Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (53 page)

“Put it on the table. These rats would run you down for it, no matter where you went”

She sighed. “I guess you’re right. I don’t want it anyhow.”

Hagin stared at it. Beef and the others stared at it—hungrily.

The girl had her hat on.

Donahue said to the men: “This hurts, but it’s my only out.” He motioned to the girl. “Come on. Go through those rooms and into the hall. There’s a back window open. Go down the fire-escape, through the alley. Get a cab, get your suitcase, go to a hotel and leave on the first train you can get. I won’t be seeing you again.”

She came very close to him. “Thanks,” she said. “Thanks for everything.”

He waited fully two minutes, then began backing out. The men remained like images. They couldn’t understand his letting almost fifteen thousand dollars slide by. He reached the next room, turned and sped swiftly to the bedroom. The hall was empty. He went out the window, down the fire-escape, through the alley. He breathed thankfully. The girl had gone.

He grabbed a taxi and rode to Penn Station. The driver passed a stop-light and was held up for five minutes by a long-winded cop. Presently he moved on. It was dark and deserted in front of the station. No trains were moving, and inside the station it was quite deserted also. He didn’t see the girl. She would have been here already, he reasoned.

He saw four men heading for an exit. He started, then stopped. The four men walked swiftly in close formation and passed out through the doors. Donahue broke into a fast walk. He reached the doors and pushed one open when a vicious snarl of gunfire broke loose in the street. The mad sound of a sub-machinegun was touched up with the bark of heavy pistols.

He saw four men lying on the sidewalk. A car roared on the getaway. One of the four figures moved and the gun in his hand blazed four times. The car turned suddenly, heeled over on its rubber, hurtled diagonally across the street with full power on. It struck a building and seemed to bounce back into the street. He couldn’t tell definitely. Because the car exploded in a sheet of flame. The fourth man on the sidewalk was motionless again, on his back now, his arms outflung. It looked like Beef.

Donahue was on his way, blocks north, by the time police arrived, to find the pavement red.

Next day the papers had it. Hagin and the punk had shot it out with the other four, using a Thompson gun. But their getaway had been tragically incomplete. Six dead men in the street….

One of the papers got waggish. “Apparently,” it said, “there was something sentimental about it. It would appear that the gun fight started over a suitcase containing a lot of woman’s clothes, no piece of which bears any identification.”

Donahue, reading it, said: “These women… these women!”

Tough dick Donahue explodes in a large way a double set-up on a killing

The Champ, Harrigan, took one on the chin and piled into the ropes above the press-box. Three blows made sopping sounds against his ribs. He laughed. It was an intimate laugh, close against Tripp’s face, as they clinched. The referee bounced in, slapping them. The champ tossed Tripp off. The referee waltzed backward, bent over, fingers splayed, his monkey face screwed up tensely, his lower lip jutting upward over the upper.

It was only the third round. It had been noised around that the fight would go the limit—fifteen. The odds were seven to five in the champ’s favor. He was a big fellow, a kid—twenty-one or two, fighting out of Giles Consadine’s stable. He was not particularly sweet to look at, but he had a nice smile, a nice laugh, and he was the champ.

Rushing Tripp to the ropes, slamming him with both hands, he looked over the challenger’s shoulder, smiled at Token Moore. She waved, showed her fine set of teeth between luscious lips. The champ was crazy about her. But there was something peculiar in his smile. Giles Consadine, lean, slightly gray, sat next to Token Moore. He sat wooden-faced, his hands folded on the silver knob of an evening stick. The bell broke up the clinch.

They came out for the fourth, reached the center of the ring. Harrigan ducked. Then he piled two hard ones into Tripp’s face.

Tripp clinched, muttered: “Yuh mug!”

Harrigan laughed, danced away. He began dancing backward around the ring. He looked down over the ropes at Token, at Giles Consadine. Tripp jumped him but the champ was nimble for a big man. He tied Tripp up, broke, tossed him away, went after him. He stopped smiling and his jaw set, bulged. He carried Tripp to the ropes above the press-box. The wet gloves smacked, sopped; they were the champ’s gloves. Blood flew, spread like a comet across a newshawk’s cheek below. And suddenly the gloves stopped.

The referee was bending over Tripp.

The champ was not looking at him. Nor at the man on the floor. He was looking through the ropes, down at Token Moore, at Giles Consadine. He wore a dizzy grin. And he was laughing. The short, idiotic laughs thumped his chest, pumped his cheeks out and in. Nobody heard the laughs. He just looked as if he had the hiccups.

