Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (41 page)

“Yes, you did.”

“Doubt me. See if I care.”

McPard shook with good humor. “Yes, you did.”

“All right, razz me. I did this, then: I had that heel all sewed up—Buck What’s-his-name. Then Louie came in. Klay’d tailed Louie. He came in. The two heels broke away from Klay and we beat it after them. Have it your way. Klay helped me.”

“That’s not my way either. Those guys had something—something they got from Cherry Bliss. Maybe something she was to give to you. You wanted it. Klay wanted it and because he was a cop he had a right to have it. In the smash-up in that alley you got it. Klay said: ‘He’s got papers, Kelly. For——sake get them and give me a break.”

“What do you suppose he meant by that?”

“Well, he was being rode for quite a while lately. He was on something hot. He had a chance to turn up some dope and show his boss he was working. It would have looked rotten if you’d turned up the stuff instead. He thought he was going to live. He wanted a break, the credit of rubbing out these heels and turning up the dope.”

“What dope?”

“I don’t know, Donny. But you do. You got it.”

“You searched me, didn’t you?”

McPard nodded. “Yeah. But you went away for ten minutes.”

“Maybe I gave the dope to a total stranger and said: ‘Here, buddy, hold this till I come back. Or maybe I hid it somewhere. Don’t make me laugh—my stomach’s tender!”

McPard shrugged. “There was a cop there, too, you remember. My boss is calling me names now because it’s rumored around you did get away with something—right under my nose. Hell, I can’t stand for that. I’m supposed to be a good cop.”

“You are a good cop. A white guy.”

“Thanks.” McPard crunched a potato chip. “Now what did you get out of that fight?”

Donahue touched his stomach. “Welts and abrasions.”

McPard turned and looked full face at him. McPard rarely got mad so that you noticed it. His mouth warped humorously and his eyes twinkled—but back of the twinkle was a wily look.

He sounded sorrowful: “Give me the run-around all the time, Donny—all the time. Why? I like you.”

“I like you.”

McPard sighed and turned away. “Fill that up, Maxie.” He caught the glass of beer as Maxie snaked it towards him; drank deeply, was careful to dab the foam from his mustache. Then he hunched close to Donahue.

“The other night Cherry Bliss was murdered. These two guys you and Klay got murdered her. She had a date here with you the night she was murdered. Why?”

“We’ve been over that, Kelly. I just had a date with her.”

McPard regarded Donahue’s profile. “Suppose you did. Then how come you were mixed up in this thing this morning?”

“Simple. I tailed down the guys who murdered her. I telephoned you to make the pinch. Klay cut in on you and balled up the works.”

McPard shook his head. “No, you didn’t just have a date with Cherry, and you didn’t just go after these guys because they murdered her.”

“Why did Klay cut in on you?”

“His privilege. He was a cop.”

Donahue snorted. “Oh, go places, Kelly—go places!”

“But it all narrows down to one thing.” McPard had turned full face again. “What did you snatch out of the gunfight and what did you do with it?”

Donahue tossed a bill on the bar. “So then we’re back where we started from…. Change, Maxie.”

“What,” McPard said, “was it?”

“Thanks, Maxie…. Well, be seeing you, Kelly.”

“Wait.”

McPard gripped Donahue’s arm and eyed him with a faint twinkle.

Donahue said in a low voice: “I wouldn’t try any precinct crap on me, Kelly.”

“Hell, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“I’m not going to have every flatfoot with an idea try to work it off on me.”

McPard looked hurt. “Gosh, Donny, I’m just working for a living.”

“Leggo!” Donahue ripped his arm free. “Shovel that bushwha where it hasn’t been heard before. To hell with you!”

He pivoted and strode towards the door. He turned and came back and said: “I’m sorry about that last crack, Kelly.”

McPard stared at the mirror behind the bar with a detached look.

Donahue shrugged and went out and down the hall. Walter Nass was waiting for him, holding a slip of paper.

“Hello, Walter.”

“Hello, Donny. Here. A jane telephoned here and asked for you. I didn’t give her your number. I thought maybe you wouldn’t want to. So she gave me her’s.”

“What’d she want?”

“You.”

“What’s her name?”

“Search me.”

Donahue made a telephone call at a corner cigar store. He came out lighting a long cigar. He stood for a moment on the curb, his face lined with thought. A taxi came up and stopped. The driver looked at Donahue with quizzical eyebrows and Donahue returned the look with a vacant stare.

