Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (20 page)

“Well, there was some parts scattered on the work desk in the back room.”

“Let’s look at ’em.”

Benny grumbled, but led Donahue into the back room. He pointed to a tray. “These things were scattered on the desk. I put ’em back.”

“What’s this?”

“Lady’s wrist-watch. I guess Ike was fixing it.”

“Yeah. All the parts here?”

Benny looked at a tag. “It needed a main spring.”

“Is that all?”

“That’s all it says.”

Donahue got down on his knees, lit a match and searched under the desk. Two fingers of his right hand slipped into his vest. Then he lit another match, searched some more, and finally stood up, asking:

“What’s this?”

“Looks like a watch stem. Guess it belongs to that watch.”

Donahue picked up the small watch, inserted the stem. It fitted flush with the frame of the watch. He stood back, stroking his jaw.

“Well,” he said, “another blind alley, but worth a chance. Thanks, Benny.”

Outside, he hopped a taxicab. Fifteen minutes later he walked in on Asa Hinkle. Hinkle was putting on his hat.

“I see no blood, Donny.”

“Don’t lose hope. I’m going to get a good meal under my belt and then I’m going after Tubba Klem.”

Hinkle dropped his smile. “That certain.”

“I dropped in Tubba’s place this afternoon. He was out. I looked around and I found the smallest watch stem you ever saw. It was jammed in the gum sole of Tubba’s spare shoes. Tubba came in and we talked about the weather. Then I went down to the hock-shop. The stem fitted a watch there.”

“Listen, Donny, you’d better get a flock of cops—”

“No! They’ll blow him apart. I just want to put him out temporarily.”

“For God’s sake, Donny, that guy’s a killer!”

“That’s tabloid talk, boss. But if he gets me, here’s his address.” He bent over the desk, writing.

“Donny, it’s suicide—”

“Said he hysterically.”

Donahue went to the dago joint in West Tenth Street for a spaghetti feed and a bottle of ink. He took on a whiskey-sour at the bar, then went into the side room, saw Libbey, the journalistic drunk, in one corner and chose another. It was one of those times when Donahue wanted to be alone.

“Why the tall millinery?” yelled Libbey.

“Hello, Libbey.” Donahue spread a napkin, said to the waiter, “Spaghetti and the works.”

“Oke.”

“I always thought you were a conceited, high-hat—” yelled Libbey, good-naturedly. “Oh-ho!” softly.

Donahue froze on his chair.

The woman again.

She sauntered through the door, passed Libbey’s table and sat down at one six feet on his right. He eyed her with the dazed look of a sot. She was stunning in a dark cloche hat, a dark tailored suit and a white blouse with black vertical stripes.

Donahue was moving one leg from beneath the table, reaching with his right hand for his hat. The waiter came with a menu.

Donahue clipped, “Gus!”

The waiter came over, and Donahue muttered, “That jane’s looking for me. She’ll ask for me. Tell her I don’t come in here.”

“Oke.”

She ordered a gin rickey.

Skinny came in with Libbey’s Bacardi cocktail.

Gus stopped at Donahue’s table. “She did. Oke.”

Donahue nodded.

At that auspicious moment the drunken Libbey again yelled across: “I say, brother Donahue, do you know class when you see it?”

Donahue dropped his eyes to the table, broke a bread stick.

The woman had started, was looking at him. Donahue kept his head down, frowning sourly.

The woman smiled, said, “Hello, Mr. Donahue.”

Donahue looked up. “Speak to me?”

She rose, moved her long legs slowly on the way over, sat down at his table and took one of his cigarettes.

“Got a light?”

“You see the matches, don’t you?”

She chuckled. “Just a strong, silent man, eh?”

“I’m not in the habit of having stray broads sit at my table. Give your legs a walk, sister.”

“Is that a way to treat a lady?”

His nostrils twitched. “I know how to treat a lady.”

She blew smoke in his face, showed even white teeth in a droll smile. “I’ll bet you bite when you’re really mad.”

Donahue folded arms on the table, settled head between broad shoulders, bored the woman with unfriendly eyes. “Get it off your chest and then take the air,” he clipped in a low, incisive voice.

“Why rush things, big boy?”

In the same incisive voice, “Do your song and dance or I’ll call the boss in and tell him to throw you out. This speak is no port of call for your kind.”

“So you think I’m that kind?”

“I’ll take the benefit of the doubt.” Looking at her, he suddenly became aware of the fact that her eyes were green.

