Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (40 page)

Donahue went on through the alley, walked a block and entered a speakeasy. “Brandy,” he said. He dragged his feet into the lavatory, took the brown envelope from his pocket. He drew a stamp from his wallet, affixed it. He undipped his fountain pen from a vest pocket and wrote on the envelope: Frank Castleman—and the address.

He returned to the bar, swallowed his brandy and shouldered out into the street. He walked to the next corner, looked up and down, dropped the letter into a mail box.

When he trudged weary-footed up the alley Kelly McPard was waiting for him and one of the cops was kneeling with Klay in his arms.

McPard said: “Klay said there were papers, Donny.”

“Did he?”

“Kid, I’d like to see ’em. Klay asked me to. He’s a cop. I’ve got to give him a break.”

Donahue leaned against the wall and held his coat open. “Search me, Kelly.”

Kelly searched him, then dropped his hands and looked up into Donahue’s eyes. “Where are they, Donny?”

“Maybe that was just an idea Klay had. Sort of rambling in his mind. I’ve got no papers.”

“You wouldn’t cheat on me, would you, Donny?”

“Not on you, Kelly. I don’t cheat on white men.”

Tough dick Donahue gets caught in the inside of a jam where he takes plenty

Donahue came into his hotel apartment coughing. The camel’s-hair coat he wore was stained, his brown Homburg was dented. He walked straight to the bed and dropped flat on it. His hat fell off and wobbled several feet across the floor. He lay for a minute swearing to himself.

After a while he got up, pushing with his arms, and stripped. He looked at himself in the elongated mirror that took the place of panels in the closet door. His flat, hard stomach was blotched with abrasions. A black and blue welt capped his right hip bone. His face was sallow beneath the brown.

He went into the little pantry that contained an icebox and a porcelain sink. He cracked a piece of ice and held it first against one abrasion and then another. His teeth chattered. It was only a little past noon but he went into the bathroom, showered—first hot, then cold.

He didn’t rub down. He swung into a terry cloth robe and let it absorb the moisture. From the pantry he carried a bottle of rye and a glass with three lumps of ice in it. He poured the glass half full of rye and dropped into a club chair. The liquor rushed color to his face but two resentful lines still clung between his brows.

When a knock sounded on the door he scowled at the door but said nothing. When the knock was repeated he growled: “Who is it?”

“Me, Donny.”

“Don’t be so anonymous.”

“Me—Libbey.”

Donahue slushed red leather mules towards the door. His manner was not ingratiating when he opened it.

“What! You’re not glad to see me, Donny!”

“I’m never glad to see you.”

“Oh, grandma, what big eyes you have!”

“In, pest.” Donahue kicked the door shut, sloshed the liquor around in his glass while eying Libbey stonily. “Hooch on the coffee table. Perrier or Canada Dry in the pantry. Wet your whistle and scram.”

The City News Bureau man chuckled. “You’d be a nice guy to have around the house a lot. But—genius must have its moments.” A thumbnail snapped a match to flame and Libbey lit up. “So Klay got it, huhn?”

“You were around, weren’t you?”

“I saw Kelly McPard. Great dick, Kelly. How’d it happen you and Klay joined up against those two heels, Buck and Louie?”

“What did you come here for, Libbey?”

“To play marbles, if I played marbles, but I don’t play marbles. Kelly McPard said Klay tried to help you collar these two eggs. Is that right?”

“You’d take Kelly’s word for it, wouldn’t you?”

“I didn’t think you and Klay were on good terms.”

“Maybe that was an idea someone had.”

“These two eggs that were killed—I hear they were implicated in the murder of Cherry Bliss, the vice queen with whom you had a date the night she was unkindly bumped off. There’s a rumor around town that Cherry was turning some information over to an unknown party. You that party?”

Donahue smacked his empty glass down on the coffee table. “Do you want a drink?” he snapped.

“I might.”

“Then take it and beat it.”

Libbey took a jolt straight, without ice. “Thanks. I can’t figure out how you and Klay happened to join up. I know Klay had no use for you, and you no use for him. Then suddenly you become pals against two heels. Klay goes down in a blaze of glory and you bump off the guy that did him in.”

“Miracles happen.”

“In Heaven maybe, but not—”

“You go,” Donahue muttered. “Get out of here. I’ve got an awful pain in the gut and you don’t do it any good.” He strode past Libbey and opened the door. “Out, bozo.”

