Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (17 page)

“And I put in one. Okey, Donahue. Is it my pinch complete?”

“Yeah. Sure, Ames.”

Ames nodded. “Then I put in all the shots.”

Donahue grinned. “Good old Ames.”

“How are you?”

“Lousy.” Donahue moved his left arm. “I can’t feel this any more.” His hand was caked with blood. He was unsteady on his feet.

Ames walked over to the cop. “How are you, Meyer?”

“I think I rate a hospital bed.”

“I’ll phone. Get this. You and me get this pinch. The guy there is Donahue, a private dick—a good egg. This gun figgers as the guy rubbed out Adler in the Village the other night. Got that straight?”

“Okey, Billy.”

Ames stood up. “Riot squad.”

The cops came trooping up with drawn guns.

Ames talked fast to the sergeant. Then he grabbed Donahue and steered him into the speakeasy. They went on into the bar. Half a dozen men were there, and Louie the owner. Louie was white.

“God, Ames! That guy come in, yanked his gun and said no one was to open the door! What could I do?”

Ames went behind the bar and made a telephone call.

He came around out front and said, “All you men stay here till I tell you to go…. I’ll use your private room, Louie. Come on, Donahue.”

He steered Donahue into a small room off the bar. “Now, quick on the details, Donny, so I can get this thing straight. How’d it all start?”

Donahue started right from the murder of Adler, gave a complete resume up until the time he broke down the door of the speakeasy.

Ames listened intently. He had a keen face, neat, sharp eyes. “And Irene—she was in on the Crosby kill?”

“Yeah. You remember, don’t you?”

“Yeah. I remember. Roper’ll get sore you didn’t let him in on the kill.”

“How could I? Besides, that guy’s a frost anyhow. I’m through with Roper. Through…! I’ll go up with you to get Irene.”

There were feet tramping in the corridor. Ames went over and opened the door. The sergeant was there. An ambulance doctor was there. Ames beckoned the latter in.

“Look at this boy’s arm, Doc, will you?”

The doctor smiled. “Banged up, too, Donahue?”

The bullet had gone through the forearm. Louie brought in warm water.

The doctor said, “The ambulance hopped off with the cop and the guy who got all the lead in his belly.”

“How’s the guy?” Ames asked.

“Bad. He’ll hang on for the night maybe, but I doubt if he’ll ever get over it…. You’d better come to the hospital too, Donahue.”

“Okey. But bind it up now, will you?”

“Sure.”

“Hurt?”

“Cripes… yes!”

“It’s a nice wound. A neat one. No worry—Sorry!”

The sergeant looked in. “How’s things?”

“Oh, fine,” Donahue groaned. “Yeah. Fine. Great!”

When the taxi stopped in front of the West End Hermitage the street lights began to glow. Ames got out and Donahue followed him. Ames paid the fare, and they walked casually into the lobby. Then entered an elevator.

Donahue said, “Eight.”

The elevator rose smoothly, whispered to a stop. The men got out, and Donahue looked at the numbers on the doors opposite.

“Down this way, I guess,” he said.

They turned left and walked on smooth carpets. They stopped before a door marked 810. Ames rapped with his knuckles. There was some movement inside. It was a long minute before the door opened.

Irene looked out. She said nothing. Only her hand went to her throat and she swallowed hard.

“Hello, Irene,” Donahue said.

She said nothing.

Donahue said, “This is Detective Ames.”

“How do you,” said Ames. He pushed the door all the way open and strode in past Irene.

Donahue entered, looking down slantwise at Irene. He closed the door with an arm thrust behind him.

She wore a canary yellow negligee.

Ames said, “Will you get dressed, Miss Saffarrans? We’ll wait.”

She looked at them with wide, motionless eyes. She was still swallowing hard.

“What—what—?”

Ames said, “We just about shot apart a friend of yours. We’ll want you too. Make it nice, Miss Saffarrans.”

“Oh-o!” she whimpered forlornly.

Ames picked up the telephone, said into the mouthpiece, “Let me speak to the manager.” And a half minute later, “Hello. This is Detective Ames. I’m in eight-ten. Don’t get disturbed. Everything will be all right. I just want to know if eight-ten made a call to the Hotel Brick within the last—say—three hours…. Yes, I’ll hang on.” He looked up.

Irene was cringing against the wall. Donahue was smiling at her.

Ames looked at the telephone. “Yes?… I see. All right, thank you…. Yes, everything will be quiet.” He put down the receiver. He nodded towards Donahue.

