Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (56 page)

When Donahue came in, McPard looked up, twiddled his thumbs, said absently: “Hello, Donny.”

“Jeeze, you still up!” bawled out Spengler. “Hey, look, we got Harrigan here!”

Donahue closed the door, leaned against it. The brown of his lean and chiseled face was ruddied by the cold. His coat belt was yanked tight, the loose end dangling. He looked at Harrigan, who scowled; at Kelly, whose face was steeped in thought.

“Quick work,” he said.

“Ah, say,” Spengler said, flapping a big hand, “it was a snap, it was. He just went to another hotel.”

Kelly McPard said: “The champ says he didn’t do it!”

Harrigan’s jaw jutted. “Of course I didn’t do it!”

“An old refrain,” Donahue remarked.

“What?” the champ barked.

“I was just thinking,” Donahue said; and to McPard: “Who did it, Kel?”

McPard said: “The circumstances say Danny did it.”

Harrigan heaved up, his thick brows bending. “That there’s a lie, Kelly!” He spun on Donahue. “What the hell are you butting in for? You keep your mug out of it!”

Donahue, leaning against the door, said: “Don’t shoot your mouth off at me, Harrigan. You’re a nice guy and a real champ, but don’t get tough.”

“Now, now,” McPard chimed in. “None o’ that…. Donny, he said he went there, all right. He went to Consadine’s apartment. He had an idea Consadine had his girl there. He had an idea the jane and Consadine were cutting corners on him. He was all steamed up and he went there with a gun. But he didn’t find the girl. Consadine was scared about Danny holding the gun and he kept talking to him and after a while Danny threw the gun on a sofa. Danny was all shaken up. Consadine wanted him to have a drink, but Danny was too balled up to enjoy a drink, so he just turned around and went out, leaving his gun there.” McPard paused, then added: “That’s Danny’s story.”

Harrigan blurted: “It’s the truth!”

McPard shrugged, strolled around the office. There were no melodramatics about Kelly McPard, but you could see he was deeply disturbed, indecisive, caught in a web of duty and sentiment.

Harrigan’s face worked. “That’s what I did! That’s why I polished Tripp off in the fourth tonight. I could have done it in the second—but I was making up my mind!”

Donahue’s eyes steadied. “Why?”

“Why?” Harrigan roared, swinging around. “Because I was sure Consadine was taking my girl away from me. No guy can take a jane away from me!” Some of his self assurance fled and his shoulders hunched, his big face looked pained, his eyes wandered. “I didn’t kill him. I guess I went there to do it. If she’d been there, I guess I would have done it.”

Donahue felt his way cautiously. “You did a nice job on Tripp.”

“Sure. Tripp’s okey, but I can lick him. Maybe I did surprise him a bit. I guess I surprised him a hell of a lot!”

“I see. You were to let him stay the fifteen, huh?”

“Stay!” Harrigan laughed. “The tramp was supposed to win!”

Donahue, tingling all over, merely said: “H’m.”

“I was supposed to lay down in the twelfth! But I seen my girl down there with Consadine and I went nuts. I couldn’t stand it. I was afraid it was a trick. I was afraid that if I lost the fight I’d never get another come-back chance. Consadine promised me a fight in six months when I was supposed to flatten Tripp. But I was scared. I was scared he was framing me and trying to get Token. I went nuts. I was afraid if I wasn’t champ she wouldn’t like me any more.”

Donahue suddenly felt sorry for Harrigan. The champ was just a kid with the mind of a kid. There was something touching in the way his voice broke hoarsely, in the way his face muscles strained and his eyes darted about, harried and uncertain. A splendid machine in the ring; outside, a babe in arms, a sap. “If I wasn’t champ she wouldn’t like me any more.”

Donahue said: “What are you going to do, Kel?”

“Hell, I guess I’ve got to chuck him in the hold-over.”

“I didn’t do it!” Harrigan cried hoarsely. “I tell you I didn’t do it, Kel! I meant to do it, but I didn’t. Token wasn’t there and I didn’t do it. And then I felt like a louse and I didn’t have the guts to go back and see her! I felt like a louse!”

Donahue became engrossed in his own thoughts. His train of thought went into reverse, traveled backward over the ground he had covered.

Presently he said: “You going home, Kel?”

“I was thinking of it.”

“Hang around, will you?”

“Why?”

“I may need you.”

McPard squinted. “What’s on your mind?”

