Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (13 page)

Roper came over and assumed a rough intimate tone. “Have a drink before I shoot over the house.”

“Can’t, Roper. Thanks. Got a date.”

Roper gripped his arm. “How about that smell?”

“Ah, grow up, copper!” Donahue pried loose and went away walking towards Sheridan Square.

Adler… poor slob. Old Adler, janitor and resident manager of the three-story graystone in Waverly Place, where Crosby, that artist, had been carved by Babe Delaney because Crosby was supposed to have brought in a diamond which Irene Saffarrans had planted on him en route from Europe.

And that boy friend of Irene’s…. Alfred Poore, that nice-faced rat who had come over with her. Irene had planted the diamond in a half-used tube of Crosby’s paint, and Crosby, all unknowing, had smuggled it in.

He’d gone kind of nuts on Irene.

Babe Delaney had got wise to the stunt Irene and Alfred were up to. Saw her picture in Crosby’s flat when he came down to deliver some liquor. He’d been Crosby’s bootlegger before the artist went abroad. Said nothing to Crosby but hiked around to Irene and Alfred, got the story, and wanted a split.

Then things had happened… one suspecting the other of a double-cross in the series of confounding incidents that followed. And Crosby… killed in the rush.

The big rub lay in the fact that when Crosby got home from the European trip he threw out a lot of rubbish, among which was the half-used tube of paint. Adler himself had remembered throwing it out.

Now the Babe was marking time in the death house and Alfred was doing a ten-year hitch. Irene got clear. She had looks and pathos in her make-up. And Donahue, by this and that, had helped manipulate her freedom, with the tabloids back of her. Well, Irene had given him the story about Babe and Alfred and the whole scheme. And the Interstate Agency had harvested a fat sum from Crosby’s moneyed uncle….

Asa Hinkle, the Interstate in person, said, “Murder, then—raw and unadorned.”

“Cheap murder,” Donahue nodded.

Hinkle was a large benign Jew, with white hair, diplomatic pince-nez, and a large, firm jaw. He held an excellent perfecto between white, strong fingers.

“After I got rid of Roper last night,” Donahue said, “I chased around the alleys as far as McDougal Street, looked in ash-cans, gutters, everywhere. I asked some questions, but nobody saw a guy running. It’s funny how guys run and nobody sees them.”

“And you didn’t find it?”

“No.”

Hinkle took a slow, meditative drag. “And you think Roper never paid any attention to the fact that it was gone?”

“I don’t think he did. He might have. But I don’t think so.”

“Odd.”

Donahue scowled. “Some fine day I’m going to paste Roper. I’m going to get him off in a corner and push his dirty——dam’ face in. He’s a punk, that guy—a leech. He’s the lousiest cop on the Force. When I think of a good guy like Ames, who used to cruise that precinct; and then this guy Roper—cripes, I see red. No fooling. He’s a louse—a stink. He never crashed any job on his own. I gave him the Delaney job—gave him the broad. And does he appreciate it? Hell, that guy would rubber-hose a ten-year-old kid if he thought he could beat something out of him!”

“Grudge against him, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, you said it. I hate having a bad smell around me all the time.”

Hinkle leaned forward on his flat-topped desk, “Well, Donny, make a stab at this. Play around a while and see what turns up. If that diamond is still in circulation we may get it. If guys do murder for it, it must be worth something… and very likely its rightful owner may crop up one day. Uh—and don’t be too rough on Roper. He has—you know—his uses.”

“Yeah. I’ll be la-de-da with him. Sure I will!”

Hinkle sighed. “You get notions, Donny….” He bent over some letters, puffed serenely on his cigar.

Donahue went out like a gust of wind. He took the elevator down to the lobby, walked out into Park Row, into a brisk winter wind and bright winter sunlight. He walked west on Chambers Street, past City Hall, crossed Broadway, and continued west until he reached Sixth Avenue, when he entered a subway kiosk. He boarded a northbound local, watched three stations go by, and got off when the fourth station said Christopher Street and Sheridan Square. The wide square was windy. A big cop stood in the middle directing traffic.

Donahue struck Grove Street, turned into Waverly Place and walked past Gay Street. He remembered the gray-faced house, the wet, snowy night he had walked in and found Crosby dead on the floor. Now he climbed the stone steps, entered the open vestibule, rang a bell button beside the inner door.

After a while a short, stocky man opened the door and looked out with vacant, big eyes.