Libbey shrugged, helped himself to another drink. He sauntered to the door saying: “Thanks for every little thing.”

Donahue said nothing in a wooden-faced way.

Libbey cocked an eye. “Say, Donny, do you know if Cherry had a kid?”

“A what?”

“A daughter.”

“I don’t know.”

“Of course, you wouldn’t tell me if she had.”

Donahue indicated the open door. “You were going out, weren’t you?”

“That’s right! I was! Toodle-oo!”

Donahue locked the door and poured more liquor into his glass. He sat for a while, drank half a pint of rye straight and then got up and began pacing the room, his face flushed and angry. The phone bell stopped him and he answered it.

“Where are you, Frank?… Good. Come right up.”

He hung up and went over to stand by the door, cramming a pipe from a leather pouch. He was ready when the knock sounded. He opened the door and Frank Castleman, the District Attorney, said:

“You look lousy, Donny!”

“I’m feeling better, Frank. In.”

Castleman was a stocky square-built man with ruddy cheeks and a good jaw. He left his hat on and kept his hands in his overcoat pockets. His face was curious but also a bit worried.

“Drink, Frank?”

“Not so early. What happened to you?”

Donahue opened his robe.

“My—!” Castleman said. “Did a horse kick you?”

“No. A horse’s neck.”

“Huhn?”

“Klay…. Sit down, old boy.”

Castleman sat on the edge of a high-back chair and blew his nose into crisp white linen. Donahue fell back into the big club chair and planked his long legs on the Ottoman. Breeze coming in through a partly open window tossed fragrant whiffs of tobacco smoke towards Castleman.

The District Attorney lifted candid eyes. “Get the papers?”

“Yeah.”

“Where are they?”

“In the mail.”

“In the mail! What was the idea—”

“Take it easy, Frank. It was my only out. I figured Kelly McPard would frisk me. My gut hurt after Klay kicked me and when Kelly came up I said I wanted to slide around the corner and get a drink. I did. I sealed the envelope they were in, put your name and address on it and dropped it in a box. When I came back sure enough Kelly frisked me. Klay, dying, must have said something to Kelly.”

Castleman looked at the floor. “You use your head, I guess, Donny. How did Klay get mixed up in it?”

“Well, he must have been tailing me this morning—or one of the eggs. I nailed Buck in his flat and then Louie came in. I got the papers and then I phoned for Kelly. He’s a white guy. I wanted to give him the pinch. Then Klay came in and tried to take hold of things. He wanted those papers. He flashed his badge and got very sore when I wouldn’t turn ’em over. We had the two heels handcuffed. Klay was afraid to take the papers out of my pocket. Afraid I’d jump him. So he released one of the heels and the heel released the other.

“Klay was going to let them go because they knew too much. But they turned on him and bailed out with the papers. He knew he had to get those papers. Well, I wanted them too. So we went after the heels and shot it out with them. Buck got killed on the way and Louie got his in that alley. I took the papers from him. Klay’s gun was empty, but he tried to take ’em from me. While we were fighting, Louie came to long enough to plug Klay. Then I had to plug Louie for keeps. Then Kelly McPard turned up.”

“This Louie—this Buck—did they kill Cherry Bliss?”

“Of course. She was going to hand those papers over to me free of charge. They objected. They wanted dough for them. So they bumped her off and left her in front of that speakeasy.”

“Who all were mentioned in the papers?”

“Detective Klay for one. He was shaking down Cherry even after she’d bailed out of the vice racket. There were others. I was in a hurry. I didn’t look at all of them. I did see Magistrate McGiff’s name—and another vice squad dick named Carney. He used to be Klay’s partner. But they’re in the mail. You’ll get ’em in the morning.”

Castleman said: “You’re sure no one knows you’re working for me?”

“I haven’t told a soul. There’s enough evidence in those papers to raise hell in this city. I’m glad you’ll get ’em, Frank.”

Castleman stood up. “I have you to thank, Donny. What did Kelly McPard think about this scrape?”

“When he’s made up his mind—he’ll come and see me.”

Castleman thought for a moment, blank-eyed; then shook his head and looked worried. “Kelly McPard’s the whitest dick in the city. I’d hate like the very devil to see you and Kelly become enemies. Do you think he’ll come back?”

“I don’t know for sure. I think he will. He didn’t quite get what I told him. He didn’t say whether he believed me or not. He was trying to think. Because Klay, dying, must have told Kelly about the papers.”