Donahue said to Irene, “So you saw me tail your friend away from here. You called the Brick and warned him. Well, he came out of the Brick well heeled.”

“Oh-o!”

“Get ready,” Ames said. “Don’t bother taking your bags.”

She fled into the bedroom, closed the door.

Ames and Donahue sat down, helped themselves to Irene’s cigarettes, and waited. Twenty minutes later Irene appeared. Her face was tear-stained, but she looked stunning. She held her chin high.

Donahue remarked to Ames, “Dramatic little soul, Billy.”

“Ready?” Ames asked.

“Yes,” she murmured tragically.

The elevator boy watched them askance on the way down. The manager, the clerks, the bell-hops, stood transfixed in the lobby. Nothing was said. Nobody moved.

Irene and the men went out to the sidewalk, got into a taxicab, drove off in the growing darkness.

Inspector Kaltenheimer was a pontifical-looking fat man with small steel-rimmed glasses. He sat in a swivel-chair, fat fingers of fat hands primly together.

Ames leaned against a radiator, arms folded, small face bland and attentive.

Irene sat in a chair facing the inspector across a flat-topped desk.

Donahue stood six feet behind the inspector, hands in overcoat pockets, hair still rumpled, face gray and haggard.

“Your man died,” Kaltenheimer said slowly. “The gun expert, miss, has just proved that the gun found on him was the one used to murder Mr. Adler in Grove Street, the night of March fifth. Your man—discovered to be Peter Bruhard—died without saying anything. He left the telling to you.”

“What is there I can say?” Irene asked.

The inspector raised a hand, all knotted except the forefinger, which jutted imperiously upward. “You were seriously linked with the Crosby murder. Two of your friends are paying—one will pay the supreme penalty in a month—Babe Delaney. The other is serving a term at Sing Sing. Now—your latest acquisition—Peter Bruhard—who has served time in California—your latest acquisition has died by the gun. What sort of conscience must you have, Miss Saffarrans?”

Her face looked drawn. “Please, please!” She held up a tragic white hand. “Don’t be cruel. I tried to get out of it all—please believe me, I did.”

Donahue came forward, bitter-lipped, and laid a closed fist lightly on the desk.

“That’s your old line, Irene. You got Bruhard to do your dirty work. You got him to kill Adler—”

“I didn’t! I didn’t! I told him the diamond was in the hat. I described the hat. I didn’t tell him to kill Adler. I pleaded with him to use common sense.”

“Then that was all a lie about your planting the diamond in the tube of paint.”

She colored. “I had to tell that lie. I was trying to get away from Alfred, and I thought that if the tube had disappeared that would be the end of it. And Peter—I just happened to mention the diamond one night. I was sick of it all. I didn’t want it. He made me tell about it.”

“He’s dead now,” Donahue said, “so he can’t tell his side of the story. You lied to me. You lied to everybody. You lied to save your skin and you didn’t care who paid the penalty. You’re nothing but a dirty, cheap—”

The telephone on the desk rang. Kaltenheimer picked it up, said his name into the mouthpiece. Then he looked up at Donahue. “Mr. Hinkle is downstairs. Should he come up?”

Donahue shrugged. “Sure. He’s my boss.”

When the door opened Hinkle rolled in, puffing placidly on a cigar. He stopped short, took in the scene with one slow but sure glance, and then relaxed.

“Hello, Inspector… Ames… Miss Saffarrans…. Well, Donny, where’ve you been? Trying to locate you since noon.”

The inspector said, “I guess he’s been around. He got tangled up in a fracas. Hence Miss Saffarrans. And a chap in the hospital. Peter Bruhard. Ames there shot it out with Bruhard in Forty-second Street. Seems Bruhard murdered Adler.”

Hinkle’s eyes twinkled. “Good work! Splendid! You know Donny got the stone the whole rumpus was about.”

Irene started.

Kaltenheimer blinked his eyes but went on looking pontifical.

Hinkle opened his overcoat, took out a large wallet, opened the wallet, took out the stone and laid it gently on the desk blotter. The light from the green-shaded electric glinted on it.

Kaltenheimer picked the stone up, turned it round and round, sat back and looked up at Hinkle.

“So this is it—the stone was hidden in the hat?”

“That’s it,” Hinkle said. There was a droll look around his mouth.

Irene was leaning forward, her fingers twitching, her throat throbbing, her dark eyes wide with yearning.

“But the rub,” Hinkle said, “is that it’s not a good diamond.”

