Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (32 page)

“I thought he’d get it some day,” Libbey said. “That column of his was rich. He should have named it ‘Private Lives—and How.’ You know, my dear friends—as among gentlemen—this will create a furor. Inside of twenty-four hours the Press-Examiner will offer a reward. And other sheets, conscience-stricken because they have underpaid us newspapermen for so long—”

Donahue growled: “Pipe down, you fat-head.”

“—other newspapers will supplement the reward and, attend—you, you and you, three enterprising master-minds: here you are, the three of you, in the presence of one foully murdered—”

“Jeeze, Sarge,” Monahan grumbled, “can’t I throw this stink out?”

“—Kelly McPard, Donny, and Monahan. Three of you, by a planetary coincidence, will each go his secret way with one eye on justice and one eye on the shekels.”

Monahan looked guilty. McPard put a cork-tipped cigarette between his lips. His face beamed, but back of the laugh in his eyes burned a wily, speculative spark.

“But, Libbey,” he said expansively, “we’re all friends.”

“Of course,” said Donahue. He bent down, picked up a cardboard packet of matches, struck one and held it to McPard’s cigarette. They smiled into each other’s eyes.

“Aren’t we all?” McPard said.

“Sure,” Donahue said. “We’re all big-hearted guys, Kelly.”

The phone rang. Monahan picked it up, listened, said above it: “The morgue wagon, Sarge.”

When the body had been removed from the room, when McPard and Monahan had gone and Libbey had taken the stairway down to dodge three irate reporters, Donahue locked his door. Then he opened his hand and looked at the blue packet of paper matches. He opened the flap. Printed on the inside of the flap was:

The Venetian Cellar

West Tenth Street

Two matches were missing. One of them he had used to light McPard’s cigarette. The other was missing when McPard, pawing Larrimore’s coat pocket, had tossed the packet away as something inconsequential.

“Good old Kelly McPard,” Donahue chortled.

He started dressing.

Mason was back at the desk in the lobby, his nerves jumpy. But he was at least thankful that no one had been disturbed. He sincerely believed that at night he guided the destiny of the hotel. They had taken the body out in the freight elevator, then through the service entrance, and the reporters had gone along with McPard. He looked up and saw Monahan coming seriously across the dim, deserted lobby.

Monahan had been fired from six private detective agencies, but he still believed the agencies were wrong. The hotel had hired him because he was cheap. The hotel was small and mostly residential and a house officer was a superfluity anyhow. The owners kept him mainly to quiet drunken parties and to patrol the halls at two every morning to see if all the doors were locked.

Monahan went into a huddle with Miss McGillicuddy, whom he had awed from time to time with imaginary yarns of man-hunts. Monahan, you understand, figuring as the master-mind exclusively.

“That 1005 now, Miss McGillicuddy,” he said impressively under his hand. “Keep an ear open on any telephoning he does.”

“You—you think he’s—guilty?”

“Sh! No, not that. But he’s a smart aleck and if the hotel solves the death—the brutal death, Miss McGillicuddy—of one of its guests…. You get me? So keep an ear open. You know, there may even be a reward and”—he leaned closer, winked—“I’m not a hog, young lady.”

“Gee!” She coughed and blew her nose. “Got an awful cough, Mr. Monahan.”

“A—uh—little pin money, you see, might fix it so you could get two weeks off and take a fling at Palm Beach.”

He walked away with a pious look on his face and his palms against his round thighs. He stopped as he saw a tall man in a brown ulster and a tan, rakish hat striding across the lobby for the doors.

Donahue went out into a raw full wind that blustered down the street. He turned south into University Place, west into Tenth Street. He crossed Fifth Avenue, reached Sixth, walked beneath the Elevated, cut across Greenwich and went down Tenth Street past Waverly Place. He crossed the street diagonally towards two blue globes that burned above a blue door in an areaway sunk four stone steps below the pavement. He elbowed the door open and entered a low-ceiled restaurant that had canals and gondolas painted on the walls. The blue lighting gave the faces of people a ghostly look.

Near the door was a cigarette showcase with a cash register alongside it and a man behind the cash register. The man had a mask-like face and a receding hair line. Donahue bought a package of cigarettes. Asked for a match. The man threw him a packet. The packet was blue.