“What will you do—if he comes?”

“Tell him a fable in slang. Klay died, didn’t he—two hours later? The heels are dead. Who’s to prove I had any papers? Don’t worry about me, old boy.”

“I do, though, Donny. I don’t want you to get in too deep.”

Donahue scowled. “Hell, don’t be an old woman, Frank!”

“I’m no old woman, but—”

“I’m sorry, Frank.” Donahue made a sour face, touched his stomach. “My gut.”

Donahue slept through the afternoon. Slept off all of the liquor and most of the pain. He sent the camel’s-hair coat and the brown Homburg out to be cleaned and went down to the lobby at six-thirty wearing a gray fedora and a gray topcoat. The blonde at the cigar counter gave him a dazzling smile.

“You don’t come around as much as you used to,” she said, luscious lipped.

“I didn’t know you were married, little beautiful.” He added with a look of mock-fright: “And that your daddy is a box-fighter.”

He bought a paper and strode to the center of the lobby, snapped the paper open and downward with a loud report. The news was there in a black streamer. Detective Killed in Duel with Gunmen. Donahue grunted and reached the lobby. “Detective Klay fighting bravely to the end….”

“Oh, hell!” Donahue scoffed out loud.

“Beg pardon?” a red-headed bellhop said.

Donahue warped a look downward. “Oh—hello, Roy.”

The bellhop grinned, tossed a glance towards the cigar counter. “The blonde pooch is ga-ga about you, Mr. Donahue.”

“A pooch is a dog, Roy—a little dog.”

Roy chuckled. “Yeah—something you cuddle.”

“Okey, boy—okey. You win.”

“When do I get a job with your detective agency?”

“Stick around—and be nice to me.”

Donahue went out and nodded to the chasseur. “Cab, Henry.”

He continued reading in the cab by the feeble glow of the dome light. He grumbled, snorted, laughed aloud once or twice—with grating irony. His eyes thinned. They’d identified the two gunmen at the morgue. Louie Staley and John “Buck” Hubling. “Suspected of having been implicated in the murder of Cherry Bliss, notorious vice queen.”

Donahue looked out of the window at the jostling traffic. “Poor Cherry….”

Then he returned to the paper. It mentioned him. “Detective Klay was joined by Ben Donahue, a private operative, who at great danger to his person aided in running down the two gunmen.” It was very graphic writing, but the details were all wrong. Only two men knew for a fact that Donahue was working for District Attorney Castleman in the latter’s attempt to clean up certain metropolitan bureaus. These two were Donahue and Castleman. Only Donahue and Castleman knew for a fact that Detective Klay’s mad running gunfight with the two gangsters had had nothing to do with loyalty to the shield he had worn. Klay had died in his attempt to obtain evidence against himself that would be dangerous in another’s hands.

Donahue got out of the cab in a quiet uptown street, went down into an areaway and rang a bell beside a huge iron gate. Carmen let him into the vestibule, saying: “Walter told me to tell you—if you came, señor, that”—she nodded towards the inner door—“that Detective Kelly McPard is inside.”

He scowled, not at Carmen. Then he shrugged, grinned, and nipped her chin. “Why? McPard’s an old friend of mine.”

“Walter just said—”

“Yeah, I know, I know.”

Donahue entered the hall, left his hat and topcoat on a table there and went on down the corridor to a door at the end. He opened it and entered the bar and saw Kelly McPard standing at the other end, drinking beer out of a stein.

“Hi, Donny.”

“Prosit, Kelly!”

McPard was a big fat man, scrubbed clean, rosy-cheeked, with a neat sandy mustache following the mobile line of a genial upper lip. His sandy hair was silken on his large head, his clothes were always good, well kept.

“Dry Martini, Maxie,” Donahue said, remaining at the end of the bar opposite McPard.

McPard grinned, carried his beer down to Donahue’s elbow, grinned again with a genial bow, and munched potato chips. Donahue looked everywhere but at the plain-clothes sergeant, and McPard called for another beer.

“Nice place here, Donny.”

“I like it.”

“I never used to come around much.”

“So now that I’m making it a hangout, that gives you ideas.”

McPard poked him. “Good old Donny—never as bad as his bite!… Say, why don’t you put me straight on what happened this morning?”

“I tried to help out a conscientious dick by the name of Kenneth Klay.”