Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (37 page)

“I guess she’s had dates with a lot of guys.”

“Maybe you don’t get me.”

Klay worked his artificial smile. “I don’t care if I get you or not, Donahue.”

“What I’ve been wondering, Klay, is how the hell you happen to be over on the East Side. I thought you were working the cab-joints over on the West Side.”

“This happens to be my night off. I’m just taking care of this till the precinct men get over. I’m not quizzing you, Donahue. That’ll be their job. So keep your sarcasm to yourself—or chuck it at the precinct men. Maybe they won’t like it.”

“This is vice squad business, Klay.”

Klay’s lips tightened. “This is my night off, Donahue.”

Sergeant of Detectives, Kelly McPard was a big fat man with rosy cheeks and a neat sandy mustache. His eyes were bright blue, whimsical. He had an easy, engaging smile. His sandy hair was silken on his large head and he had a smooth, polished cleanliness that included his clothes.

He drained the glass of beer, was careful to wipe the foam from his mustache.

“Now, Donny—after all, what the hell. You’re not telling me that your date with this twist was a social one.”

Maxie was polishing glasses furiously behind the bar.

Donahue said: “I had a date with her, Kelly—and that’s that. She was bumped off before she got here and that leaves me in the dark.”

A uniformed officer came into the bar and said: “The morgue bus is here.”

“Tell ’em to take the body down,” McPard said. “Tell Craik to drive the car to Headquarters and have ’em look for fingerprints. The car was bent in midtown last night and after they’ve looked it over they can return it to the owner. I’ll follow up as soon as I’ve finished here…. Fill that up, Maxie.”

“I’m sliding,” Donahue said.

“Shucks, wait,” McPard said. “Your date’s dead, so what’s the hurry?”

Donahue eyed him levelly. “You’re wasting your time and my own, Kelly. You’re a swell egg, but you’re up a wrong tree.”

McPard was tranquil. “I’m not so sure about that, Donny. I know there’s only one reason why you’d have a date with Cherry Bliss. She’s seen her day, Cherry has. I know you go in for neat dames, and Cherry used to be neat but that, kid, was all long ago and faraway. There’s only one reason why you’d have a date with her.”

“Maybe I put her on the spot, huhn?” Donahue mocked.

“Don’t be a dumb animal. You were going to meet her here because she had some dope you wanted.”

“And what was the dope?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

Donahue said: “Bushwah, Kelly,” and buttoned his topcoat.

Klay came in from the corridor, his derby in sharp contrast to the pallor of his hatchet face. His pale eyelashes quite concealed his eyes.

“Well, that’s that,” he said offhand. “I’ll take Scotch, Maxie…. You’ve got all this dope, eh, Kelly?”

McPard looked into his beer. “All from you, thanks, Ken. But Donny, here, is getting his feelings hurt.”

Klay chuckled flatly. “He gets that way quite often. A guy can’t look crooked at him any more. He thinks that agency of his is just about the berries. I’ve seen a lot of private dicks lose their licenses in my time.”

“Yeah,” Donahue said, frankly sarcastic. “And I’ve seen a lot of city flatfoots lose their shields.”

“Tsk, Tsk,” McPard clucked dispassionately. “This is no place to bicker.”

Donahue growled: “Then tell that fashion plate to keep his trap shut.” He tossed a five-dollar bill on the bar. “Four cocktails out of that, Maxie.”

“Listen, Donny.” McPard faced him and smiled benevolently. “I’m not trying to ride you, kid. But the death of this jane is going to raise a hell of a stink and I’d like to be on the inside track. You can’t just walk out on this. You had a date with the jane and the Commissioner is going to want to know how come. Cripes, I can’t go down and tell him you just had a date with her.”

“You tell him anything you want, Kelly. I don’t know a thing. Not a thing. Can’t I have a date with a jane? Is there a law against having a date with a jane?” He took the change from the five-dollar bill and crammed it into his pocket. “I like you, old socks. You’re a white man, and I can’t say that about some coppers I know.”

His gaze passed McPard and clicked with Klay’s. Klay came over close to Donahue and his flat lips took on a vicious twist.

McPard shoved them apart, complaining: “You guys make me sick with all this small-boy crap.”

Donahue muttered: “Let him say what he wants to say. Go ahead, Klay, spring it.”

Klay’s lips shook. He said, suddenly: “Ah, hell!” and turned and strode stiffly across the room.

McPard was gripping Donahue’s arm. “Now easy, Donny—for crying out loud, easy.”

Donahue shrugged free of McPard’s hand, said: “So long, Kelly.” He left the bar, went up the corridor.

