Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (49 page)

At eleven next morning he walked into Big Bertha’s apartment. She was playing Russian Bank with Mabel. Mabel did not look up but Bertha waved a hand, shouted:

“Hello, handsome!”

“Hello, kid,” he said. “I was just down to Headquarters. It was funny—that Filipino failed to identify me. Was Kelly McPard mad? Boy!”

Big Bertha said: “I see Ragtime got his belly full of lead last night.”

“I see,” Donahue added, “that his assailant left by the back window and the fire-escape. And no fingerprints. But on the platform outside the window—a flower pot was overturned and they found a woman’s footprint in the dirt. A long, narrow shoe with a worn spot on the ball of the foot.”

Mabel—thin, dark, dark-clothed—laid down her cards and got up. “I guess,” she said, “I better burn those shoes.”

She walked out of the room.

Big Bertha reached for a cigar, cocked an eye at Donahue. “You see, Donny, I never told you that Mabel was the first girl Ragtime started on the downgrade…. Got a light?”

Tough dick Donahue crashes into a load of grief

Donahue had stopped in the dark, windy street to cup his hands over a match. He heard the door bang, and looking up from the match’s glow, he saw the drunk reel towards him across the sidewalk. He stepped aside, still maneuvering his hands in the wind to get a light, and had the flame leaning steadily towards his cigarette when he heard the grunt and the sound of the man piling headfirst into the gutter, near a fire-hydrant.

The door opened again. Tossing the match away, Donahue saw a head thrust out, the shadow of a face beneath a fedora; then the head withdrew and the door banged shut. He stood for half a moment quite complacently enjoying the first drags of smoke and watching the drunk’s awkward efforts. The wind came from the west, up West Tenth Street and smack against his back, flapping the long skirt of his belted camel’s hair and humming past his rigid Homburg.

“Here,” he said, at length.

He swung to the curb, grabbed a wandering arm and hauled the man to his feet. He grinned good-humoredly.

“Steady, brother. Another dive like that and—Stead-y!”

“’S all right—’s all right, brother. Must have been somethin’ I ate. ’S trouble with restaurants these days: you can’t depend on nothin’ any more.”

“Come on; I’ll steer you to a subway.”

The man grunted. “Idea.” He reeled around and poked Donahue’s arm. “An’ not only restaurants, brother.” His lower lip pouted; he teetered back on his heels. “’S damn’ shame, ’s what!”

“Come on; snap out of it.”

“Sure. Where was we goin’?”

“Subway. I’ll pilot you to Sheridan Square.”

“Swell idea. Le’s go…. You goin’ uptown, too?”

“Yeah.”

They went along the dark street, past the pale glow of a speakeasy areaway; went on—the man bouncing along on his heels like a marionette and Donahue keeping a firm grip on his arm. He was no great bundle to handle; short, bony-faced, with a gray, hard pallor. New clothes, cheap but substantial. And he was very drunk. The whites of his eyes rolled into view frequently. They reached West Fourth Street and the drunk stopped resolutely.

“T’ hell with subway. Le’s get taxi. Taxi!” he yelled.

Brakes squealed and a cab stopped on the opposite side of the street. Donahue hadn’t bargained for this, but traffic was flowing past and he did not care to see the drunk run down. He steered him through the traffic and put him into the cab.

“Where d’ you want to go, friend?”

“Hell. You’re comin’ uptown, ain’t you? Come on!”

Donahue shrugged and climbed in and the man said: “Penn Station, Jymes.”

The cab started off and the drunk leaned against Donahue’s shoulder. “Gonna meet her, brother. Gonna make her my wife. Penn Station, train at 9:02. She come a long ways. To meet me.” He poked himself, hiccoughed. “Be my wife.”

He swung away, heaved over on one side and dragged awkwardly at a hip pocket. He drew out a small wallet and a big .38 revolver. His lip drooped and he said:

“Here, hold this rod a minute, brother.”

Donahue took it, hefted it; guns were in his trade and he liked the feel of this one.

The drunk had taken a small snapshot from his wallet. “Her picture, mister.” He looked, oddly enough, like a yokel just then.

Donahue glanced sketchily at it, then said, hefting the gun: “You want to look out for this rod. What the hell are you packing a cannon like this around for?”

“Ah,” the drunk said, and winked with tremendous spirit. He closed his hand over his gun and thrust it into his overcoat pocket. His teeth bared in a drunken grimace and he stared grimly before him. “I gotta pack it,” he said.

