Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (61 page)

“Nonsense, Donny! Danny’s a swell kid, but young. He’s no match for Token Moore. Listen, I saw that kid grow up. Okey. Never mind. I’ll go alone.”

“Swell! And you’ll probably get your face caved in for your trouble. He’s worse to handle than a dog with the rabies.”

Kelly McPard finished his meal rapidly, got up and took down his overcoat from a hook, slipped into it. Donahue was plowing savagely through his meal, his head bent way down.

McPard said: “Okey, Donny. I’ll go it alone. I didn’t think, though, that you were the kind of a guy would give up. Well, so long, kid.”

“Wait!” Donahue shoved back his plate, heaved up and grabbed his coat. “You make me sick,” he growled. “Come on. And if I break a chair over his head, it’s your fault—remember that.”

“One thing I like about you, Donny—you’re so calm and collected all the time. You never get mad.”

They boarded a taxicab and headed uptown. Kelly McPard lighted a Turkish cigarette, inhaled in the manner of a man who really enjoys his nicotine. The cab turned off Fifth Avenue, wedged into slow-moving eastbound traffic; and as it neared the Hotel Elsinore Kelly leaned forward and said:

“There’s Danny coming out now—”

“Wait a minute,” Donahue cut in. “Suppose we follow him. I mean, if we light on him now, it’ll be all off. He’ll shut up like a clam.”

“Ah, he’ll listen to his Uncle Kelly—”

“I tell you no!” Donahue shoved Kelly McPard back in the seat. He said to the driver: “Follow that cab pulling away from the Elsinore.”

They followed the cab to Fifty-fourth Street, where Harrigan swung out and disappeared through a doorway. Donahue and McPard got out and stood on the corner and Donahue said:

“It’s a speakeasy and—Hey, look!”

“What?”

Donahue, craning his neck, did not reply for a long moment. Then he said: “A guy just dropped off a cab beyond that door, piped the address and—I can’t see him now.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Have it your way.”

Kelly McPard lighted another cigarette. “Listen. I think we ought to go in and talk to Danny. I can handle him.”

“Kelly, I tell you—”

But McPard started off. Donahue cursed and followed him, and they found Harrigan leaning against the bar and frowning at himself in the mirror.

“Danny,” said McPard, “I’d like to have a talk with you alone.”

“Kel,” said Harrigan, “I’m sick and tired of being talked at. Beat it.”

“Danny, it’s your old pal Kelly McPard asking you.”

“I’m sorry, Kel.”

Harrigan finished his drink, paid up and strode out of the speakeasy. Kelly McPard went as far as the front door, peered through the peep-hole. He saw Harrigan enter a cab, and when the cab moved on Kelly McPard opened the door and Donahue followed him out. They jumped into a cruising cab and McPard said:

“Tail that black and white ahead there.”

Donahue laughed. “Oh, you can handle him all right!”

They followed Harrigan to another speakeasy in West Fortieth Street but did not enter. They waited on the corner, in a cigar store, and an hour passed before Harrigan reappeared. He took another cab and headed east.

On Lexington Avenue he got out and entered a drug-store. The cab waited. He came out in a few minutes, reentered the cab and drove north, turned east at Thirty-eighth and entered a brownstone speakeasy east of Third Avenue. Donahue and McPard waited in a garage across the street. Harrigan reappeared half an hour later and walked west to Lexington, where he boarded another taxicab.

The taxi headed west on Thirty-ninth Street; crossed Madison Avenue, Fifth, Sixth, and Broadway—went on to Tenth Avenue and then swung south. At Fourteenth Street Harrigan alighted and went ahead on foot. It was a noisy, traffic-ridden intersection, and Donahue and McPard, on foot now, had a hard time keeping track of Harrigan. Finally they saw him enter a transatlantic steamship pier.

Donahue stopped. “I told you. He’s skipping. The Montania sails tonight for Cherbourg. Stay back!”

He could see Harrigan standing behind the glass doors and peering into the street.

Donahue cursed. “Oh, he’s a nice guy all right. He gets Margaret all worked up and then leaves her flat for this Token Moore! Boy, do I like his insides! Do I!”

“I’m going right up to him—”

Donahue grabbed Kelly. “Like hell you are! You stay here and wait!”