Donahue went to a table, threw his hat and ulster on one chair, sat down in another.

“Scotch and seltzer.”

He leaned back, put a cigarette between his lips, opened the blue packet. On the inside of the flap it said: The Venetian Cellar—West Tenth Street.

Nobody was eating now, but the menu was a large one specializing in Italian dishes. The waiter brought the drink.

“Where’s the head waiter?” Donahue said.

The waiter looked at him blankly for half a moment, then turned and went off. He came back with a short fat man who had black marcelled hair, who carried a cigar horizontally at right angles to his uppermost vest button.

“Yes?”

“Will you sit down?”

“I’m sorry—”

“Only for a minute.”

The fat man sat down.

Donahue leaned on his elbows and looked straight into the dark pool-like eyes.

Donahue said: “Do you know Larrimore?”

“Who?”

“A. B. Larrimore.”

The fat man looked down at his fat white hands, turned a diamond ring round and round; looked up and moved his shoulders in the semblance of a shrug.

“No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”

“He was here tonight,” Donahue said. “He’s a little shorter than I am, slim and well-built. Clean-shaven. Derby, blue overcoat, blue serge suit. He’s about forty, I’d say. Black hair, but”—he touched the side of his head—“gray along here, quite gray. Distinguished looking man.”

“He was in here?”

“Yeah. In here.”

“Well, sure, he might have been. There was a lot of people here tonight. I wouldn’t know. I’m not out here much, only if somebody asks for me. Like you. Who’s Larrimore?”

“What I want to know is, what time did he leave here, and was he with anybody?”

The fat man sat back. “How do I know?”

“Was he with a man or a woman?”

The fat man made an impatient gesture. “I tell you, how do I know?”

“I tell you, he was here. Was he alone or—”

“Listen,” broke in the fat man irritably. “I don’t know who you’re talking about. All right, he was here. Maybe he was. If you say he was here, all right, then he was here. But I don’t remember. I can’t remember every guy comes in here. Or every woman—”

“Or every woman,” said Donahue.

“What?”

“Or every woman. You can’t remember the woman he was with.”

The fat man looked surprised. “What the hell are you talking about?” He scowled suddenly, heaved up. “Go on, you’re crazy.” He laughed and walked off.

Donahue got up and followed him. Tables were in the way. He had to weave among them. He followed the fat man to the other side of the restaurant and the latter was not aware of this until he was thrusting aside the rose-colored curtains leading to another room. He turned and his cigar, that had been jutting out straight from his mouth, drooped; his jaw drooped; his eyelids drooped. He looked suddenly sinister with his fat white face and his black pool-like eyes.

“This is a private room,” he said. “The door to the street is over that way.”

“Oh, that’s all right,” Donahue said cheerfully. “I just want to find out what time that man left here. Be a good egg. I’m a good egg and strictly on the up and up. I’m not trying to crash this scatter and if you knew me better you’d know what a swell guy I really am.”

“Are you trying to sell anything?”

“An idea. I’m trying to sell you the idea that it would be nice for you to play ring around the rosy with me.”

The fat man started a leer. “You mean—nice for you.”

“No. I mean”—Donahue nicked a thumb-nail against the man’s uppermost vest button—“for you.”

The fat man’s face drooped more; he had jowls now, sagging like wet dough in the ghostly bluish light. His lower lip sagged, revealing the lower part of his lower teeth.

He said slowly, distinctly: “I don’t know who you’re talking about. I don’t know you. Get out.”

“You feel that way about it, eh?”

The fat man said nothing. He put his cigar carefully between his lips, rolled it around with thumb and forefinger and regarded Donahue with his drooping, sinister eyes.

Donahue saw one of the waiters come up and stand beside him. He turned and saw another standing behind him. He saw a third leaning against the wall. He whistled a few bars to himself. He saw a cuspidor, squinted one eye towards it and snapped his butt into it.

“Okey,” he said.

He went swiftly back to his table, gathered up his hat and coat, put the hat on but not the coat and went directly out without looking at anyone. He walked long-legged to the next corner, swung left, stopped and put on his coat. He turned and peered around the corner.

He saw a man standing on the sidewalk looking at the twin blue lights. He knew the shape, the build, the round shoulders. He saw Monahan go down the steps and through the blue door.

He put his hands on his hips and bit off a sharp, caustic oath.