Giles Consadine was standing, expressionless, lifting a match to a long thin panetela. Token Moore was round-eyed. About them, Consadine’s yes-men jabbered, gesticulated. But you couldn’t hear what they said. Shouts, roars, screams, laughs, rose to the distant dome of the Arena, cascaded down again.

The newsreel cameras were in the ring, turning. Tripp was on a stretcher; two men carried him from the ring. The champ was glassy-eyed and trying to poke his way clear of the mob in the ring. A man was holding up a microphone, shouting for him. The champ did a breast-stroke for the ropes, swung through.

Consadine, inhaling deeply, let smoke languish from his nostrils. He was laconic, a little abstracted. “That’s that, then,” he said, half to himself.

Token Moore gave the impression of a bird fluttering, looking for a place to alight. She fell on Consadine’s arm. He hardly noticed her. But a tap on the shoulder made him turn, look around.

Donahue, lean and brown-faced above a single-studded stiff shirtfront, said: “Greetings, Consadine. The kid’s a natural.”

Consadine was short with him, clipped: “Thanks.” Turning front, the fight solon bent his wiry gray brows, frowned thoughtfully. He turned around again.

But Donahue was gone.

Token said: “Who—who was the handsome well-wisher?”

“A private dick.”

Donahue made his way to the back of the Arena, opened a door marked private. A short hallway lay beyond. It contained but one door. The door was broad, of metal, and had no knob. Donahue pressed a buzzer.

In a moment the door slid open and Donahue walked into a large elevator.

“Deep down,” he said.

His overcoat was over his arm. He wore a black velour hat slanted over one ear. Humming to himself, he drew from time to time on a cigarette as the car descended. When the car stopped, opened, he drifted into a severely modernistic foyer. A girl in trim black and white took his hat and overcoat and he drifted to one end of the foyer, pushed open a door and entered an elaborate bar. It was crowded, noisy; and beyond, in the vast dining and dancing-room, a Negro band was playing. The allegorical murals on the walls were in keeping with the name of the Suwanee Club. Giles Consadine did most things lavishly.

Donahue pushed into a telephone booth, dialed a number. A woman answered the phone and he asked for Karssen; waited, tapping his foot, whistling to himself. When Karssen answered, Donahue said:

“The champ put the works to Tripp in the fourth…. A knockout is right…. Well, there’s something screwy about it. I’d have bet my shirt Tripp was to win…. Not a chance. When the champ got busy Tripp didn’t have a chance…. That’s all so far, Alex.”

He hung up, squeezed out of the booth and came face to face with Detective-Sergeant Kelly McPard.

“Donny, as I live and breathe!”

“Me and my shadow. How’re you, Kel?”

“Just swell, just swell.” He used a neat, manicured fingernail to snick Donahue’s single shirt stud. “You look like a million. I never knew you went in for following the fights in a big way. Seems I’ve seen you at all of them for the past three months. Cleaning up, old kid?”

Donahue said: “I got this suit for a Christmas present. I don’t like the theatre. I had to wear it somewhere.”

McPard squeezed Donahue’s arm affectionately. McPard was a large man—large in the torso, thin in the legs. His feet tapered off in pointed shoes forever aglow with a high polish. He wore a tailored suit, a tailored overcoat. His starched collar was snug about his plump neck. He was a clean-looking, pink-cheeked man, wily behind the merry twinkle in his eyes and the amused smile that never quite left his lips.

He poked Donahue’s ribs, said: “I picked up a hundred bucks on that little brawl, Donny. Not bad for a copper, huh? Hey… once I was a roundsman when Danny Harrigan was a kid. He was nuts about my uniform. Wanted to be a cop. Now look at him! Champ!… Come on, Donny; I’ll buy you a drink.”

The head bartender was signaling. “Oh, Mr. Donahue there!”

“Yeah?”

“Mr. Consadine wants to see you.”

“It’s free. Tell him to come down.”

“He says upstairs—his office.”

Donahue, leaning elbows on the bar, said: “I can’t. My pal’s buying me a drink. It might never happen again. Make it a double Scotch, Rudolph, with a bottle of Perrier on the side.”

The head bartender looked pained. “But I’m hangin’ on the phone here and the boss—”

Kelly McPard chimed in: “Why act like that, Donny? Go up and see him.”