Taxis were arriving and departing in great numbers, and a crowd was gathering out front and inside the terminal. Porters were hauling baggage. The crowd was animated, laughing; an air of impending departure electrified the air. The space in front of the terminal was not well-lighted. The broad street was dark. Trucks rumbled past, taxis sped. Newsboys hawked papers. Telegraph messengers darted in and out of the terminal, and all the time the crowd kept growing. Trunks thumped and iron-wheeled hand trucks banged.

“Pipe that!” Donahue muttered suddenly.

“What?”

“Token!”

A taxi had drawn up and from it Token Moore alighted while two porters dived for her baggage. Token stood in the clear, in the glare of a floodlight, taking change from her purse. Harrigan started out of the terminal, elbowing his way through the crowd.

“I’m going to get her,” Kelly McPard muttered.

“Let’s,” Donahue said.

The motor of some automobile roared. Instinct made Donahue and Kelly tense, look around. Three shots rang out. Women screamed and pitched this way and that. Donahue caught a glimpse of Token going down, another glimpse of Harrigan knotted up in a crowd of men and women. Donahue drew his gun.

Kelly McPard squinted his eyes and his gun leaped magically into his hand as he heard the door of a car slam. He heard rubber tires rasp, looked between two taxis and saw a black sedan lurch forward for the open street. McPard raised his gun and its muzzle blazed in the shadows. A small hole appeared in the right side of the windshield, and instantly the car yawed, its rear end whipped violently.

There was a crash of metal as the sedan sideswiped a taxi. The taxi seemed actually to jump in the air and the sedan slewed, turned completely around. Brakes of another car screamed as it plowed into the sedan’s radiator, blew one of the sedan’s front tires. Its doors whipped open and three men leaped out, raced towards the east side of the street.

Donahue started off and Kelly McPard raced beside him. McPard fired and one of the three men turned without stopping and fired back. Donahue ran with his arm outstretched before him, his right eye sighting. His gun bellowed and one of the three men teetered but kept on running, and all three ran north on the east side of the street and dived into Fifteenth Street.

McPard stopped on the corner, took aim and fired twice. The man who had teetered turned around, fell backward; he fell so violently that his legs leaped into the air, slammed down again. His two companions did not stop. McPard fired again and one of these started toppling but regained his balance, turned half around and fired three times. McPard took a step backward, shook himself. He tried to take a step forward and stumbled, rolled to the gutter.

But Donahue was on his way, running across the street. The man who had shot McPard was now backing up and reloading. Donahue fired once and this man stopped reloading and sat down in the middle of the street. Brakes squealed as a taxi swerved to avoid hitting him.

The third man ran faster, and Donahue went after him with strides equally long. The man turned left, and Donahue, nearing the corner, pressed close against the building and bent over as he looked around. A shot rang out and chipped the corner of the building a foot above his head.

He saw the man wheeling beneath a lone street light, leaping for a doorway. Donahue went around the corner and fired at the same time, heard a short outcry, the scraping of feet on the pavement. He went swiftly along in the shadows of the buildings, heard the blast of a police whistle somewhere distant. He saw the man trying to break through a door, but the man heard him coming and swiveled.

Donahue saw the glint of metal and without stopping he emptied his gun. The man staggered away from the door, tried to run but only hobbled. He reached the center of the street before he pitched to his face. His gun bounced, rang on the pavement, and he turned over on his back and let out a long sigh.

He was not entirely outside the radius of the street light. His hat was off, and his pale hair was splotched, and now he was grunting and tearing at his collar. Going towards him, Donahue could see that it was the Albino.

Harrigan walked up and down the back room of the precinct house. His hat was crushed down over his forehead. The room was full of detectives, and there were other detectives and policemen in the central room, and some newspaper men. The house was noisy. Telephone bells jangled and men yelled into the telephones; men arrived and departed and twice a reporter was thrown bodily out of the back room.

Suddenly there was loud and violent talking in the doorway, and Donahue talked his way in. Harrigan bumped into him, stopped, blurted out:

“Holy——! Donahue!”

“Holy your grandmother!”

“Listen, Donny—listen now! How is Kelly? How is poor old Kel, Donny?”

“He’ll pull through, but it’s not your fault. Shut up! Listen to me, you awful dumb-bell! What was the idea of running away with Token Moore?”

“So help me, Donny, I wasn’t running away with nobody. Honest to gawd, I wasn’t. Listen, Donny. I wasn’t, see? I was only making sure she got off. That’s all. I was only making sure.”