She said, offhand, “Oh, I want that diamond, Donahue. That’s all.”

“You also have a sense of humor,” he said, laughed shortly and took his arms off the table as Gus swooped down with steaming dishes. Gus drew the cork on the bottle of ink, flicked the woman with a sidelong glance, sighed, and shuffled off.

She said, “You switched stones, Donahue. You showed a fake to the police commissioner. Nobody switched stones but you.”

“And you want it, eh?”

“I want it.”

“Well, I haven’t got it. And if I did have it—” He chuckled and began eating. “On your way, girl scout.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Okey, wisenheimer. This means you’re on the spot.”

“Okey,” Donahue said cheerfully.

She leaned back, still eying him shrewdly. “A split would be all right by me.”

Donahue laid down his knife and fork. “I told you to take the air! By God, if you don’t, I’ll have you kicked out!”

She stood up, her nostrils quivering. Her green eyes blazed. She went out swiftly, her high heels rapping on the floor.

When Donahue came out of the speak into Tenth Street, his eyes swept up and down. He started off, turned into West Fourth Street and headed for Sheridan Square. He walked a bit gingerly, his dark eyes alert, darting from sidewalk to sidewalk and frequently back over his shoulder. He kept close to the shadows of the houses.

At Sheridan Square he entered the uptown subway kiosk, caught a local and changed to an express at the next station. He watched the people who entered behind him.

Harlem at night was no beauty spot. Donahue was a lean man striding purposefully through the seedier part of the Black Belt. Only this night’s grim mission prevented him from having played along with the strange woman.

There was the familiar pool parlor, half a block ahead, on the other side of the street. The click of balls could be heard, and a man’s harsh laughter. A few lighted windows straggled above the poolroom to the roof. A couple of Negro sheiks sauntered past swinging sticks, and whistling.

Donahue crossed the street and was about to enter the hall-door when he heard heavy footsteps above. He stepped aside, walked rapidly away and melted into the recess between two dark-faced store windows. He saw Tubba Klem come out of the doorway and walk south. A minute later Donahue followed.

Tubba Klem turned three corners and then went down a dark street. Half way down the street was the Black and Tan Club. Tubba Klem entered beneath the blinking electric light sign. Donahue passed the club, walked a block, turned and came back. He entered the Black and Tan.

There was a smoke-filled lobby, black drapes covered with silver scrolls, and black men with white teeth, white stiff shirt fronts and natty tuxedos. There were dim lights with red globes, and a hat-check girl with dusky skin and marcelled hair. And the buzz of voices.

Donahue checked his hat and hung around in the lobby smoking until the jazz band cut loose. When he heard the shuffle of dancing feet, he drew aside the folds of the black-and-silver curtains and bumped into a huge black head-waiter. The head-waiter took him to a small table far removed from the dance-floor. Donahue ordered gin and ginger ale.

Through the shifting panorama of dancers he caught intermittent glimpses of Tubba Klem sitting with a small beady-looking man with a big nose and a shiny bald pate. The little man was doing most of the talking and all of the gesturing. Tubba Klem was grinning at a brown girl who sat at a long table with five other brown girls. When the dance was over, the crowd sat down, and Donahue had to bend sidewise to see Tubba Klem. He saw the small man get up petulantly and go to a table where a girl waited.

Tubba Klem was drinking. He drank out the space of four dances. Then got up and headed for the lobby. Donahue saw him pass through the curtains.

Donahue called the waiter and paid his check. He waited two minutes, then got up and went into the lobby. He saw the front door closing, caught a fleeting glimpse of Tubba Klem in profile. Donahue got his hat, went out and saw half a dozen persons getting out of a limousine. They wore evening wraps. He saw Tubba Klem walking away.

When he had taken six steps, Donahue drew the long-barreled .22 from the sheath under his arm. He pushed the barrel into his pocket, keeping his hand on the butt. He walked rapidly, and was ten feet behind Tubba Klem when he turned in towards a doorway.

“Just a minute, Tubba,” Donahue said quietly.

When Tubba Klem turned, Donahue was only five feet away from him—stopped. His hat was yanked down far over his eyes.

“Look here, Don—” Tubba Klem began.

“Shut up!”

“Damn you, Don—”

“Walk a bit, Tubba.”

“Say, what the hell—”

“Get!”

Tubba Klem’s hands went in towards his sides.

Donahue drew his automatic. “I said, Tubba—walk a bit.”

“—Dam’ you—you—” But Tubba Klem began walking.