Donahue was good-humored, twisting a smile off his lips. “I know, but look at it this way: here you show me, a perfect stranger, a rod the State of New York says you’re not allowed to pack. Of course, personally I don’t care who packs a rod, but if I’d turned out now to be a city cop instead of a private dick—well, where’d you be?”

“Uh,” said the drunk. “Yeah, I get you. I gonna be careful. I gotta—” He stopped short, fell against Donahue, gripped his arm. “You—you’re a private detective?”

“Yeah.”

“Good! Listen, brother—now listen.” He tugged at his wallet, counted out some bills. “Here. Here’s a hundred bucks. Listen, now. I gotta meet this gal. But I’m drunk, see? I’m stewed. Some swell lousy pals o’ mine got me stewed. Tell you what. You meet my gal, tell her I been detained on business. You take her to a hotel—make it the Grandi, and see she gets a room there. Me, I’ll get me a Turkish bath, get straightened out. Hey, wait now! How the hell do I know you’re a private dick?”

Donahue chuckled, showed him plenty of identification. He was frank. “This is easy money,” he said.

“A hundred bucks. Count ’em. I—jeeze—I got to get straightened out. You see, I just come back from South America—struck it rich—and these fine, nice, lousy pals o’ mine….”

Grinning, Donahue pocketed the hundred dollars. “Now wait, brother. You’d better lend me that picture of the girl. Tell me her name. Also, I’ll have to have your own name.”

“Sure! Sure I’ll”—he sought his wallet again—“lend you the picture. Name’s Laura and she’s—”

Donahue had his little book out. “And your name.”

He turned, by instinct more than anything else, and saw the long black shape of the touring car draw up and crowd in close. But he hadn’t time to get a word out of his mouth. He hadn’t time to snap his hand to his gun.

A gun crashed four times.

Donahue flung back against the side of the cab, ducking. The driver ducked and slewed in his seat and the cab careened, brakes screamed, but at the same time there was a tremendous bounce as the wheels went over the curb. The right front mudguard crashed against a building wall. The car recoiled and glass shattered.

Donahue was pitched forward out of the seat. He struck the glass partition between tonneau and driver’s seat and collapsed on the floor, facing backwards. The drunk piled down on top of him violently and Donahue felt something warm and liquid slap his cheek. He straight-armed the drunk off, hauled himself up and dropped to the seat, hot and shaking all over. His client was gurgling on the floor, in the darkness there.

The driver was pressing his forehead down on the upper rim of the wheel. The man on the cab’s floor was groaning and gurgling, and up and down the street autos, trucks, were stopping; the shots, the sound of the crashing taxi had frozen a few pedestrians into immobility and they remained thus.

“Brother….”

Donahue got a flashlight on and sprayed light down on the man’s face. He shut the flash off immediately, grimacing.

“Brother….” The tone was curiously sober.

“That’s all right—that’s all right.”

“Listen. Go meet her. It’ll be tough, her comin’ alone. Go meet her. Here… take this wallet. Key inside—for bag—”

Donahue snapped: “Cut out talking.”

“Here, take it”

“Will you shut up!”

He felt a hand pawing at his own.

“Take it. You’ll recognize her by the picture. There’s some dough in it. Give it to her. Here. There’s a baggage check in it. I got a bag at the station. Get it. Give it to her. Tell her to get out of town—go home again—I’m sorry—”

Donhaue found himself taking the wallet shoving it into his pocket.

And he heard the broken voice go on: “Don’t tell—the—cops. It ain’t her fault. She—don’t—know—and—”

“For——sake, shut up!”

It was hard to listen to the gurgle of a dying man. There was no reason why he had to listen to it. The man was a stranger.

“Hey, there!”

That was a voice outside the cab—loud and challenging.

Donahue pushed open the door and climbed out and a cop came up to him, stopped and eyed him with a hard stare.

“What the hell happened?”

Donahue’s thoughts were on the sprint. In his pocket lay the hundred dollars representing his fee for promising to meet and conduct to the Hotel Grandi one named Laura something. He did not know the man’s name—nor the girl’s. He had a rather thorough opinion of a harness-bull’s imagination. To tell this cop the truth as it had happened would, in the clear sound of words, seem fantastic. He would not expect the cop to believe him. Part of the truth might get by. The fact of the matter was he had seen an easy way to make a hundred dollars, had taken the case as a joke; and the joke had turned into tragedy.