“You the new manager?” Donahue asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“I’m Donahue, of the Interstate Detective Agency. I knew Mr. Adler pretty well. We worked together, kind of, on the Crosby murder here, two months ago…. Mind if I look at Adler’s things?”

“Well, I don’t think I can say… me being new here. Mr. Roper, another detective, was here this morning.”

“Yes, I know Roper. I don’t want anything. Just like to poke around, and you can poke around with me.” He was fingering a five-dollar bill. The man looked at it, then looked away as though he had not seen it.

“Maybe… I guess….”

Donahue entered, and the short, stocky man led him downstairs to a room next to the furnace room. Here old Adler had lived his bachelor’s life—with his books, his magazines, his pipe.

“Ten years, wasn’t he—here?” Donahue said.

“Yes, sir—ten years. The owners are giving him burial, and his sister is on the way from Rochester to get what things he left. These…. I been packing his clothes.” He nodded to a battered old trunk. “I had them all packed, but Mr. Roper dumped them all out, so I just been packing them again.”

Donahue pulled over a chair beside the trunk, sat down, and drew out the garments one by one. There were some shirts with Regent Street, London, labels. There were two soft hats; one had a Jermyn Street label. There was a sweater from the Burlington Arcade.

The new manager said, “I used to know Adler. He said Mr. Crosby used to give him a lot of second-hand clothes.”

“Yes, he told me that too.”

When Donahue had finished searching the trunk he sat back.

The manager nodded to the table. “These here are bills and things he had in his tin box.”

Donahue went to the table and ran through a sheaf of receipted bills—grocer’s, butcher’s, tailor’s. He looked at one that was headed: “Hats Cleaned, Blocked.” There was one item on it. A hat that had been cleaned and blocked. It was dated March third—four days ago. Donahue looked at other bills, shuffled the lot together and replaced the clip which he had taken off.

“Did Detective Roper find anything?”

“He didn’t seem to. He asked me a lot of questions about Adler. Of course, I didn’t know much.”

“H’m. Adler never said he’d been bothered after the Crosby kill?”

“No.”

“What’s your name?”

“Homer’s my name.”

“All right, Mr. Homer.” He withdrew the five-dollar bill from his pocket, laid it on the table. “I’ll be going. May see you again sometime.”

“Thanks, Mr. Donahue.”

Outside, Donahue walked east on Waverly Place, turned north into Sixth Avenue, walked one block and swung east into Eighth Street. He entered a small shop where a swart young Italian steamed a hat in the window and where another was polishing the shoes of a man who sat in one of six chairs. Farther back, behind a glass showcase displaying shoe polishes, creams, laces, and hat bands, stood another man who did nothing. Towards him went Donahue.

“You own this place, brother?”

“Shu.”

“Knew that guy Adler was bumped off last night?”

“Yeah, shu. Useta come in here lots.”

“Nice old guy, wasn’t he?”

“Fine—a guy, shu. Kinda funny… y’ know what?”

“Yeah.” Donahue leaned on the glass showcase. “You remember if he brought in a hat to be cleaned a few days ago?”

The man chuckled. “Yeah, shu. Was ver’ funny ’bout de hat. Say we should be moocha careful… y’ know what? Shu. Was good hat. Say, you ’member dat man was slice up two mont’s ago… Mr. Crosby?”

“Crosby? Sure do.”

“Was his hat. Was a hat Mr. Crosby geeve dis guy Adler. So Adler say we gotta be moocha careful… y’ know what?”

“I get you.” Donahue nodded towards the front of the shop. “That boy clean the hat?”

“No. Was feller I chuck t’ree days ago. Joosta fire him—like dat. Gotta fresh. Was a wise guy. Yeah, shu. Nick Bonalino… no good. Moocha wise guy. Play de pool all-a time. Friends drop in and keep up de talk and Nick no do mooch work. So I fire him. Was always tell me he getta good job singing in night-club.”

“What night-club?”

“Watcha call de Hey-hey Club—McDougal Street. Jeep joint….”

“I know the joint.”

“Say, you dick?”

“Yeah, I’m a dick. Any other dick in here today?”

“No.”

Donahue brightened, gave the man a cigar, and breezed out.

McDougal Street south of West Houston is no beauty spot. Dark as a pit at night. Narrow and dirty, honeycombed by pseudo-Bohemian night-clubs that specialize in the fleecing of late-wandering drunks and sober suckers. One or two men standing in front of an innocent-looking dark-faced house are all the signs you will find. No glitter of lights. No telephone listing. The taxicab drivers know them all. And the police. Thus the notorious Hey-hey Club….