The driver said: “Hell—he’s screwy!” finally and meshed gears.

“Hey—wait!” Donahue climbed in, gave his hotel address.

He stopped at the lobby desk for his mail and the clerk said: “There was a man here a few minutes ago looking for you.”

“Sorry. He leave a message?”

“He said he’d wait a while in case you returned. In the lounge.”

“What’s his name?”

“Mr. Bunn.”

Donahue idled towards the lounge. He saw a small man in black clothes looking piously at the ceiling. He saw so one else. He regarded the man for a moment, then returned to the desk and said: “If he asks again, I’m not in.”

He took an elevator and went to his apartment, hung up his hat and overcoat. Ten minutes elapsed when a light knock sounded on the door. Donahue looked at his wrist-watch, shook his head, but went to the door anyhow.

The small man in the black clothes was standing there, one eyebrow way up, the other way down. “I thought the clerk may have been mistaken. I am K. W. Bunn, Mr. Donahue.”

Donahue was overly polite. “I’m sorry. I don’t know the name. No doubt you’re mistaken.”

“Wait. I am an attorney.”

“I’m still sorry—”

“I know. You might not be, however, after you’ve spoken with me a few minutes. Really”—he looked up and down the corridor—“it is very private, and for your own good benefit.”

Curious, Donahue stepped aside and Mr. Bunn came in. His head was peculiarly small, with fuzzy down on the back of a stringy neck. Frail nose-glasses rode precariously and quite matched the dusty frailty of his face and body. He was ageless.

Donahue closed the door. “Go ahead, Mr. Bunn.”

“Yes; yes, of course.” Mr. Bunn’s upper lip had a chronic twitch, giving the impression that he continually sniffed because of a cold in the head. “Certain gentlemen have delegated me to call on you, Mr. Donahue, and lay before you a plan by which you can benefit handsomely.”

“Yeah?” Donahue had a hard slantwise stare on the man.

“We need mention no names. Suffice it to say that you have certain papers which you acquired today. It is the belief of my clients that you are a man of business, that you acquired these papers primarily so that you might realize a profit. It is the belief of my clients that you would not be certain whom to approach. They anticipated this, and as a result have sent me to act as their representative. What price will you name?”

Donahue growled. “I thought so!”

“Thought so?”

“I picked you for a cheap shyster the minute I laid eyes on you…. Well, you can’t sell your groceries here, Mr. Bunn. You can’t because I’ve got no papers.”

Unabashed, Mr. Bunn went on: “Naturally you hesitate to take me into your confidence. I don’t blame you. It may interest you that my clients, however, have offered $10,000 for those papers. This money can be placed in your hands at eleven tomorrow morning. In cash, sir, and in whatever denominations you choose to name.”

Donahue held up his palms. “No can do. No can do because I’ve got no papers. What the hell makes you think I’ve got any papers?”

“A detective attached to the vice squad was shot in a battle with two gunmen this morning. He died a few hours later at the hospital. Before his death he was called upon by several friends. It is very possible, sir, that he told one of these friends that during the fight you acquired certain papers.”

“If he did, he lied.”

“Dying men do not frequently lie.”

Donahue’s face became wooden. “I’m sorry, Mr. Bunn, that you got wrong information. I’m busy. I’ll thank you if you’ll go.”

“But my dear Mr. Donahue—”

“That’s final. I’ve got no papers. I’ve got nothing to sell you and you’ve got nothing to sell me.”

Mr. Bunn sighed. He removed his gloves, laid them on the divan, took a handkerchief and carefully cleaned his glasses. “I regret, Mr. Donahue, that I must report failure to my clients. Perhaps if you would reconsider—”

“What’s the use? I’ve got no papers, I tell you.”

Mr. Bunn shrugged. He replaced his glasses on his nose, went slowly to the door. “Good night, Mr. Donahue.” He went out and Donahue closed the door, relit his cigar and started pacing up and down. His eyes dropped on the gloves that Mr. Bunn had forgot. He scooped them up and went to the door. But Mr. Bunn was not in sight. Donahue closed the door and tossed the gloves on the desk.

A few minutes later there was a knock. Donahue went to the door but did not open it. “Who’s there?”

“Mr. Bunn, sir. I forgot my gloves.”

