Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (55 page)

Donahue was silent for a moment, eying McPard steadily. Then he said: “What am I supposed to do? If it’s Harrigan’s gun, what’s the matter with getting Harrigan?”

“I phoned his hotel. He checked out at 11:15. He must have taken his bags and checked them at the station. Then he came here.”

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know whether I’d like to know or not—but I don’t know. I want to know if Consadine hired you. I want to know if he was afraid of Harrigan—or anybody else.”

Donahue said: “Consadine didn’t hire me.”

“Did he try to?”

“No.”

McPard sighed. “I’m not going to like it—pinching that kid.”

“Hey, Kel,” Spengler shouted. “The camera guy from H.Q. is here. He wants to mug the stiff. Ask the stiff if it’s okey.”

Donahue said to McPard: “I imagine Spengler’s comedy goes over big with the hotel help.”

“Spengler’s all right at heart…. Listen, Donny—”

Donahue held up his palms. “Nix, Kel. We’ve been all over that. Consadine didn’t hire me.”

Donahue walked north. Park Avenue was wide, empty, in the winter starlight. Even in the dark its smartness was obvious, insistent. The purr of a passing automobile’s tires made a loud sound in the wide, windowed canyon.

Donahue cut east to Lexington Avenue, entered a drug-store and pushed into a telephone booth. He thumbed a directory, dialed a number, made a whistling mouth but no sound. The operator at the Hotel Eden answered and Donahue said:

“I want to speak to Miss Moore in apartment 44.”

“We have no Miss Moore in apartment 44.”

“You must have. Look it up.”

There was a pause and then the operator said: “I’m sorry, sir; we have no Miss Moore in apartment 44. The only Moore we have is in apartment 606.”

“I must have made a mistake,” Donahue said. “Pardon me.”

He hung up, whistled his way out of the booth and bought a malted milk at the counter. He drank only half of it, left the drug-store and walked north on Lexington, then west to Fifth. In a nearby side-street he entered the small, chic Hotel Eden, crossed to the open elevator car and mentioned the sixth floor. The operator yawned on the way up.

Donahue hummed on his way down the sixth floor corridor, bowed before 606, listening, and then rippled his knuckles down the panel. He seemed quite satisfied with himself, teetering back and forth from heel to toe.

A breathless voice broke on the other side of the door: “Who’s there?”

“Is Harrigan in there?”

“No!”

“I don’t believe it.”

“He’s not here!”

“I heard him in there.”

“You didn’t! Who are you?”

“A detective. Harrigan’s in there.”

“He isn’t!”

“You’ve got to prove it.”

A lock grated. The door was flung open. Token Moore was not so sleek as she had been at the fight; but she was no less beautiful. She looked stunning in a black sheer peignoir, black pajamas beneath. She was flushed, her auburn hair rumpled, and her eyes bloodshot. And she was drunk.

Donahue shouldered in, shouldered the door shut and snapped the lock. He passed her where she stood swaying, went into the living-room, the bedroom, the bathroom, the closets. He reappeared to find Token flip-flopping her way across to a divan. She made a peculiarly pathetic spectacle. Changing her mind about the divan, she brought up in the center of the floor, rubber-kneed, dabbing at loose ends of hair.

“What you want?”

She hadn’t a bad voice; there was nothing particularly coarse about it; but liquor made her tongue thick, her lips clumsy. She bounced from one foot to the other, her arms darting out at eccentric angles in an effort to strike a balance.

Donahue said: “Where’s Harrigan?”

“Don’t know.”

She made a headlong dive for the coffee table, grabbed at a bottle of gin, raised the bottle to her lips. She had had more than enough. Donahue knew it. But he didn’t move, he didn’t offer advice. She gagged and slammed the bottle down and went dizzily around the room holding her throat. He seemed keenly, clinically interested in her haywire maneuvers. Suddenly she wound up in a heap, on the divan, and lay there shaking violently, panting hoarsely.

Donahue sauntered over, sat down beside her, ran his big hand familiarly through her hair.

“Little girl shouldn’t drink gin that way—!”

She slapped at his arm and went spinning to the floor.

He sighed. “The things I walk into.” He picked her up and stood holding her in his arms. She was small, pliable, and he liked the feel of her in his arms. He sighed again. “Business, though, is business,” he remarked as he dropped her to the divan.