“I just came down. You think I’m going to spend the rest of the night chasing up and down in the elevator? Tell him,” Donahue said to the bartender, “I’m engaged. No—wait a minute. I’ll go up. Tell him I’ll be up.”

McPard said: “Tsk, tsk! What a man!”

Donahue stretched his long legs to the foyer, entered the waiting elevator and said “Top” to the attendant. The car rose to the top floor. Sliding doors opened and Donahue entered a carpeted anteroom on either side of which stood a Grecian urn. Three doors faced him. He headed towards the one marked Private, opened it. He did not hurry.

Consadine was seated in a tremendous red leather chair. He was fully dressed, hat on, white silk muffler bunching between the lapels of his black overcoat. He sat well back, legs crossed, and he tapped the patent leather toe of one foot with the end of his walking stick. Kempler, a small, chubby man with a squashed nose and close-fitting ears, sat on the mahogany desk spinning a small penknife at the end of a platinum watch chain. He looked as if he had been shoehorned into his evening clothes.

Donahue elbowed the door shut. “Mohamet comes to the mountain, Consadine.”

Consadine’s face was wooden. “Win any dough on the scrap?”

“Didn’t bet.”

“Since when did you begin to follow the fights?”

“I take it in spells.”

“This spell began about three months ago, didn’t it?”

“You figure close.”

“I noticed you behind me in every scrap I attended in the past three months. Kempler noticed it, too.”

“Yeah,” said Kempler.

Consadine said: “You’ve been dropping in at the gym, too.”

“Sure,” nodded Donahue.

“Going to write a book or something about the game?

“No.”

“Why the sudden lively interest?”

“Hobby,” said Donahue, good-humored.

Consadine said: “Take a tip. I don’t like strangers hanging around my stables.”

“I get tossed out if I show up again, huh?”

“That’s the idea. And that goes for the Suwanee Club, too. You’ve been practically living there. Stay out of it.”

“In other words—”

“In other words,” said Consadine, wooden-faced, unemotional, “keep your nose clean.”

“Yeah,” said Kempler.

“Finished?” Donahue said.

Consadine said: “Yes, you can go now.”

Donahue turned, opened the door. He stood for a moment on the threshold, smiling at Consadine.

“Keep yours clean,” he said.

Kempler thumped off the desk, lumbered over and said: “What?”

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

“What?”

“Nerts.”

“What?”

Consadine said: “Lay off, Kempler.”

Kempler lumbered back to the desk, turned, scowled at Donahue.

Donahue said to Consadine: “B-r-r-r! He scares hell out of me, Consadine.” His voice dropped: “You do, too.”

He chuckled, went out, closed the door.

Alex Karssen was head of the Boxing Commission. He was a small bag of bones, five feet four, and he had a lopsided, leathery face, a tyrant’s bright eye tempered by an amazing sparkle, crooked teeth that nonetheless could produce a winning, dynamic smile. He spoke quickly, sharply, out of his warped mouth.

“In here, Donny, my boy.”

He shoved and punched Donahue into a small study whose door, now closed, muffled the music in the salon. Karssen was socially prominent. His Fifth Avenue house was the scene of many bright affairs and it was said of him that he entertained every night.

He was eager. “What happened, Donny?”

“Nothing much. Only Consadine’s wise. He may not know for sure, but he’s got a bug in his brain—he suspects me. I was told”—he grinned slowly—“to keep out of his gym, out of his Suwanee scatter.”

Karssen’s bright eyes darted about in space, he rubbed thumb frantically against forefinger. “What do you think, boy?”

“Only this: something went wrong. I don’t say Tripp was to‘ve knocked Harrigan out. Nothing like it. But I do say Tripp was to‘ve stayed the fifteen, to a close decision. The fight started out like big-time. The two guys smacked hell out of each other. Tripp’s been the only logical contender for the past two years. He was built up nicely. I say he was to‘ve lost this scrap, but by such a slight margin that a return bout would have been down on the books before their gloves were dry. As it is, Tripp’s a has-been. There’s no contender on the horizon. Consadine is going to lose dough on the champ. Why? Because there’s nobody for the champ to fight.”

Karssen bobbed his shriveled head. “Right! Right! That sounds reasonable. The fight was to have been in the bag. Both sides in agreement. A close, fast fight. A close decision. A return bout inside of six months and the public milked of another several hundred thousand dollars! Capital!”