Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (29 page)

Mueck stood up, gestured with both hands. “Hell, Donny, I don’t see why you should run the chance of getting killed.”

“I’d rather do that than run my chances with the cops—at this stage. I’ve got to, Mike. This guy is a killer and I have no qualms about going after him. You and I are fairly honest men. But that wouldn’t prevent the law from having you disbarred and very likely pitching me in jail. If they get that guy—find the dough—he’ll talk. And will it be rough on me? Don’t ask!”

“Remember, Donny, I’m with you—I’m not trying to slide out.”

Donahue laughed. “I never had any doubts about that, Mike.” He pinched Mueck’s arm. “And remember, let me handle it, old kid. It’s the kind of work I’m cut out to handle.”

“I feel sort of—”

“I know how you feel. But you couldn’t help me by baring your breast to the H.Q. crowd. I’ll see the old dame in the morning. She’s got to bury this necklace among her other souvenirs.”

Hinkle looked worried when Donahue breezed in at ten next morning. He looked up from the newspaper.

“I see you’re a hero, Donny.”

“Well, I gave the dame her necklace and she almost wept on my shoulder. I told her a few things though. I talked turkey. She swears she’ll never mention the necklace. She never wore it anyhow. It’s an heirloom.”

“Did you stop in at H.Q.?”

“Yes. I got there in time to witness the line-up. They had dozens of guys. But not the guy I want.

Hinkle wagged his head. “What a mess!”

“I took a walk through the Rogues’ Gallery. I spotted the guy. Man, he’s a bad hood! So I helped myself to the dope they’ve got on him. He’s been arrested ten times—for almost everything on the calendar: dope, felonious assault, concealed weapons, petty larceny. But he beat them all. Eddie Bishoff’s his name.”

“Did they identify the other guy?”

Donahue sat down, said: “No.” He drew out a small black wallet, tapped it on an open palm, smiled. “I took this off that guy, Asa.”

“What the devil did you want to do that for?” Donahue made no reply. He whistled to himself, emptied the wallet on the desk. “The cops,” he said, “have got more than a hundred guys combing the city—not counting the stoolies these hundred guys will swing into action. I’m one guy against that mob—one guy, Asa—”

“I was leery of this job—”

“Don’t crab!” Donahue smacked his palm down on the photograph of a woman. “I’ve got this. Picture of a dizzy broad. ‘Love to Louie from his Nora.’ And here—down in the corner—‘Barcelona Club. Jan. 4th.’ A cabaret girl. ‘His Nora.’ Okey”—Donahue waved the picture—“I’ll find that dame. Louie was the little guy. He put one bullet in Kiff. Eddie Bishoff put two.”

“Are they making any progress at H.Q.?”

“No. They dragged in a lot of punks and busted a lot of hose on some guys. They’re mad for a pinch, what with the vice squad getting razzed these days. Here, this”—Donahue flattened a sheet of paper on the desk—“is a list of amounts of money, with dates alongside each amount. Small amounts. It’s on the back of a piece of Hotel Grebb stationery. That’s a one-fifty a night flop-house on Seventh Avenue. The paper looks old. But the picture doesn’t.”

“Who’s in charge of the case?”

“That bruiser Tom Brannigan. All steamed up. I was just talking to him at H.Q. He said if I ran into the guy got away I should tip him off and he’d see I got a case of Scotch. Big-hearted Mick, that Brannigan. I told him I’d snoop around. He said it was okey by him. I said: ‘Tom, suppose I smack into this bird and have to shoot it out with him?’ Tom looked down-hearted. He said: ‘Hell, Donahue. Save him for the boys. We want to take it out of his hide and then pitch him to the D.A.’”

“Do you want a man to work with you?”

“No. It’s solo for me, Asa. And don’t say anything to any of the boys. And don’t mention Bishoff’s name. Well”—he grabbed up his hat—“I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

The Barcelona Club was closed at noon. It huddled between two drab brick houses in West Tenth Street. Its black door was flush with the street. Donahue knocked. A man opened the door and put out a wedge-shaped face.

“Barney here yet?”

“Who is it?”

“Donahue. Barney knows me. Ask him.”

The door closed. Donahue waited. A minute later the door opened and Barney De Vere looked out—grinned, opened the door wide.

“Bar’s not open, Donny—”

“It’s not that, Barney. Can we have a little talk? I’m hard up for a little information.”

They went into the lobby, across the dim dance-floor, down a short corridor and into a stuffy office. Barney nodded to a chair and Donahue sat down.

“It’s about a jane, Barney.”

“Oh-oh.”

