Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (14 page)

“You look like ready money, Nick.”

“I ain’t, though. A man’s gotta keep up appearances.”

“Yeah.” Donahue leaned back comfortably. “I’m sorry I got you up here, Nick, on the pretense of getting you a job.”

Nick dropped his bright-glowing face and looked confused. “I don’t get you.”

Donahue waved his pipe indolently. “I’m a dick.”

Nick Bonalino started. “A dick!”

“Take it easy, kid. I’m a nice dick. You look like a nice guy to me. Everything will be nice.”

“But, jeeze, me—I don’t—Me?”

“It’s this way, Nick. You look like money. And you got fired from that hat cleaning place in Eighth Street—”

“I didn’t get fired. I left.”

“That’s better. Fits in better. Then you left. Okey… you left. Why?”

Nick Bonalino got up and glowered, darkly handsome. “Because I was through with ’at guy. Because I was through with ’im.” He slashed his yellow-gloved hand dramatically back and forth.

Donahue looked amused. “From hat cleaner to singing waiter. Is that—up or down?”

“I was getting a try-out, ’at’s what I was. So I had to wait on tables too. And I had to pay the boss fifty bucks to let me sing. And I went over big. And I only started there last night.”

“That coat you’ve got on rates at least a hundred bucks. The hat’s no less than twelve. The spats five. The suit looks like about eighty. How come a guy cleans hats, suddenly busts out in a rash of good clothes? How come, Nick? Huh? On the up and up now, kid.”

Nick Bonalino towered in his lean dark way. His black eyes glittered. “Dicks don’t act this way. I don’t know much about them, but I know when they want to ask a guy questions they don’t make nice dates like this.”

Donahue stood up, dropping his amused look. “I’m a private dick—”

“Then you got no right to ask me all these damn questions!” He slapped on his hat, pivoted and started for the door.

Donahue slid sidewise with amazing rapidity and blocked the door.

“No you don’t, Nick.”

Nick tightened his full lips, showed clenched teeth, and uncorked a short right jab. It landed on Donahue’s jaw. His head jerked. A blaze leaped into his brown hard eyes. A twisted look of contempt jumped to his lips. Lightning-like, a one-two punch… and Nick hurtled backwards, fell over a chair, crashed into a telephone table, brought down telephone, books, and another chair.

Nick lay there, rather tangled up in the telephone wire, looking shocked and dazed, the top of his hat crushed in, the brim pressing down against his ears.

Donahue walked to the secretary, took out a Colt’s .38 revolver, handled it with a negligence born of old familiarity.

“Get up, Nick. Get up, you poor dumb dago.”

Nick got up, his overcoat askew, his hat still crushed on his head. Donahue picked up the telephone, set it on a chair.

“You’re not a bad guy, Nick,” Donahue said. “Don’t try to get wise around me. I don’t like it. I don’t like wiseacres…. Now keep your ears open. You must know about the Adler murder… over in Grove Street, night before last. Anyhow, you cleaned a hat of Adler’s a few days before he was murdered. Then you left your job. Then Adler was murdered.”

“What—me—murder a guy!”

“Nah, did I say that…? But listen. You cleaned a hat, an English hat. You found something in it. You found a diamond in it.”

Nick Bonalino’s face turned very red. He laughed. “Ha! Me find a diamond? Ha-ha!”

Donahue moved his gun around and laid his brown gaze hard on Bonalino. “You found a diamond, Nick. I can see it in your face. You found it. If you don’t come across you’ll be mixed up in this murder. You found the diamond. You found that diamond. You—you have that diamond!”

“Honest to God, mister—”

Donahue took two fast steps, held the muzzle of his gun an inch from Nick Bonalino’s stomach. “I said, Nick, you’re not a bad Wop. Just a little wise. Just inclined to be something of a sheik. But that’s all right. Twenty, aren’t you…? Well, anyhow, this is murder. Want the police to slam you around? Come on, Nick, I’m a good guy, a great guy when you know me. But if you try to stall on me, I’m a louse. That diamond, Nick….”

“God, I ain’t got it—”

“You had it. You stole it—”

“I didn’t steal it! Adler didn’t know it was there! I just spoiled the lining and I had to put a new one in, and the diamond fell out. I just—kept it.”

“Where is it?”

“I hocked it. I got two hundred fifty on it. I needed these duds to make a nice appearance at one of them clubs. In tips and what I got for singin’ last night I made twenty-five. I figured to get the diamond out when I had the jack and have a ring made. Kind of be nice to have a ring when I’m singin’ in the spotlight.”