“It is!” Irene cried. “That—stone is worth ninety thousand dollars!”

“H’m,” the inspector mused.

Hinkle bowed. “If you will pardon it, madam, an expert on my staff came in today and examined it closely. It is not glass. It is an inferior diamond—worth—at the maximum—four hundred dollars…. Keep it, Inspector, among the other H.Q. souvenirs.”

Kaltenheimer said, “You’re sure, positive?”

“Say, boss,” Donahue broke in, “it can’t be. That stone—”

“I’m positive, Donny. Greenberg knows stones, if nothing else.”

Irene fell back in her chair, staring into space, strange dark lights knotted in her eyes.

“Well,” the inspector said, turning the stone round and round, “it’s often the case. Even crooks get fooled. But—anyhow—we got the murderer of Adler and”—he looked at Irene—“we have the murderer’s inspiration. And this time, Miss Saffarrans—you will go behind the bars. I promise you that.”

Donahue picked up his hat. “I’ll be going then.” He looked down at Irene. A bleak smile appeared on his gray, haggard face. “This comes of two-timing, sister. And no tabloids to help you this time.

“If I had my way—if I had my way—” His fist thumped slowly, his lip curled.

“Come on, Donny,” Hinkle said.

“Sure.” Donahue relaxed, turned away from the desk.

They said good-bye all around, left the room, left Police Headquarters. Walking down Centre Street, Hinkle said cheerfully:

“I know a nice quiet speak where we can get some good food and a bottle of Chablis.”

“Yeah. Let’s,” Donahue grunted.

Then he slowed down, swayed, fell against a pole.

“What—!” Hinkle started.

“Get a cab, boss. I’m caving—”

“What’s the matter?”

“Arm… here….”

“Good God, I didn’t know! Why didn’t you say something?”

Donahue grinned. “I was getting around to it, boss.”

Hinkle held him up, shouted, “Taxi! Taxi!”

Brakes squealed.

Donahue went to the hospital.

Tough dick Donahue, of the Interstate, goes after big game in the underworld jungle.

The hock-shop was on Fourteenth Street, east of Union Square. 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. Behind the showcase a man sat at a high desk and regarded the insides of a wrist-watch beneath a bright green-visored light whose concentrated radiance did not extend beyond the desk.

Donahue kicked the screen door open, walked in casually, and the screen door banged behind him. He drifted down the length of a beam of spring sunlight that came in through the door. He wore a neat pepper-colored suit, a gray soft hat, and he smoked a straight-stemmed shell briar.

He leaned indolently on the counter and said, “Hello, Mr. Friedman.”

The man got down from the high stool and approached the back of the counter. He was small, slim, with a young-old sallow face, horn-rimmed glasses, black curly hair.

“What can I do for you?”

Irony was in Donahue’s crooked slow smile. “Remember me?”

Friedman did not look Donahue in the eye, but he said, “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

“Well, don’t be afraid.” Donahue drew his hand from his pocket and laid a large diamond on the showcase. “Then maybe you remember this.”

Friedman’s eyes riveted on the stone. Lines appeared on his forehead. “I can’t say I do.”

“Ah, cut out the horseplay, Friedman. Sure you remember it. And you remember me. A guy named Bonalino hocked it here a month ago. I came in with him when he took it out. You said at the time that you would give him eight hundred for it any time he wanted to sell it.”

“I said that?”

“You said that.”

Friedman shrugged. “Maybe I did. I can’t remember everybody comes in here. A lot of people hock things here.”

“That diamond,” Donahue said incisively, “isn’t worth eight hundred. Not seven. Not six. At best it’s worth four hundred, which means that your top price would be two. Now when Bonalino hocked it you gave him two hundred and fifty bucks—”

“Say, who are you?”

“I’m a private dick. You remember me now?”

“Sure I remember you now.”

“Okey. How’s to come across?”

Friedman frowned. “But I don’t get what you’re driving at.”

“Your brain’s not as lame as that. I’ll tell you what I’m driving at. The diamond that Bonalino hocked here was worth ninety thousand bucks. You duplicated it with this hunk of cheap ice. Bonalino doesn’t know a diamond from a good hunk of crystal. You knew that much. When he came back here with me to get his ice, you gave him this.”

Friedman laughed. “Ah, be yourself, guy!”

“I’m being myself, sweetheart. We’ve got a letter from the Anglo-Continental Indemnity Company, of London and Geneva. They’re looking for that hunk of ice, and this is not it.”