“Can’t remember her last name but I think she used to work in your little review. Maybe she does yet. Nora something—Nora—Nora—Well, a little brunette.”

“Oh, you mean Nora.”

“Yeah, Nora.”

“Yeah—Nora Slaven. What did she do?”

“Nothing,” Donahue said. “Not a thing. I just want to have a talk with her—a real heart-to-heart talk, Barney.”

Barney sighed, shook his head. “She used to work here, Donny. Up until a month ago. She left, and she didn’t say why.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“No, I don’t, Donny. I often thought she might have run off with a little guy used to hang around here a lot. Louie Brown—or something, I dunno. Say, I see by the paper you did the cops a good deed.”

“Yeah. Ran into a gun-fight and helped old John Law. Well, thanks, Barney.”

“Drop in some time.”

“Sure.”

“Sorry I can’t help you out.”

“Don’t know where she lived, eh?”

“Well, she lived upstairs till she left.”

Barney didn’t know that Louie Brown was the man Donahue had shot last night. Neither did the cops. The corpse was still that of “an unidentified man.”

Donahue walked over to Sheridan Square and caught a north-bound subway train. He got off at Penn Station and walked a few blocks north on Seventh Avenue. He took a look at the drab façade of the Grebb Hotel.

He dropped into a corner cigar store nearby and crowded into a telephone booth, got a number out of the directory. He put a nickel in the slot.

Yes, the girl at the Grebb said, Mr. Louis Brown lived there. Donahue hung up, stood for a while near the cigar stand. He didn’t want anyone at the Grebb to know that he was looking for Louie Brown. He left the cigar store and went down to the Penn Station. He sent a wire to Louie Brown at the Grebb. “Call me when you get this. Jim.” Then he left the station and retraced his steps north on Seventh Avenue, entered the Grebb.

The lobby was as drab as the façade. A dozen men sat around in wooden rockers. Donahue joined them and waited, watching the door. Half an hour later a Western Union messenger came swinging in. Donahue rose casually and sauntered to the desk, flipped tourist and excursion leaflets negligently.

“Wire for Mr. Brown.”

The clerk turned from a ledger, signed the slip. He called over to the switchboard: “Brown in 408 in?” The operator buzzed.

Donahue left the desk, went back into the washroom, killed ten minutes there and then came out. He took an elevator to the fourth floor.

A master key paved the way for him. He slipped into a narrow room that had a narrow bed, a dresser, a cheap green armchair. The closet door was open. Inside were a couple of hats, a suit, a pair of shoes, a yellow suitcase on the floor. He opened the suitcase. It was empty. He searched the pockets of the suit. They were empty.

Half a dozen shirts were in one of the dresser drawers. Socks, handkerchiefs, in another, and underclothes. Odds and ends in another: a pocketknife, some pennies, a tarnished cigarette case, some poker chips, cards. Donahue closed all the drawers, disgruntled.

Then his roving glance landed on the telephone. Hanging from the mouthpiece was an oblong sheet of cardboard with an advertisement at the top and ruled horizontal lines beneath it. There was some scribbling on it. Donahue removed the cardboard and squinted. Names. Telephone numbers. Nora. Donahue drew his lips tightly against his teeth. He sat down and copied the names and numbers. Six names. Johnnie S…. Pete. Nora. Kitty. Ed. Luke. He returned the cardboard to the telephone mouth-piece, hesitated, then removed it, tore it to bits.

He left the room, locked the door, went down in the elevator, out into the street. He made a flying trip to the Agency office, in Park Row.

“Call up your friend in the telephone company, Asa,” he said, “and get the street addresses of those telephone numbers.”

“Oh, you’ve been places, eh?”

“Yeah. Louie Brown was the little guy’s name. He had a room at the Grebb Hotel. I busted in.”

“How you get around!”

“Well, go ahead, Asa. Those two dames on there—Kitty and Nora—have the same number. Pals, I suppose.”

Asa made a telephone call, called off the telephone numbers, and hung up. Donahue gave him a resume of what he had done and the manner in which he had done it. The telephone rang. Asa answered it, pencil in hand. Beside each number on the slip of paper Donahue had given him, he wrote down an address. Finished, he said: “Thanks, Bill,” and hung up. He shoved the slip of paper across the desk.

“May God watch over you, Donny.”

Donahue seemed not to have heard. He stared round-eyed at the addresses, his lips moving. “Ed,” he said, “may be Eddie Bishoff.”