“You’re a liar, Harrigan. Besides being God’s foremost dope, you’re a liar and a double-crosser!”

“No—no!” He grabbed hold of Donahue’s lapels, shook him. “You got to listen to me. I wasn’t going away with her. It was like this. Look now, Token came to me and said how she got tied up with King Padden, not knowing what she was in for. It was King Padden put the idea in her head.”

“What idea?”

“Look now. It was King Padden put her up to sue me for breach of promise or something. She asked—she was gonna ask for three hundred thousand, but she was only to get twenty-five grand out of that. The lawyer was to get twenty-five too and King Padden was to get two hundred and fifty grand. See? So she got scared. She got scared of him and his guys and she come to me and told me the whole thing, and told me the danger she was in. She didn’t want to go through with it, and she cried and she said she’d have to get out of the country and would I give her about twenty-five grand.”

“So she was a double-crosser again.”

“No! Look now. She was all busted up and I was sorry for her. Besides, I didn’t want no case in court. So I said I’d give her the twenty-five grand, and this morning I did—I got it out of the bank and give it to her and she had her passport and all she had to do was get a ticket. I was sorry for her, and maybe I should ha’ went back with her again, but I’m gone on Margaret. And I was scared about Token getting away. So I come down to the pier to make sure she got on the boat all right. I wasn’t going anywhere. And then them guys came along and killed her.”

Donahue wagged his head, sighed. “Boy, you sure need someone like Margaret to look after you. Token lived a double-crosser and died a double-crosser. Kelly shot King Padden in the belly tonight—in the sedan. And Padden talked a bit before he died. It was Padden and his mugs killed that taxi driver last night. They drove up in front of the Suwanee as Token and me drove off in the taxi. And they followed. They thought she was in a tough spot and they tried to shoot me up. Arnholt knew who followed us, but Padden and his boys hadn’t been in the club that evening and he knew he was safe if only he kept his mouth shut. Besides, Padden was buying into the club, into the Arena.

“Your sweet Token Moore was yellow,” he rasped on. “A couple of days ago Padden gave her ten thousand bucks. She was broke and he advanced that amount against the twenty-five grand she hoped to get out of the breach of promise suit against you. He also advanced the lawyers several thousand. But she got cold feet. She was afraid of me. She was afraid of what I’d say in court. So she double-crossed Padden and came to you with a long sob story and got twenty-five grand out of you. Imagine the grifter!”

Harrigan stared. “She done that!”

“She did that.”

Harrigan looked sick. He felt his throat and sent his harried eyes about the floor. He looked abject, stunned.

“Gosh, Donny—I—I—Listen. Uh—d’ you think I can see Kel yet?”

“Not yet. My advice—and don’t take it if you don’t want to—is to go and see Margaret. Your body’s all right, Harrigan, but it lacks a head. Try using Margaret’s.”

“Uh—listen—uh—will you call her up and—uh—ask her if I can come up and see her?”

“Anything,” Donahue said, “to get rid of you.”

They went into another room and while Harrigan fidgeted and shifted from foot to foot, Donahue telephoned Margaret’s hotel.

“Margaret?… This is Donahue, Margaret. The penitent champion wants to call on you. For my sake, for his sake, and for the sake of all his friends, please take care of him. See that he doesn’t get his feet wet and keep him out of drafts. Keep him clear of grifters. Never let him sign a check. If he ever tries to use his head, remind him that he hasn’t any. The big lug—”

He stopped short, frowned, listened. His face grew red, he held the receiver slightly away from his ear, looked at it. His eyes flashed. He placed the receiver tentatively to his ear again. His lips worked, trying to interrupt. Suddenly there was a click, then silence. He hung up.

Harrigan gulped: “Huh?”

Donahue patted his ear, wagged his head. “I guess she told me a few things. I’m this and I’m that and I’m those and them.”

“But—but how about me?” Harrigan cried hoarsely.

“You,” Donahue said, going past him, “seem to be the apple of her eye. She loves you, you big palooka. Go up and get it.”

A box-fight setup that looks sour to tough dick Donahue

Donahue came into the lobby of the Suwanee Club with his black Chesterfield over his arm, his black velours hat aslant his forehead. The hat-check girl moved to take his things, but he shook his head, said: “I won’t be staying,” and went on down a corridor. He looked lean in his dinner suit, but the broad expanse of the white shirt, single-studded, made his face look very brown.