Walter Nass was standing inside the iron gate with Carmen. He turned a harried look on Donahue.

Donahue said: “I’m sorry, Walt, this had to happen here.”

“You’re not in Dutch, Donny, are you?”

“Nah, not me. Somebody else might be, though.” Donahue looked back down the hall and growled: “That lousy crackpot!”

“I’d go easy, Donny.”

Donahue smacked Nass’s back. “You know me, boy.” A low laugh rumbled in his throat. He pinched Carmen’s cheek. “Smile, beautiful!”

He yanked open the gate, rolled out into the areaway, up to the street.

Frank Castleman, the District Attorney, was having brandy and coffee in his library when Donahue came in. Castleman was a square-built stocky man, with crisp iron-gray hair and a rugged jaw. He didn’t rise.

“Haul a chair over, Donny, and give me the dirt.”

Donahue said: “There’s not much dirt—yet.” He carried a high-backed occasional chair to the library desk and sat down. “Kelly McPard’s on it.”

“Good man.”

“Swell. Old pop Kelly himself—and they don’t make ’em smarter. But he’s a cop, Frank—and the cops is a system. The cops, may they always be right; but right or wrong, the cops: that’s Kelly’s credo and that’s going to be hard to climb over, maybe. Klay said it was his night off.”

“How’d the girl die?”

“Kerplunk in the heart—a small bore, I’d say offhand. These mugs fell on her somewhere and let her have it. Kelly shot the body to the morgue. The car she came in was swiped last night and Kelly sent it down to H.Q. for fingerprints.”

“Kelly asked a lot of questions?”

“Plenty. That guy knows I didn’t have a date with Cherry because I liked her. And I think Klay knows too. When I first came in the speak Klay asked me what was going on in your office.”

Castleman leaned back. “Why was she coming to meet you, Donny?”

“She was going to give me the names of some guys mixed up in the vice racket. Big names. It took me two weeks, a lot of soft language and hard liquor to win her over. She called me up this afternoon and said she’d spill the works. She must have got suddenly sore about something, I don’t know what. She sounded sore—mad.

“If Klay happened to be at Walter Nass’s by accident, all well and good. If he was there by appointment—well, boy, that gives me something to crack, and it’s not a nut. Klay might hurt me—I don’t know. He was scared about something tonight. And Kelly is going to camp on my trail; he’s like that.”

Frank Castleman got up, went to the Georgian fireplace and shoved in a fresh log. He stood up with his back to the flames, took a hitch in his dressing-gown belt and three quick drags at his cigar.

He said: “They must have known she was going to turn over. They must have got wind of it somehow. I wonder if she had anything in writing.”

“I don’t know. But writing or other wise, she had the goods.”

Castleman grunted. “Unh.” He came back to the desk solid-heeled and sat down. He rolled his cigar back and forth between his teeth, beneath his clipped iron-gray mustache. After a minute he looked up at Donahue.

“Donny, I can’t make this out. Not yet. I smell something behind this that stinks louder than we may think. But whatever you do, for——sake man, don’t let them, know—yet—that I’ve hired you. Fundamentally there’s nothing wrong about my hiring a private detective. But I’ve come to the stage in this racket where I can’t rely on my men when I start after something niggerish in the Commissioner’s woodpile. It’s a rotten shame that out of the several thousand honest cops there’s got to be a few, a mere handful, that are turning vice and corruption towards their own beneficial ends. But if it’s found out—now—that I’ve gone out of my own camp and hired you, I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Donahue said: “It’s the system. A lot of cops know they’re working with guys that are crooked, but they’d never squeal. It’s like one big family. They picked up an idea a long while ago that they’ve got to protect the honor of the family. It’s just one of those things.”

“Can I depend on you to keep a tight lip?”

Donahue laughed. “What, you mean when they ask me down to Headquarters?”

Castleman nodded.

Donahue held up his hands. “Why should I worry, Frank? I’m strictly clean. I had a date with Cherry—and as for what kind of a date I had, that’s my business.”

“I appreciate this, Donny.”

Donahue stood up. “That’s business, Frank. I took this job with that understanding.”

“Only business?” Castleman stood up and smiled ruefully.

Donahue shrugged. “Well, I think you’re a pretty swell District Attorney, too.”

“Sure, sure.” Castleman came around and put friendly pressure on Donahue’s arm. “I often wonder why you never went on the cops. You’d have risen high.”

“I don’t like the system, boy…. That brandy looks good. Do I rate?”

