Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (64 page)

“Won’t you sit down?” she said.

He liked her voice. There was a drained look in her face, as though she had cried for many hours; but now her eyes were dry, gentle with a brown, deep warmth—and curious, expectant. He took a seat, hung his hat on one of his bony knees. She sat down near him, watchful, leaning forward, with her small brown hands in her lap.

He frowned at his hat. “I don’t like to bring up an unpleasant subject, Miss Hartley… but it’s about the Emperor.”

She pursed her lips, nodded; after a moment she said: “Yes.”

He suddenly looked at her with his round, candid eyes. “You were as close to him as anyone. Did he ever mention shifting to another manager?”

She shook her head. “He never said anything to me.” She spoke like an educated white girl. She looked away vacantly across the room. “I’d have remembered,” her voice said, trailing off.

“Did he seem dissatisfied with Sam Beckert?”

She nodded. “Yes, he did. But I suppose that was natural. The more money King made, the more he had to give to Beckert. King was a frugal man. He didn’t want to fight Boston in the first place. He said it was a setup. But Beckert wanted to make the money. It’s ironic. Now—now Beckert’s lost a lot.”

He looked at her. He saw that she believed Beckert had lost a lot.

She sighed. “I like Sam Beckert. He’s rough and all that, but he was always lots of fun. He used to make fun of King being so serious. Sam Beckert always took life as a big joke. And then when King died—Sam looked like—well, he looked like a man seeing ghosts.” She clasped her hands together. “I don’t know why—why I feel—feel—Oh, I’m silly,” she broke off.

Donahue leaned forward. “Feel what?”

Her eyes turned on him. “I—I feel King didn’t die naturally!”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. I just feel!” She jumped up. “But I’m silly. George called and said they’d performed an autopsy and that nothing was wrong.” She quieted down. “Maybe we were all wrong. Maybe King was done. A month ago Les Paisley, the lawyer, said so. He said: ‘I may be your lawyer, Sam, but I’d lay my dough on anybody but King. He’s cracking. Black boys are good so long, but they can’t take it.’ He said that in King’s presence, made King worry for days. But Sam knows fighters. He said King was better than he ever was. So did Dr. Helvig. But I remember—that blow to the heart—it was terrific.”

Donahue said: “I remember that blow to the heart, too. You were all for King, emotionally. You wouldn’t have noticed the funny look that came into his eyes before—a few seconds before—that blow hit him.”

She started. “You don’t believe that blow did it?”

“I wouldn’t want to be quoted—but I don’t.”

“But the autopsy proved—”

He was nodding. He sighed, stood up, said: “I know.”

“Then why do you say—”

“I’m damned if I know. But once get an idea in a Mick’s head and even an autopsy won’t knock it out.” He tossed up his hat, caught it deftly and walked to the door. With his hand on the knob he turned to say: “Forget it. Every now and then I get illusions of grandeur and think I’m St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland.”

She remained standing in the middle of the room, looking dumbly at him. He saw that her eyes were beginning to shine with tears. He said: “Well, good-day—and thanks,” and left the apartment.

On the way downtown he dropped off at his hotel and the clerk at the desk said: “A Mr. Trent phoned and left a number for you to call.”

“When?”

“He phoned at about three-thirty—half an hour ago.”

Donahue took the memorandum and went to a lobby booth. He dialed the number and in a moment heard the bank clerk’s nervous, squeaky voice.

“Yes, this is Donahue…. I get you…. The Keystone Realty Company…. What’s the address?… Never mind; I’ll look it up myself. And I’ll be seeing you. Keep your lip tight, Trent. I wouldn’t let you down.”

He hung up. He let his hand remain on the instrument, stared intently at it, while faint little lines appeared and disappeared at the corners of his eyes. He went out of the booth, bought a newspaper, sat down and read the latest news on the death of the Emperor. He turned to the Keyhole Kid’s daily column and the first item that struck his eyes was:

It’s being noised around that a certain private detective told a certain uptown speak owner that the Emperor Brown was due for a fall. The dick told the speak boss this enlightenment twenty minutes before the Emperor’s death, little children!

Donahue crumpled the paper savagely. His lower lip shot out and an angry, sullen look welled in his eyes. He tossed the sheet down, strode darkly across the lobby, rode in the elevator upward. He reached the door of his apartment, dangled keys, got the door open. He stumbled at sight of a small square of paper that had evidently been slipped beneath the door.

He bent down, picked it up. It was a newspaper clipping. It was the same item he had read a minute before in the lobby.

But across it was drawn, in black crayon, an X.

Donahue sloped into the foyer of the Suwanee. Ken Teebolt was standing talking with the hat-check girl and clicking a half dozen quarters in his hand. He grinned, said: “Hello there, Donny!”

Donahue went past him with a swift gait and a dead-ahead dark look in his eyes. He followed the corridor to the swing door, punched it open, went up to the bar and jammed his heel down on the rail. He leaned on his elbows, clasped his hands together and stared down at them.

“Whatcha have?” the bartender said.