“Too bad, Nick… but I want the diamond.”

“I ain’t got the jack. I only got thirty-eight bucks to my name.”

“I’ll get the money. I want the diamond. I’ll go with you and we’ll get the diamond.”

“Jeeze, I didn’t know! Jeeze, murder…!”

“Okey, Nick. You’re a good guy. I like you.” He rubbed his jaw. “You hit like a mule, kid.”

“Hell, I didn’t mean it. I got all steamed up.”

“Yeah. So did I…. Have a drink while I put shoes on.”

The hock-shop was in Fourteenth Street. It was about the width of a railway coach, and half the length. The window was littered with cheap novelties. The interior was dark and gloomy, and behind the showcase a man sat at a high desk and regarded the insides of a watch beneath a brilliant green-shaded light. He looked around when Bonalino and Donahue entered, got down off the high stool, picked up the stub of a cigar and put it between his teeth. He was a small, slim young-old man, with a sallow gray face and big horn-rimmed glasses, black curly hair.

“I’ll take this,” Nick Bonalino said, laying the hock ticket on the counter.

I. Friedman picked up the stub, looked at it, looked at Nick, and went into the rear. He reappeared a couple of minutes later, opened a small envelope and poured out an oblong stone.

“It’s a honey,” he remarked as he laid it in Nick’s palm. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“I just needed ready cash,” Nick said as he counted out two hundred and fifty dollars.

“Give you eight hundred any time you want to sell it.”

“Okey. I’ll think it over.”

“Sure.”

“So long.”

“’Bye.”

Donahue and Nick started west on Fourteenth Street.

Roper stepped from a doorway and fell in beside Donahue.

“Got a smell all right, eh?”

Donahue chuckled. “Hello, master-mind. See you’ve stopped bothering the kids who pitch pennies in back alleys.”

“Lay off!” Roper rumbled. “Who’s your friend?”

“Friend of mine.”

“I don’t like your company.”

“Go to hell.”

“Who’s your friend?”

“Mr. Bonalino…. Mr. Bonalino, this is Mr. Roper, a kind of detective.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Roper.”

As they walked, Roper said, “I been over to the house in Waverly Place. I left instructions not to let any cheap private fly-cop in.”

“Okey,” Donahue said. “That’s fine.”

“Listen, you. What you been doing in that hock-shop?”

“Looking around. Mr. Bonalino is interested in the case. He’s going to write a play about a good detective. So he goes around with me and sees how I work.”

“Huh!” Roper grunted.

They were approaching Union Square.

“There’s another hock-shop. I think we’ll drop in there.”

Roper slowed down. “Pretty wise, you, Donahue.”

“Be seeing you, Roper, when I can’t help it.”

Donahue and Nick entered another hock-shop. They looked in the showcase, killed five minutes, came out and walked on.

“He’s tailing us,” Donahue said.

They visited three more hock-shops, asked nothing, spent about five minutes in each. They wound up at Astor Place, entered the subway, got off at Bleecker Street and walked west.

“I think we’ve dropped him,” Donahue said. “All right. I have your address. You have mine. I’ll be getting in touch with you. If this guy Roper finds you and gets funny, call me up. He’s got nothing on you. Act dumb. Act indignant. If he tries to frame you I’ll get a lawyer who’ll make an ass out of him. So long, Nick.”

When Donahue walked in on Hinkle he said, “Well, I’ve got the ice.”

“So soon? My, my!”

Donahue rolled the diamond on the desk. “I got Bonalino in the room and talked him into coughing up. He’s a good Wop, after you talk to him. He’d hocked it. Cleaned the hat and had to take the lining out. The diamond was behind the lining.”

“Meaning?”

“That Irene’s song-and-dance about hiding it in the tube of paint was a stall. She double-crossed Alfred. She never hid it in the paint tube at all. She hid it in the hat, the two-timing little——”

Hinkle said, “Greenberg will be in tomorrow. He knows stones. He’ll tell us the exact value. Meantime we’d better keep it in the safe.”

“Yeah. Now the thing is… we’ve got to locate Irene. Hell knows where she is. But if she isn’t behind this murder I’m a slob. I’ll bet she’s got another boy friend…. Roper tailed us to the hock-shop. But I got rid of him. I went into a few more hock-shops to give him the idea I was cruising the town like a regular story-book cop. That guy’s going to walk into a crack in the jaw any day…. Y’ know, I think I’ll take a trip up to Sing Sing and see if Alfred knows where Irene’s hanging out.”

