

The big man snarled and thrust his big hands upward.

Donahue said, “Get over here... kneel on this lower step.”

“Say you-”

“Get over here!”

The big man lunged, fell to his knees on the lower step.

“Now lie down on the steps.”

“I'll be-

“Get down and keep your hands out straight beyond your head. That's the way.” Donahue went through the man's pockets, took out an automatic pistol. “Now bring the hands down behind your back-and be nice.”

“You're sure a careful guy, ain't you?”

“Pretty careful, Babe.” Donahue clipped manacles deftly on the man's wrists, then stepped back and said, “Now get up and we'll go up to your flat.”

“I don't get this at all, guy.”

“I don't myself. Maybe we can figure things out. Up you go, Babe.” Donahue prodded him in the small of the back with his revolver, and the man started upward, and Donahue kept the gun against his back as they climbed more stairs and then walked into a room whose door had been left open. It was the front room, the living-room that looked out on Thirty-seventh Street. It was a big room, well furnished, and behind it was an equally large bedroom.

Donahue locked the corridor door, left the key in the lock. The big man had turned and was backing sullenly across the room, big head hunched between massive shoulders. His eyes could not be seen for the puffy rolls of flesh that drew together over them, yet at times there was a faint glint.

Open French doors connected living-room and bedroom, and Donahue went into the bedroom sidewise, keeping an-eye on the big man. He pulled open a clothes closet, closed it. He looked into the bath-room. Coming back towards the living-room, he paused in front of a bureau, sniffed. He looked at the things on the bureau. He picked up a crumpled lace handkerchief, put it down, proceeded into the living-room wearing a droll smile.

“Irene wears a nice perfume, Babe.”

The big man growled, “Say, who the hell are you?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don't think. I don't know. The bracelets say a dick, but dicks don't bust into houses alone.”

Donahue said, “I had a talk with Irene and I had a talk with Alfred. They haven't got it. You must have it.”

“Got what?”

“The bulls are kind of worked up over the Crosby kill, Babe. The guy who killed Crosby got it. I got there late. You were there before me, and Alfred was there after you. I didn't get it. Alfred didn't get it. Irene was there, too, but she didn't get it. You-must have got it.”

The big man knit his brows, chewed on a thick nether lip. His big nose wrinkled. He looked baffled. Donahue was a dark lean man eyeing him narrowly.

The big man growled, “Come on, guy, lay your cards on the table. Cut out the sparring.”

Donahue smiled bleakly. “I don't have to lay any cards on any table, Babe. I'm top-dog. You do the laying.”

“Suppose I don't lay?”

“Suppose you do.”

“I said-suppose I don't?”

Donahue dropped his voice ominously. “A dick named Roper's on the job. He's a hard guy, Babe. I can always reach him by telephone.”

The big man snarled, “You're a-stoolie trying to step into big time!”

“Okey... then I'm a stoolie. But that's got nothing to do with what you are, or what I want from you. Every stoolie has his price. You know mine.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want the same thing Irene wants, the same thing Alfred wants. They know you carved Crosby trying to get it. I know it too.”

The big man's face was getting red. His breath rushed hoarsely through wide nostrils and his hands strained at the manacles.

“Did Irene?...” he choked.

“She did after I beat her a while. She said you must have got it when you carved Crosby.”

The big man lunged towards Donahue, brought up against Donahue's gun. His eyes were shining dagger points in the slits of flesh.

“How the hell did you muscle in on this?”

Donahue smiled. “Open season, Babe.... Don't shove-your belly too hard against this rod.”

The big man, sucked in a huge breath, held it, then let it gush out boisterously. “Damn it, I didn't carve Crosby! Irene's a liar!”

“Punk, Babe. You called on Crosby, turned the joint inside out and carved him. That's open and shut. You were seen going in.... Now where is it?”

“I don't know! I haven't got it! Irene or Alfred's got it. And she's a liar if she said I carved Crosby. I was down; there. All right, I was down there. What the hell of it? I was Crosby's bootlegger. I was before he went to Paris. He called me up when he came back. I brought him around three bottles of Scotch because my runner was out. I never run around with the stuff ordinary. But Crosby was a good buyer.”

Donahue wrinkled his brown forehead. “You might have been his bootlegger, Babe, but you got in on something bigger. You had something to do with this racket the woman and Alfred are in on. You're Irene's boy friend. You and Irene double-crossed Alfred.”

“Say, fella, you know a hell of a lot about this.”

“I get around, Babe.”

The big man tied his face up in puzzled wrinkles. “I'm damned if you're a stoolie! You're getting more like plain-clothes every minute!”

“Do you come across, big boy, or do I put through a telephone call? If you didn't slice Crosby you know who did.”

“So you're a dick, eh? So you're a dick?” The big man scowled darkly, snarled, “You can go to hell! If you think I'm a red-hot, you're all wet.”

The telephone bell jangled. Donahue started towards it, then motioned the big man over.

He said, “Sit down and answer it.”

“Me with manacles?”

“I'll hold the receiver for you.”

The big man sat down at the library table. Donahue took off the receiver, placed it near the big man's ear, put his own ear near it.

Irene's voice said, “Babe!”

Babe said, “Yeah.”

“I'm coming over! I've got to see you! I'll be over in twenty minutes!”

Donahue whispered, “Tell her sure, Babe.”

Babe grumbled, “Sure, come on.”

“Oh, Babe, I've had one hell of a time! I'm all in! But I'll be over-in twenty minutes.”

“Sure, Irene.”

Donahue hung up saying, “This is sure a break, Babe. Now be a strong silent man.... So you and the broad have been two-timing on Alfred all along, eh?”

“-for you.”

“And you think I'm a dick, eh?”

“I don't know what you are. I'm beginning to think again you're a stoolie doublecrossing the cops.”

Donahue chuckled drily. “We'll wait and see what Irene thinks about it.” He took out a key-ring. “I'm going to plant you in that easy chair facing the door. Your hands are going to be manacled in front, and there'll be a newspaper over them. You stay in the chair, taking it easy: the prosperous bootlegger at home. I'll be in the bedroom watching you. One step out of turn and you get the works.”

“I'd give a thousand bucks to know just what you are, guy.”

Donahue laughed good-naturedly. “Hell, what a piker you turned out to be!”

The big man growled petulantly, “Jeeze, you're an aggravating kinda guy!”