“Something goofy as hell.” He opened the door. “Hang around, will you?”

“Sure, I’ll hang around.”

Donahue was surprised, anxious, when he found the door of Token Moore’s apartment unlocked. Entering, he closed it quietly, locked it. He made his way towards the bedroom, reached the doorway.

She lay on the bed, sprawled. It seemed to him that she lay exactly as she had lain when he and the two men had walked out. Drawing nearer, he could see that she was breathing. This reassured him. She was sleeping, soundly. There were marks on her face put there by the tall man. Her sheer garments were torn in places and there was a bruise on her shoulder, another on one wrist. Obviously she had not left the bed.

He sat on the bed and began shaking her shoulder. She roused slowly, turned over, away from him, sighed deeply. He kept shaking her and presently she turned back again, opened her eyes quite candidly. In an instant a rush of memory must have come over her, for her eyes widened, her brows shot upward.

Donahue said: “Take it easy. You’re okey. Those guys went away. Now take it easy. Do you want a drink of water?” He saw that she was moistening her dry lips. He rose. “I’ll get you a drink of water.”

He brought a tumbler full from the bathroom. She was sitting up, white-faced, quivering now but giving no hint of being hysterical. He sat down on the edge of the bed, held the glass to her lips. As she drank, her eyes regarded him steadily. Finished, she looked away. Donahue set the glass on the bed-table. He did not say anything for a while, choosing to allow a few minutes for her to compose herself. He didn’t say anything when she rose, went to a mirror and looked at herself. He heard a gasp. Then for a moment she seemed stricken, as if remembering. He went over and offered a cigarette. She made a face, shook her head.

“Too much hangover, huh?” he muttered casually.

She let herself down on to the chair in front of the dresser. Donahue dragged over another chair, sat down beside her. Instead of looking directly at her, he studied her image in the mirror.

He said in a conversational undertone: “They’ve got Harrigan for the murder of Giles Consadine.”

She looked up quickly, at her own image, at Donahue’s. Her eyes remained round, wide. Then she turned her head and looked at Donahue. He regarded her image, noticing that she had a nice profile.

“What?” she said.

“Harrigan.”

“No!”

“Would I kid you, Token?”

His voice remained low, conversational, almost intimate.

She looked back at the mirrored images. The fact that she was able to see the change in her own features, startled her.

He said to her image: “I dropped around again, Token, to tell you. Harrigan hasn’t got a chance in the world. The cops found his gun—fired twice—in Consadine’s apartment. He admits having been there but he says he didn’t kill Consadine. He says he left the gun there.”

She shook her head. “No—no! He didn’t kill Giles!”

“I thought you might know.”

“Know?”

“Know he didn’t.”

Her eyes shimmered as she stared at his image. “I mean—I mean I believe him! He couldn’t have—”

“He could have,” Donahue said pleasantly. “He meant to, in fact. He went there with a gun, expecting to find you with Consadine. He didn’t find you there.”

“No—of course not,” she panted.

“Were you there?”

“No!”

He sighed, was silent for a moment. Then he said: “You and Consadine were crossing corners with the kid, weren’t you?”

In an instant she was on her feet, quivering. “That’s a damned lie!”

He rose and leaned back on his heels, dropped his chin, regarded her sorrowfully. “You were true-blue to the kid, huh?”

“Yes!”

“Didn’t Consadine try to make you forget him?”

She stuttered: “It—it w-wasn’t my fault.”

“He did, didn’t he?”

After a moment she said: “Yes.”

“You hated him?”

“I—well, I couldn’t show it—account of Danny. He was Danny’s boss more or less.”

“Did you know Harrigan was to throw the fight—and didn’t?”

She looked startled, confused; but she managed to say: “I thought something went wrong. I didn’t know just what it was.”

“Harrigan was supposed to lay down in the twelfth. He didn’t. He didn’t because he thought you and Consadine were cheating him. He was afraid that if he lost the championship he’d lose you. Token, you were cheating on the kid.”

She shook all over. “I was not! I didn’t! Danny meant everything in the world to me! I love him!”

Donahue was mournful. “He’s sure in a tough spot right now, Token. It’s murder. Say the word over to yourself a lot of times and get the real sting of it.”

She gripped his arm. “N-no! He didn’t! They can’t prove he did! He says he didn’t! How can they prove he did? Oh, he didn’t kill Consadine!”