“Go to it, Donny. But I don’t think he’ll know.”

“Anyhow, the ride’ll do me good.”

At seven that night Donahue walked into his room at the Hotel Brooke. He stood in the center of the floor for a long minute, staring at the carpet, then flung his hat on the bed, took off his ulster and hung it up in the closet. He sat down by the telephone and called a number.

“Hello, boss. Thought I’d catch you home…. Yeah, I just got in…. No. Not a thing. I talked myself blue in the face but Alfred must have thought I was a liar. He wouldn’t open his mouth. He didn’t know anything about Irene. I told him she was playing around with a guy and everything. But not a rise out of him…. Yeah, I know it is…. Sure. That’s all we can do…. Okey, boss. Good-bye.”

He hung up, rose, took off coat and vest and unsholdered his suspenders. He put on slippers, stuffed and lit a pipe, turned on the floor lamp beside the easy-chair, and sat down with some magazines.

At eight o’clock the telephone rang. Donahue threw aside the magazines, got up, yawning, and picked up the instrument. The voice at the desk said that Mr. Bonalino was calling.

“Just send him up,” Donahue said.

When a knock sounded on the door Donahue crossed the room and opened the door wide. But he did not look at Nick Bonalino. He looked at a tall, well-groomed young man who held a heavy automatic pistol in his hand.

The man took a step in, said, “Back, you—and watch your hands.”

Donahue stepped back. The man entered all the way, kicked the door shut with his heel. He had a white, well-packed face, yellow eyebrows, small hard, round eyes, and firm, thin mouth.

“So you’re Donahue, eh?”

“And you’re Bonalino?”

“You ought to know.”

“I know Bonalino.”

The stranger eyed him shrewdly. “Know what I came here for?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Says you, baby. Get started. I want that hunk of ice.”

Donahue smiled. “Aren’t you the presumptuous——?”

“Get it!” the man snapped. “I didn’t come up here to have you make a lot of cracks.”

“You came up for a hunk of ice.”

“You said it.”

“Okey,” Donahue said, nodding around the room. “Find it.”

“That’s your job.”

“Guess again, brother.”

The man came closer, his hand tight on the butt of his gun. “You ever get lead in your belly, guy?”

“Sure. Common occurrence.”

He jammed the muzzle against Donahue’s stomach. “You get that hunk of ice, you wisenheimer, and get it fast!”

“You want it, bozo. You get it.”

The man gnawed his lip. Then—“Turn around.”

Donahue turned around. The man felt his hip pocket. “Now stand right where you are.”

“Sure.”

The man went to the secretary. He was quick, and he kept an eye on Donahue while he pulled out all the drawers. He dumped their contents on the floor. Then he crossed to the bureau, pulled out all the bureau drawers, dumped their contents on the floor, knelt down and sifted with his fingers. He rose, cursing, and hauled all the clothes out of the closet. He searched every pocket. He searched two hand bags and a trunk. He turned finally and came towards Donahue.

“It’s here. Where the hell is it?”

“Did I say it was here?”

“——you, cut out stalling!”

“That’s just an idea you have.”

The man whipped up his gun and laid it hard against Donahue’s head. Donahue wilted, tried to close with the man. The man stepped back after the manner of one used to such tactics.

“Easy, Donahue!”

Donahue stopped, looking at him beneath a corrugated forehead. A trickle of blood made its way from Donahue’s hair and down across his left temple.

“Where is it?” the man asked coolly.

“I haven’t got it!”

“Where is it?”

“It’s not here. I don’t know where it is. I haven’t got it.”

“Bonalino said you got it.”

“He’s a damned liar!”

The man came forward again, his white, hard face menacing. “I want that ice,” he said quietly, evenly. “I mean to get it. You’ve got it and you’re going to give it to me.”

Donahue wore a twisted, humorless smile. “You can’t bump me off here, brother. You just can’t. It’s nine flights down to the lobby. The house dick is down there. Everybody’d hear the shot. You’d never get away.”

“I’d shoot my way out.”

“You don’t look like a common gun. A common gun would do that. No guy with brains would. I haven’t got the ice. I don’t know anything about it. It was just a bum steer that Bonalino gave you. He’d like to shove a knife in my ribs himself—if he had the guts. Lay off, brother. You’re wasting time here. Besides, you don’t buffalo me a bit. I know you wouldn’t be crazy enough to cut loose with that rod on the ninth floor of a hotel.”

“You know a lot, don’t you?”