Donahue entered his hotel-apartment at ten-thirty whistling Trees. He hung up his hat and overcoat, undressed down to undershirt and trousers and was mixing rye and Perrier in the little pantry when the knocker sounded. He carried the drink into the living-room and laid his hand on the knob, his ear against the panel.

“Who is it?”

“Me, Donny.”

“Libbey?”

“Li’l ol’ Libbey!”

“Haven’t you got a home?”

“Sure, but there’s no liquor there.”

Donahue opened the door and Libbey of the City News Bureau breezed in, said: “Greetings, Sherlock—or is it Shylock?” and took the glass from Donahue’s hand. He downed half of it, smacked his lips. “Not bad,” he said. He crossed the room to a console, knocked open a cedar humidor, helped himself to a cigarette and lit up. He flopped into a big club chair, planted his heels on an Ottoman, raised the glass. “I forgot: to you, old boy, old boy.”

“Life’s just a bowl of cherries, huhn?”

Donahue went into the pantry, mixed another drink and came back into the living-room.

“So what?” he said.

Libbey grinned boyishly, though he was not a boy. “The boss said if I came up here you’d tell me all—all, Donny.”

“All what?”

“About that body in front of Walter Nass’s tonight.”

Donahue chuckled. “You’re an optimist.”

“Come on, Donny; be Santa Claus.”

“You were over at Headquarters, weren’t you?”

“Yup.”

“You got the dope there, didn’t you?”

“The bald details, but what I want—”

“That’s all I know: the bald details. I had a date with a jane and somebody bumped her off. What’s that make me—a know-it-all?… Nix, sweetheart. I don’t know a damned thing, and if I did I’d get a ghost-writer and cash in on the tabs. Be your maturity, Libbey. Beat it. I’m turning in.”

Libbey got up, considered his empty glass. “Know anything about Ken Klay, the vice squad sheik?” He did not accompany the question with an upward look.

Donahue had his trousers half-off. He pulled them up again and came over to Libbey, holding them up in front. “You’re going to make cracks about me to other people maybe, and maybe I’m not going to like it.”

Libbey chuckled and put his empty glass in Donahue’s hand. “My error, Donny.”

The phone rang and Donahue went across the room and scooped it up off the secretary. “Yes, Donahue…. Huhn?” He turned his back to Libbey and his eyebrows came together. “What makes you think so?… Maybe I could—that. Leave me your number and I’ll call you in five minutes…. No; I didn’t think you would. Okey, then; call me in five minutes. I’m busy now.”

He hung up, got an old briar out of the desk, crammed it with bright Burley, lit up and shot fragrant smoke ceiling-ward. He swiveled and spread a palm.

“So I’ll be seeing you again sometime, Libbey?”

Libbey laughed. He didn’t say anything. He crossed the room cheerfully, grinned from the door, winked, went out. Donahue scowled at the door, tapped the pipe’s Bakelite stem on his teeth; then started dressing. While buttoning his vest with his left hand he used his right to pick up the telephone receiver, and bent over.

“Hello, little wonderful,” he said to the hotel operator. “How about doing a favor for your constant admirer?… Well, it’s like this. A guy’s going to call me any minute. When he does, kind of make believe things are bawled up and ask for his number, the way exchange operators do sometimes. Then remember the number…. I know it’s off-color, but so is the guy that’s going to call…. Thanks. I’ll drop around a box of candy one day…. Oh, perfume, instead, eh?… Chez Moi, huhn? Little gold-digger!”

He hung up and finished dressing; was lacing his oxfords when the phone rang.

“Yeah,” he said into the transmitter. “I’ll listen now. Shoot…. Well, to begin with, Mr. so-and-so, I’ll have to approach him. You’re taking it for granted that he’s my client and that’s where you’re all wet—soaking. But go ahead; spiel it…. I get you. Ten thousand, huhn? And I’m to act as the little old go-between?… I see. Well, call this number at nine sharp tomorrow morning.”

He hung up, waited for a moment holding the telephone and then lifted the receiver. “Well, little wonderful?… Thanks.” He pronged the receiver quietly and set the instrument down. He wrote a number on a slip of paper, tucked the paper into a vest pocket. He shrugged into his overcoat, grabbed his hat and went out.

It was eleven when he came out into the street. He walked north for two blocks, entered a cigar store and went into a telephone booth. He called a number and said, presently: “Did I wake you, Frank?… Good. Listen. I want you to do something for me, Frank. I can’t do it myself. Get in touch with your office, have ’em check up a telephone number: Alexandria 4141. Get the address. How long do you suppose it will take?… Okey. Call me back at Waterford 9086.”