“He’s got to prove he didn’t. Or somebody else has to prove it for him…. How about yourself, Token?”

She choked out: “Me?”

He was eying her keenly. “When I first came in here you were practically out of your mind. You were raving drunk. You were going around this apartment like a mad woman. You were mad. Off your nut. You hardly heard me and you hardly saw me. You were crazy, deranged—horrified about something. I couldn’t talk you out of it.”

She shrank back from him.

He went on: “You knew Consadine was dead. You knew he was dead and if you’d been in this apartment since you left the Arena you wouldn’t have known that he was dead. Because nobody knew. Not even the press. You couldn’t have found it out from Harrigan because he didn’t see you or phone. Besides, he didn’t know Consadine was dead. He didn’t know till the cops nabbed him. Yet you knew. When I got here, Token, you knew that Consadine was dead!”

“No!” she screamed, fleeing to the other side of the room.

He did not move to follow, but he lifted his arm, wagged his forefinger. “You knew! You were trying to drug yourself with liquor. You were in Consadine’s apartment when he was killed!”

She choked and shook her head violently. She backed up against the wall, spreading her arms, spreading her hands against the wall. Words deserted her and she could only choke, gasp, grimace.

Donahue was asking gently: “Did you kill Consadine, Token?”

She groaned “O-o-oh!” miserably and slid down the wall, her eyes rolling upward, showing the whites.

Donahue crossed the room, knelt down in front of her. She sat in a crushed, broken huddle, tears streaming down her cheeks. He took hold of her chin, raised her face.

“Come on, Token,” he said. “Who killed Consadine?”

In a street off Lexington Avenue, in the Thirties, Donahue went along counting brownstone houses. It was too dark to read the numbers. At three in the morning the city was deserted. The swift passage of a taxicab could be heard blocks away. A cough echoed, and you were aware of your footsteps. Earlier, Donahue had come down this street, trailing the tall man and the small man from Madison Avenue. He had counted houses then, oriented himself pretty thoroughly.

He entered a vestibule, found the inner door locked and tried several skeleton keys. None worked. The lock was old but good. He tried again and again, working as quietly as possible, but with no success. He knew the house contained furnished rooms, apartments, and he had an idea as to what apartment he wanted. After the two men had entered earlier, he had seen a light appear in a front window, second story, where no light had been before. There was, now, a hint of light in the same window—behind drawn dark blinds. He was almost certain he heard a radio playing.

After a few minutes he gave up the hall door and soft-shoed down the stoop to the sidewalk. There was a shallow areaway belonging to the house, three steps below the sidewalk. Unlike the main floor door—which was equipped with a snap lock—the door in the areaway had only a keyhole beneath the knob. Donahue got in, locked the door from the inside.

He was in a hallway. Groping through the dark, he came to a boxed-in narrow stairway and climbed to the main floor, where a dim light glowed in the hallway. He listened for a moment, heard no sound; and then he began climbing the carpeted stairway towards the second floor. A radio was playing, softly. He tracked down the sound to the front of the hallway, heard the low mutter of voices behind a door on the left.

Standing motionless for a long moment, listening, cogitating, he finally drew his gun from its shoulder-holster. It was a .38 revolver, and he cocked it. Then he cat-footed halfway up the next stairway, turned, and made considerable noise coming down. He went directly to the door and knocked insistently.

A voice asked: “What’s the matter? Who’s it?”

Donahue assumed a high, petulant, rasping voice: “You going to play that damned radio all night? How do you expect a person to sleep?”

“Okey, okey.”

“If you don’t cut it out I’ll find a way to make you! Who do you think you are, anyhow? You think maybe you own this house? Other tenants want to sleep! I want to sleep!”

“I said okey, didn’t I?”

“I’m just getting tired of it! You play it again and I’ll bust your door down and bust the radio, too!”

“Oh, yeah!”

“You heard me!”

There was an oath, a furious rattling of the key in the lock. The door whipped open.

Donahue went in like a gale wind. Briefly he saw the little man before him. The little man went down like a struck weed. The tall man was sitting in a big armchair with a girl on his lap. That handicapped him. He dropped a glass of whiskey and the girl, frightened, threw her arms around his neck. The little man began scuttling across the floor like a whipped cur, but at the same time he clawed frantically at a shoulder-holster. Another girl stopped squirting seltzer into a glass, opened her mouth wide but didn’t say anything; her mouth remained open.