“Take a look in the cab,” he said.

The cop snapped on a flashlight and poked into the tonneau. Donahue watched him, his eyes narrowed.

“Hey!” the cop yelled; then he backed out, spun around. “That guy’s dead.”

Donahue said: “A curtained touring car yanked up alongside us and let go. The guy inside got it.”

“Who’s the stiff?”

“I’m damned if I know.”

The cop towered with rage. “What the hell are you trying to hand me?”

“I picked him up in a gutter downtown. He was soused. Like a drunk, I couldn’t get rid of him. So we took a cab.”

The driver looked out, choked: “F-four shots!”

“You,” the cop said to Donahue, “are lying!”

“So what should I do now? Break down?”

There was no turning back now. He had the man’s wallet. To turn the wallet over now would be to put himself in a very serious jam.

The cop twirled his nightstick and laughed unpleasantly.

“Okey, guy, okey. Be wise, be wise…. Hello, Coake,” he said to another cop who had come up on the run.

“Hello, Donlin. What the hell?”

“A stiff inside.”

“Who’s this?”

“A wise bimbo.”

Donahue said: “You cops!” with hopeless irony, and chuckled.

A car drew up at the curb and a stoutish man alighted without haste and came across the sidewalk slapping gloves he held in one hand across the palm of the other.

“I heard shots.”

“Yeah,” Donlin said. “Pike what’s inside.”

The stoutish man looked into the cab, backed out and said: “Well, well,” in a merry voice. “And who’s—”

Donahue was leaning against the building wall, eyes cold but watchful.

The stoutish man said: “Well, well, Donny!”

Donahue’s “Hello, Kelly,” was not enthusiastic.

“He’s a wise bimbo,” Donlin growled.

Kelly McPard grinned broadly. “Hell, he’s all right. Just has a habit of being Johnny-on-the-spot. So what happened, Donny?”

“Ask precious,” Donahue said, indicating Donlin.

Donlin told him, and then said: “And this guy right away starts to act dumb like a Dago.”

McPard made a face, as though all this was unpleasant business. “Tsk! tsk! Well—well, suppose we get the morgue bus. Did you frisk the stiff?”

“No,” Donlin said.

“Better.” He backed away from the cab, turned casually and looking up the street, said to Donahue: “What about it?”

“It’s blind to me.” Donahue shrugged. “I told the cop everything I know.”

Kelly McPard kept looking up the street and said thoughtfully: “Ye-es, I suppose so…. Well?” This was directed at Donlin, who had come out of the cab.

“Only this.” Donlin held the .38 auto in his hand.

“Full?”

“Yup.”

McPard sighed and said to Donahue: “Mind running over the station house?”

“I gave the cop all the dope. I was headed uptown. You know where I live.”

McPard shrugged. “Okey.”

“What!” yelped Donlin. “You gonna let this ape—”

“Ah,” drawled McPard, “he’s all right. We don’t need him.” There was curious laughter back of his voice, a wily dip to his head. “Run along, Donny. I wouldn’t think of pestering you.” And there was still that curious sense of laughter.

Donahue walked away.

He had decided a dozen times in the space of as many minutes to turn the wallet over to McPard. And in the end he hadn’t. He was Irish, and that may have accounted in some measure for the sentimental streak beneath the tough hide. That—or the fact that he and Kelly had a habit of playing hide and seek with each other. Within limits he trusted McPard. Kelly was square. But he had long wanted something on Donahue, and this would have been too good a chance.

It was two minutes to nine when he heaved out of a taxi at Penn Station. He slapped swing doors open, went down into the main rotunda. The only 9:02 train would arrive downstairs. He went down and saw a man in a cap marking on a blackboard that the 9:02 was expected to arrive at 9:15. He worried a cigarette between his lips and cast a quick glance over the waiting people. The small wallet felt hot and oily in his palm; he kept that hand religiously in his overcoat pocket. Shop windows were bright and cheerful in this subterranean cavern, but the air was always stuffy, second-hand, winter or summer. He prowled around, looking. He pushed into a soda counter, entered a telephone booth, took out the wallet. It contained two hundred and twenty dollars. There was the girl’s picture. She looked young, brown-haired, nice. On the back was inscribed: “Love to Charlie from Laura.” The snap wasn’t very old. And there was a baggage check. He replaced the articles in the wallet, the wallet in his pocket.

“Tough,” he said, thinking of the picture.