Donahue walked at his side, a foot clear of him, half a foot behind.

“Don’t hurry, Tubba…. Now, listen: Have you an alibi as to where you were at ten-thirty Tuesday morning?”

“What the hell’s it gotta do with you?”

“Slower. There’s no hurry… I know you haven’t got an alibi. You killed Ike Friedman, the pawnbroker.”

“Me? Ah, you’re—”

“When I poked into your room this afternoon I found a little watch-stem jammed in the sole of one of your brown shoes. I went down to the hock-shop and the stem fitted a lady’s wrist-watch that was being repaired. You picked it up with your shoe when you killed Friedman Tuesday morning. Poore was your cell-mate. He told you about the ninety-thousand dollar hunk of ice. You got to be pals in stir. You went after the ice, and Poore’s split was to go toward financing a shyster for a new trial. I saw you talking with Hermie Shantz, the fence, in the Black and Tan.”

Tubba Klem whirled, rooting himself to the pavement on huge legs. “You’re a dirty liar, Donahue! You’re a doublecrossin’——!”

“Keep your hands away, you punk, or you’ll get a belly-full! I’ll give you a break. But I want that ice. I—”

“Ice me eye! I ain’t got no ice!”

“I want that ice, brother, or I call on the cops. You’re not the kind chucks a gat away after smoking out a guy. You’ve got the gat on you. Headquarters has the bullet killed Friedman. I get the ice or I call on the cops. You’ve got just one minute to make up your mind. And when I get the ice, Tubba, I wait three hours before I tip off the cops. If I don’t get it, I tip them off now.”

Tubba Klem’s great chest heaved. His jaw worked, and little sounds strangled in his throat. His huge hands opened and closed.

“It’s murder, Tubba, and you’ll burn. If I get the ice you get three hours to jump any train you want to. Minute’s almost up. There’s a drug-store—and a telephone—around the corner.”

“Jeeze, I hate your guts!”

“I think they’re okey. Minute’s up.”

Tubba Klem’s breath exploded. “You dirty——”

“Come across—or start walking!”

Tubba Klem coughed. His big hands shook. One hand stopped against his pants belt. Two fingers slipped into the small watch-pocket, came out shaking. The hand clenched.

“I’ll get you for this, Donahue! If it’s the last thing I do I’ll get you. I’m gonna get you! Blow your lousy heart out!”

Donahue held out his left hand. Tubba Klem smacked a ball of cloth into it. Donahue fingered the cloth open and felt a small, hard object. He flashed a quick glance at it.

“Now walk, Tubba. Walk to the next block and turn. I’ll be standing right here. And if you don’t want to conk out before the cops get you… then look for me, sweetheart—look for me. Get.”

Tubba Klem turned and lunged off, his huge trunk swinging on his short thick legs. Donahue stood in the middle of the sidewalk, his gun in a line with Tubba Klem’s back.

A man stepped from the shadows on the opposite side of the street and started across to head off Tubba Klem. Tubba Klem stopped and for a split-instant froze.

“Put ’em up, you!” barked the man.

Donahue tensed. Roper! Roper had been tailing him!

Tubba Klem let out a roar and pitched against a house wall. Both guns leaped out of his pockets. Roper raised his gun and the muzzle blast blazed in the gloom. Tubba Klem screamed, but his guns belched. Roper turned half around in the middle of the street and started falling.

Tubba Klem roared, “Now you, Donahue!” And his guns blazed again.

Zing! That was the sound of a high-speed bullet passing over Donahue’s head.

Donahue jumped sidewise, danced from foot to foot. Bang. Bang! One of Tubba Klem’s bullets chipped pavement alongside Donahue’s foot. Tubba Klem was not aiming. Like most gunmen he was trying to dynamite his man down.

Donahue had his gun raised, his right arm out straight, right side in a line with Tubba Klem. He pulled the trigger. The report sounded like a small firecracker. He saw Tubba Klem sit down on the pavement, and heard his guns clatter down. He ran forward and found Tubba Klem sticking his tongue out, his eyes bulging.

A police whistle shrilled, and a cop came tearing around the corner.

Tubba Klem was like a man paralyzed. He could see. He could hear. But he couldn’t move a muscle. This is what a small calibre bullet does when it strikes a man’s solar plexus.

The cop came pounding up with a drawn gun.

“What the hell’s the matter?”

Donahue stood up. “This gun and Detective Roper had it out. I had to shoot this guy. He’s Tubba Klem.”