Donahue came out in Park Row and walked over to Broadway. He turned north and was nearing Chambers Street when a bull voice haled him. Before he could locate the voice a P.D. flivver hurtled to the curb. Tom Brannigan was leaning out, waving a red, beefy hand, grinning like a fool.

“C’m here, Donny.”

“Hello, Tom.”

“Yah, boy—yah, boy!” Brannigan spat with gusto. “What the hell do you think? Hey?”

“Got me, Tom.”

“We got that punk identified. Louie Brown’s his name. That punk you give the works, Donny. Hot dog! Yah! Ain’t that hot, kiddo—ain’t it? Yah! Well, we got him identified all right. A pal of a pal of a pal of mine—‘Sure, I seen that guy,’ he sez. ‘Louie Brown’s his name.’ All I gotta do now, kiddo, is get my stoolies workin’ to find out who was trottin’ around with Louie Brown. Watch the papers, Donny. You’ll be seein’ things.”

Donahue forced a grin, not heartfelt. “Swell, Tom.”

“Goin’ up a ways?”

“Yeah.”

“Jump in.”

Donahue dropped to the seat in the rear beside Brannigan and the police flivver started off. Brannigan erupted, slapping his knees, chewing a cigarette to rags, the feel of the hunt burning in his eyes.

“Just depend on Tom Brannigan, Donny,” he said. “I’ll get that bum got away. Me, personal. Before sundown I’ll have the name o’ the guy was trottin’ with Louie Brown. I’ll bust everything but his windpipe. Yah.”

Donahue got off at Eighth Street and walked west with Brannigan’s voice still re-echoing in his ears. He did not doubt that Brannigan, who had a vast array of stoolies, would discover the name of the late Louie Brown’s partner before sundown. Armed with the name of Eddie Bishoff, Brannigan would find his police record, get his underworld spies working, and eventually get Bishoff.

Donahue hardened in his purpose. It showed on his face. He knew of a private cop on the West Coast who had been engaged to turn over an amount of money to a gang of crooks in return for bonds that had been stolen from a Seattle bank. A bank official had engaged him. There was a slip-up. The bonds were returned well enough, but then the cops started in; hauled in the private cop for abetting the criminals, handed him a jail sentence, thereby setting a precedent.

Donahue knew he was headed for a jam. And he knew that if he got in the jam Mike Mueck would be fool enough to try to get him out and in so doing would entangle himself. And Brannigan was on a tear. Brannigan was ruthless, a hard cop, in his way a good one. But he would rough-house Donahue as quickly and as explosively as he had, on many an occasion, shaken his hand and clapped him on the back.

In Grove Street, near Sheridan Square, Donahue neared the address that corresponded with the telephone number Louie had written alongside the name of Ed. It was a speakeasy. Donahue grumbled his disappointment. But he entered, following a long corridor that terminated in a bar, with tables along the wall. He went to the corner where a telephone stood, looked at the number. It corresponded with the number on the slip of paper.

Donahue went to the bar, hooked his heel on the rail and ordered a highball. The barman whistled sleepily while he mixed the drink. Donahue took a few swallows, frowned—not because of the liquor but because of an indecisive train of thought. Finally he drained the glass, got change from a dollar, went out. He had decided not to bring up Ed’s name to the barman, since he believed that nothing would have been gained by it. He didn’t want to spring Bishoff’s name until he could be certain that it would bring definite information.

He took a cab to Twenty-sixth Street. The address was that of a small apartment house. A row of mail slots was in the lobby, with names above. One was—Miss Kitty Bradon. Donahue pushed into a narrow, bare foyer. There was no elevator. He started up a staircase. There were two apartments on each floor, the doors facing each other across a small landing. On the third landing Donahue stopped and looked at the door marked 4B. He looked at the name under the bell-button.

He listened at the door. His right hand closed around the gun in his coat pocket. He used his left thumb to press the button. He eyed the door steadily. Heard footsteps.

A woman’s voice. “Who is it?”

“Special delivery, ma’am.”

The lock clicked. The door opened a matter of two inches. A blonde head appeared. A hand thrust out.

Donahue grabbed it. “Quiet, sister!”

He elbowed the door violently, shouldered in, kicked the door shut. His gun was in his hand, his voice low—

“Not a chirp, sister.”

“Ow—you’re hurting!”

He flung down her arm, trained the gun on her, backed her down the short, narrow corridor, into a small living-room. He nodded to a divan.

“Sit down.”

She fell to the divan, drawing up her legs, rubbing her hands back and forth across her chest, her eyes wide. Donahue stepped to the door, looked into a kitchenette, saw part of a bedroom. He looked quickly back to the girl, his eyes keen.