She crouched there, staring up at him out of wide-open eyes. He rubbed the back of his neck. He sat down beside her and she shrank back farther, tugging her peignoir across her small breasts.

“Listen,” he said. “What kind of a deal was made on that fight? You’re in the know. You’d know. Was Harrigan supposed to lose that fight or what? What went wrong?”

She gave an agonized groan, sprang from the divan and went hurtling across the room. She carried down a tea-table, sprawled with it, her legs flying.

Donahue said: “Tsk, tsk!”

She scrambled up and ran crazily into the bedroom. He followed her. He found her hiding beneath the bed. Pulling her out by one leg, he lifted her to her feet, held her erect. She looked horror-stricken.

He shook her. “Pull yourself together.”

Her teeth began chattering and her face became so white that Donahue was uneasy. He was annoyed, irritated. He laid her on the bed and she buried her face in a pillow and began sobbing and moaning.

He thought she might be out of her mind.

He went into the living-room and walked round and round, angry one moment, puzzled the next. Her moaning was unpleasant to hear. He was standing in the middle of the room, cogitating, when she came stealthily out of the bedroom and crept across the living-room. Fascinated, he watched her. She appeared to be unaware of his presence and kept creeping towards the hall door. Finally he jumped, caught her as she was about to open the door.

Her voice was hoarse: “Lemme out!”

“Listen—”

“Lemme—” She tussled, kicked, clawed in sudden fury.

“Now, Token, take it easy!”

She tore away from him, fell on the doorknob, managed to unlock the catch. But he grabbed her by the arms, lifted her, swung her about and whisked her across the living-room, into the bedroom. Her feet did not once touch the floor. He dropped her to the bed, his shirt cuffs protruding, his hair rumpled and several bloody scratches on his face.

He rasped: “Cut out this damned nonsense!”

She tried to heave off the bed, but he caught her, flattened her on the bed, held her down.

“Listen,” he said earnestly, “I’m not going to hurt you. See? You understand? I want to know what happened to Consadine. I want to know where Harrigan is. I want to know if that fight was framed. I want—Wait a minute. Stay here. Stay on this bed. I want to lock that door.”

He rose, swung into the living-room. He stopped short. Two men were coming across it towards him and both had guns leveled. They were young men, impeccably dressed. One was tall, handsome and hard in a pale-faced, red-lipped way. The other was small, anaemic, and the .45 automatic he held looked huge in his skinny little hand. They were bent on business.

“Back up, you,” the tall man said.

“Wait a second—”

“Back up!”

The two men crowded Donahue, and he backed into the bedroom. The smaller of the two had a nervous affliction; his upper lip kept twitching while the rest of his face remained cold, stony. His eyes were as cold as a lizard’s.

The tall man snapped: “There she is!” He leaped after Token Moore as she staggered towards the bathroom.

The small man kept Donahue covered.

The tall man, rough-housing Token across the room, said: “Where’s Harrigan, brat?”

“Oh, my—!” she moaned.

“Where’s Harrigan?”

“I—I don’t know.”

He held her up with his left hand. With his right he slapped her face. She choked and groaned and he backed her up, slapping her hard, first on one cheek, then on the other. Meanwhile he wore a hard, tight smile. He stopped slapping her, took hold of her left arm and bent it behind her back. She grimaced. Her eyeballs bulged, rolled, showed the whites as she bent backward. Her knees gave way and she slumped. He let her fall to the floor.

Donahue offered: “She’s just drunk.”

The tall man spun on him. “You’re Donahue,” he rasped.

“Okey.”

The tall man took one step, one swing. Donahue crashed against the wall. His eyes blazed.

“What the hell’s the idea of that?” he exploded.

“For being funny,” the tall man said.

The little man grinned with his twitching lip, but the gun he held did not waver.

The tall man went into the bathroom, came out with a glass of water which he threw in Token’s face. She stirred and he hauled her to her feet, shook her.

“Where’s Harrigan?”

“Please—” Tears began to stream from her eyes.

He said: “Stop yammering, brat! Where is he?”

“Please—honest—so help me—”

He scoffed: “Crap!” The hard flat of his hand whanged against her face. Furious, but coldly so, he pitched her to the bed. As she tried to crawl off, he walked around the foot of the bed, waited a second, then struck her full in the face. She toppled back to the other side of the bed, fell to the floor, groaning weakly.