He heard heavy footsteps and pivoted. A patrolman came across the street, saying: “Why the hell all the hocus pocus?”

Donahue smiled, “Hello, Officer.”

“Now let it go at that. What’s the idea?”

“I thought someone was following me.”

The patrolman snapped gum with his teeth and stood on wide-planted feet, his arms akimbo, nightstick dangling.

“On your way. Beat it.”

Donahue said: “Sure,” good-naturedly and strode off. He turned left into Christopher, went around the block and was again on Tenth Street. He slipped down into an areaway across from the twin blue lights. He looked at his strap-watch. It was ten past two. The street was deserted except for an occasional late-wandering drunk or a night-hawk taxicab.

Presently a man and a woman came out of the Venetian Cellar. They walked towards Hudson Street, stopping at intervals to embrace. Then a man came out putting on his coat. He staggered towards Sixth Avenue, singing. A man and a woman came out, the man supporting the woman; then two men; then two men and a quarrelsome girl.

A minute later the twin blue lights went out.

Donahue looked at his watch again. It was two-thirty. An Elevated train rumbled down Sixth Avenue. A taxi barged east with someone thumping a banjo. Silence fell again. And Donahue waited on.

At two-forty-five Donahue heard footsteps clicking from the direction of Sixth Avenue: woman’s high-heels by the sound of them. He saw a woman wrapped in a dark fur coat pass beneath a street light. She walked rapidly, each heelfall distinct. She turned down into the Venetian Cellar areaway and disappeared through the blue door.

Donahue craned his neck. He was about to climb to the pavement when he saw the woman reappear, rising quietly from the areaway, walking only on the soles of her feet. She looked up and down the street, walked a matter of ten yards and slipped behind a stone stoop that hid her from sight of anyone entering or leaving the Venetian Cellar.

Donahue retreated deeper into the well of shadows, his eyes keen and watchful. From time to time he saw the vague blur of the woman’s face peering around the corner of the stoop. There was no street light near her. He could not get even a general idea of what she looked like.

His attention was diverted suddenly by the banging open of the blue door across the street. He heard low, angry voices. Then suddenly he saw Monahan being rough-housed up the steps by a couple of men. They shoved him and he fell down, and then the fat man appeared and stood at the brink of the sidewalk.

“Now beat it,” he said. “I’ve stood plenty of your lousy lip. You’ve got this place of mine wrong.”

“You’ll see, you’ll see,” Monahan threatened, rising.

“All right, I’ll see. You got no business to come in my place and act wise. So scram.”

Monahan brushed his coat with his hands and reset his hat. He shook his fist.

“Don’t think a dago like you can get tough with me. I got friends at Police Headquarters. You can’t get tough with me.”

The fat man waved a hand. “Oh, go on and beat it, for cripes sake. You’re just a loud noise. You asked for a slide to the pavement and you got it.” He turned to the others. “Come on, boys.”

They went down the stairs and through the blue door, banging it shut.

Monahan buttoned his coat, put a cigar in his mouth and stamped off.

Donahue thumbed his nose at Monahan’s back and grinned with genuine satisfaction.

When Monahan’s irate footfalls had died in the direction of Sixth Avenue, Donahue saw the woman slip from the shadows and enter the blue door. In a little while he saw four men come out and head east. They were the waiters. He waited ten minutes, then climbed to the sidewalk, darted silently across the street and descended to the Venetian Cellar areaway.

His right hand slipped beneath his coat to settle on the butt of his automatic. His left hand closed over the door-knob and eased it as far as it would go. He turned it in the other direction and after a firm but gentle pressure towards himself he knew that the door was locked.

His lips formed a silent oath. He turned and climbed to the pavement and returned to the areaway across the street. The fall air was cold and he turned up his collar, kept his hands thrust in his pockets.

At a little past three he heard the blue door open. After a moment the woman and the fat man climbed to the sidewalk. The man had hat and overcoat on and a red cigar-end marked his face. The woman took his arm and they started walking rapidly towards Sixth Avenue.

Donahue let them get a good lead, then followed, hugging the shadows and the house walls. He followed them through Waverly Place into Grove Street. They crossed Grove at the subway entrance, crossed Sheridan Square towards a row of three taxies parked in front of a lunch-wagon.