Donahue passed three men leaning against the iron hand-rail of a six-step stoop, climbed the steps, pushed open a dark door, entered a dimly lighted room. Two men looked at him. They wore tuxedos and had white, watchful faces. Behind them was a booth where a blonde took Donahue’s ulster and hat and gave him a check.

One of the two men guided him through gloom towards another door, and Donahue entered a low, long room that had a small orchestra platform at the farther end, tables along the side walls and sprinkled across the floor halfway to the orchestra platform. Beyond these latter tables was a space of floor about twenty feet by twenty. This was the dance-floor. Walls and ceiling were draped in purple. The tables were crowded, and at a large table near the platform sat a half dozen girls in showy evening dress. Hostesses.

Donahue was led to a table. He sat down and ordered Scotch straight with soda on the side. The waiter brought the drink and marked down on his pad: $1.50. The manager came over, leaned on the table and said:

“Want a girl friend?”

“No.”

“Okey.”

A group of slack-faced youths appeared on the platform, picked up instruments and started to play. Thirty couples crowded on the twenty-by-twenty floor and began to dance. Most of them were drunk. The orchestra played short numbers, and dawdled around until some drunk careened up to the platform and deposited a bill in the upturned high-hat there. Then the players grinned, picked up their instruments again, and played.

Donahue wagged his head and muttered, “Cripes!”

A waiter came over, scooped up his glass, said, “Same?” and Donahue nodded.

The band stopped. The dancers staggered back to their tables. The wall lights dimmed. A spotlight was thrown on the dance-floor.

A red-haired girl sauntered out, clapped her hands and yelled, “Now a little show, folks! A great little show! Greatest little show in old New York! Singin’, dancin’—all kinds of hey-hey! Open your eyes and get an eyeful! Open your ears and get an earful! Trixie Meloy, singin’ and dancin’, folks—and how!”

Trixie Meloy swept onto the floor. She hadn’t much on. She was a high-kicker. She danced badly and sang worse. The crowd applauded. She toured the tables and the drunks gave her tribute in crisp bills. Donahue gave her a chuckle.

Came the red-head yelling, “Now a bit of Spanish—right here in the little old Hey-hey Club. Castanets, folks—and other things. Watch her shake the Spanish…. Señorita Martinez, folks—hot from old Madrid!”

Castanets and Señorita Martinez whirled out on the floor. She had black, shiny hair and a fixed smile. The drunks gaped. The orchestra boys smirked. The señorita did her stuff, did an encore, made the round of the tables and collected.

Then the red-head waved her hands. “Now—now, folks. A great big surprise. Nick Bonalino, the singing waiter. He’s going to sing How Come You Do Me Like You Do?”

It was the waiter who had served Donahue. He was tall, young, handsome in a smooth, dark Italian way. Donahue settled on his elbows and watched him. The boy could sing. He didn’t bother with the gestures. But his voice was rich and soft.

“How come y’ do me like y’ do-do-do?

How come y’ do me like y’ do?”

Donahue finished his drink, watching Nick Bonalino.

“Gonna lay yo’ head on a railroad line,

Letta train come along an’ pacify yo’ mind….”

Nick was good. He had to give two encores. He made the round of the tables. Donahue put a dollar in the hat.

The side-lights went on again when the spotlight went off. The drunks got up and danced.

Nick came over to scoop up Donahue’s drink.

Donahue said, “You’re good, boy.”

“Thanks.”

“Maybe I can do things for you in a bigger way.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Drop around to my hotel at ten tomorrow morning. The Brooke. West Ninth Street. Donahue’s the name.”

“Jeeze! Wait! How do you spell it?” Nick wrote the name down on the back of a card. “Ten?”

“Ten.”

“Jeeze! Thanks. I’ll be around.”

Donahue paid four-fifty for three drinks, got up and left the Hey-hey Club.

At ten o’clock next morning Donahue was sitting in his hotel room when the telephone rang and the man at the desk said Mr. Bonalino was calling.

“Send him up,” Donahue said.

Nick Bonalino looked like a sporting man when he entered the room. He wore a large-brimmed tan hat, a yellow overcoat of military cut, brown trousers that broke over buff-colored spats. He carried a Malacca stick and smoked a cigar.

“Hope I’m on time, Mr. Donahue.”

“Sure. Sit down.” Donahue had closed the door. He slushed red-leather mules across the carpet, picked up a pipe and crammed tobacco into the bowl. He dropped to a wide easy-chair, lit up and looked at Bonalino with mild amusement.