The little man giggled. “Jeeze, she’s frail, the dame!”

Donahue said: “In about a minute I’m going to get sore.”

“In about a minute,” the tall man said, “you’ll be sore—all over.”

“What’s the sense of slamming her around that way? Any punk can do that.”

The tall man pointed. “You got yours coming, bozo! So keep your trap shut!”

“What have I done? Hell, I’m looking for Harrigan, too.”

The tall man narrowed his eyes. “What for?”

“Murder of a guy named Consadine?”

The tall man and the small man flicked a glance at each other. Then the tall man said: “What’s she told you?”

“Not a damned thing. She’s pie-eyed. I couldn’t raise a peep out of her. Harrigan’s vanished.”

“Who says so? Who says Harrigan murdered Consadine?”

“The cops. Kelly McPard found Harrigan’s gun in Consadine’s apartment—the gun that killed Consadine. It’s open and shut. The cops’ll have him inside of twenty-four hours, and it’s a murder rap.”

The tall man quieted down. He said: “Is this straight?”

“Phone Kelly McPard and check up.”

The tall man looked sharply at Donahue, at the little man. He turned and walked to the other side of the bed, stood there looking downward. Token was on the floor and Donahue, from where he stood, could not see her. Several times the tall man raised quizzical eyes, flicked them at Donahue. Then he leaned down, picked up the girl and flopped her on the bed. She lay sacklike, unconscious. The tall man slapped her cheeks briskly, not roughly, in an attempt to bring her around. But she remained unconscious. He cursed, shrugged. He blew his nose sharply. There were diamonds on his hands. His clothes looked expensive. He blew his nose again, looked from the girl to Donahue, frowned, went through the apartment like a dog on a scent.

Presently he stopped in front of Donahue and frowned seriously. “We’re breezing,” he said. “You’re walking down and out with us. Get your hat…. Watch him, Midge,” he added to the small man.

Donahue went into the living-room, scooped up his hat. The small man played shadow to every move. The tall man joined them and they went out into the corridor.

The tall man said: “We’ll walk down a couple of floors, then take the elevator. Act nice, Donahue.”

Donahue looked at their bulging pockets, said: “Wouldn’t you, in my place?”

The tall man was not in a jocular mood. “Pass up the cracks.”

Three floors below, they buzzed for an elevator. The car dropped them smoothly to the lobby. The lobby was deserted except for the clerk at the desk. He looked up, saw them, looked down again and kept on writing in a ledger. They went out, walked as far as Madison Avenue. On the corner the tall man stopped.

He said: “Okey, Donahue; keep going. Fade.”

It was cold and deserted on the corner, and he looked at their white, humorless faces, their bulging pockets. A lump caught in his throat. He looked up and down the avenue. No one was in sight. He returned his gaze to the motionless white faces.

The tall man said: “Well, get going—west.”

He nodded. He turned on his heel and started across the avenue. His jaw was clamped, his shoulders hunched a bit. He went through all the imagined sensations of a man being shot in the back. He didn’t dare look around but walked on—not too rapidly; though he had to grit his teeth, almost, to stop from breaking into a run.

But nothing happened. He reached the next corner, stopped, looked around. He was in a cold sweat.

He became suddenly angry. He could feel heat rushing through his body and in an instant he was striding back through the street. He broke into a run, up on his toes, the long skirt of his overcoat flapping about his knees. Reaching Madison, he peered south. Several blocks distant, two men passed beneath a street light. But Donahue wasn’t sure. He was angry enough, however, to take a chance.

He flagged a loafing southbound taxi and climbing in told the driver to take it easy. He drove four blocks south, called for a right turn, passed the driver a coin and jumped off.

From the shadow of a stone stoop he saw the tall man and the small man stride past the corner, heading south on Madison.

Kelly McPard sat on a desk in his office. The office was warm, and the sound of steam whistling from a radiator was not unpleasant. Spengler, his assistant, leaned against the wall; he looked wide awake and kept jabbing industriously at his teeth with a shaved-down match. Kelly looked preoccupied.

Harrigan, the champ, sat in an armchair and scowled at the floor. Out of fighting togs, he was less prepossessing. He had a good face, far from handsome, and coarse-featured; but he gave the general impression of being clean-cut, honest, straightforward; a fine animal at the peak of his power, aware of his standing, a little obstinate.