Donahue turned and strode across to the desk, picked up the gloves, returned to the door and opened it. A big man in a blue ulster crowded him with a gun.

“Back, you!”

There was another behind him, quite as tall but less broad. Mr. Bunn turned and went away down the hall and the two big men moved into the apartment, closed the door.

Glitter-eyed, Donahue said: “That was a swell trick!”

The leaner of the two laughed softly. “Wasn’t it!”

The broad man said: “Frisk him, Archie.”

Humming light-heartedly, Archie got behind Donahue and slapped his pockets; removed, finally, the gun from beneath Donahue’s left armpit.

The broad man was serious, thatch-browed. “You know what we’re here for, fella.”

Archie chuckled. “We came to call, you know!”

“Can that!” the broad man said.

Archie said: “You mustn’t mind Homer, Donahue!”

“I said can that cheap comedy!”

Donahue, hands up, said: “What do you bums want?”

Homer growled: “You know what we want. Shell out, fella.”

“Look around,” Donahue said. “See if there’s anything you can use.”

“I wouldn’t get funny, fella.”

“Am I? Hell, I’m telling you to look around.”

“You can find it quicker.”

Donahue shook his head. “I can’t find something that isn’t here any quicker than you can.”

“You can’t?” chuckled Archie, and brought his gun-barrel down on the back of Donahue’s head.

Instinctively Donahue whirled. Instinctively his fist came up; traveled a foot, swiftly. Archie sat down on the floor, looked dazed. Then he began rubbing his chin. Slowly he began to smile. His lips smiled showing white teeth but the shimmer in his eyes was humorless. He rose and kept smiling with his lips.

“That’s a nice start,” he said, chuckled absently; then suddenly snapped: “You dirty—” and whipped up his gun.

Homer blocked him. “Fat-head!” Homer said.

Archie had risen quivering to his toes. Now he settled back to his heels, shrugged, smiled sheepishly.

Homer turned on Donahue. “Now how about it, fella?”

“I tell you, guys, I haven’t got a thing!”

“You got papers from them two bums Louie and Buck, that’s what you got and that’s what we want. The Professor offered you cash dough for them but you clowned around. Clown around now and see where it gets you!”

“Search me. Search my apartment. You’re haywire. I haven’t got a thing. If I did, do you suppose I’d turn down ten thousand bucks? Be your age!”

Homer stepped back. “Archie, dig into this joint.”

Archie dug in. He turned bedroom and living-room into a shambles. It took him half an hour, and he found nothing.

“There,” Donahue said. “I told you.”

“Yeah?” smiled Archie. “But you ain’t told us what you did with them?”

“You hear that?” Homer asked.

Donahue scowled. “So what?”

“So we’re goin’ to know what you did with ’em,” Homer said. “Come on. Out with it!”

“I can’t. I can’t because I never had them.”

They grabbed him, one on either side, and their guns rubbed his ribs. They walked him to an open window.

“Look down,” Homer said. “It’s a long fall.”

“What good would that do you?”

“What good would it do you?” Archie asked quietly.

“I tell you I never had any papers! I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

Homer gritted. “You’re goin’ to tell the truth, fella, or you’re goin’ to take a header.”

They shoved his head and shoulders through the window. The pavement was far below in a dark side street.

“You’re goin’ to talk,” Homer said. “Or you’ll hit that street so hard it’ll take days to identify you.”

“God’s truth, I don’t know.”

They shoved and now he lay on the windowsill with his waist. There was a humming sound in his ears. Blood was pounding in his head. Archie started tapping him on the back of the head with his gun. Slowly and gently at first, then faster, harder, and through the rapid knocking in his head came the thin sound of Archie’s chuckle.

“Take a long look, old pal, old pal!” Archie cooed.

“So help me, I don’t know!”

They shoved and his body moved farther outward, his fingers scraped against the stone of the building.

He grunted: “Haul—me—back.”

“Do you talk?”

“Yes—yes.”

They hauled him into the room. He fell to the floor and sat there, his face a dull red, the breath pounding hard from his open mouth. They squatted beside him.

“Tell papa,” Archie said, poking him.

Donahue looked from one to the other. He knew killers when he saw them.

“I put them in the mail,” he said.

“When?” Homer growled.

“Just after the fight.”

“What’d you do that for?”

“I—I didn’t want them to be found on me.”

“Where’d you send them?”

“To—myself.”