“Scotch—straight,” Donahue clipped, staring at his hands.

It was five. The dining-room was not yet open, and the bar was almost empty. A radio, tuned low, brought in tea-dancing music from a midtown hotel. The bartender rolled back down the bar, planked down a bottle and a glass in front of Donahue, eyed him curiously through thick eyebrows. Then he hummed to himself and wandered back up the bar.

Ken Teebolt opened the swing door, let it swing back, and sauntered to the bar. He leaned sidewise against it, on one elbow, crossing his legs and keeping them straight up and down. He looked grave, puzzled.

“What’s eating you, Donny?”

Donahue downed his drink, poured another, held it up and eyed it with narrowed-down lids.

Ken Teebolt said: “Okey; sulk.” He sauntered off into the darkened dining-room.

Donahue swallowed his drink, rasped his throat. He kept his gaze on the bottle as though it were a crystal ball. The bartender polished a glass and kept a sidelong gaze on him. Donahue poured another drink.

Ken Teebolt came back to the bar, stood alongside Donahue and said: “What’s the idea of the looking-glass drinking?”

Donahue drank, slapped down the empty glass. He tossed a dollar and a half on the bar, buttoned his coat, pivoted and strode past Ken Teebolt. He kicked open the swing door and vanished. Ken Teebolt leaned back, said half-aloud: “The guy’s nuts.” The swing door slammed open again and Donahue came towards Ken Teebolt with a narrow, vicious look and a hard, fast walk.

He said coldly but viciously: “So you’re stooling for that tabloid columnist.”

“I’m what?”

“Go ahead; act the Boy Scout!”

“Look here, Donny—for crying out loud—”

“For crying out loud your sweet grandmother’s neck!”

He turned violently on his heel, went through the swing door like a blast of wind and was striding hard-heeled down the corridor when Ken Teebolt called. “Hey, you Irish tramp!” Donahue stopped and Ken Teebolt caught up with him.

“Well?” said Donahue.

Ken Teebolt was warming up too.

“Make it clear, Donny. For——sake, don’t act like a ten-year-old. What the hell have I done?”

Donahue pulled the newspaper clinping from his pocket. “Pike this.”

Ken read it. His jaw hardened; he reddened. “Who—what’s this X mean?”

“What d’ you think it means?” Donahue cut in. “I found it under my door.”

Ken Teebolt looked up, and his face was very red. “I—I didn’t spring that, Donny.”

“A birdie did, I suppose.”

“Listen, kid—” His voice became husky, his eyes stared into space, then suddenly clouded. “Jeeze!” he muttered hoarsely. “I must have—that jane I picked up—Jeeze!” he snarled, and lunged towards the checkroom.

Donahue grabbed him. “What are you going to do?”

“Break a jane’s neck. Lemme go!”

Donahue wrestled him against the wall. “Use your head,” he said.

“I’ll cave in her face—”

“What good will it do?” He shook Ken, cracked a grin. His voice softened a bit. “I just thought you’d two-timed on me. A dame, huh? Talked in your sleep—”

“No. I was a little likkered—”

“Same thing.” Ken Teebolt was sincerely moved. “My——Donny, I’d bite off my hand rather than pull a squeal on you!”

“Listen. Paisley drops in here every day on his way from the office, doesn’t he?”

“Yeah.”

Donahue nodded to the bar. “Come on. I want to talk to you.” He added: “And I want to ring Kelly.”

The bar was crowding up. The dining-room was still dimmed, but more lights had been turned on in the bar, a second bartender had joined the first. The radio had been turned up a notch, bringing on the daily news flashes of a local newspaper. Men arrived in business suits with newspapers under their arms. They kept on their hats and coats. Cocktail shakers made a cool, icy sound. The cash register rang more frequently.

Lester Paisley came in at five past six. His white hair seemed whiter beneath the brim of his black hat. He wore a belted dark blue coat with raglan sleeves, carried a dark stick. He gave the impression of looking above the heads of all persons, but he rarely missed anything. He saw Donahue at the far end of the bar, but you would not have guessed it.

“Whiskey-sour—plenty sour.”

He unfolded a newspaper, took off his nose-glasses, polished them, held them to the light and then replaced them on his nose. He turned the newspaper over, folded it twice one way, once the other, took out a pencil and fixed his eyes on a cross-word puzzle. In three squares he wrote three letters that spelled Yak.

“Hello, Paisley.”

Donahue had walked over, but Paisley did not even look up. He said abstractedly: “Hello, Donahue.”

Somebody turned on the lights in the dining-room and Ken Teebolt stood in the broad entry-way, his hands behind his back. He was watching Donahue and Paisley.

Donahue said: “You picked a winner, didn’t you?”

“Guess I did,” Paisley said, filling in five vertical squares and getting the word Yodel.

Donahue said: “I’d like to have a little talk with you. We can take it easy in a room upstairs.”

“Sorry, Donahue. I’ve got to run along.”

The radio boomed: “And a news flash from San Francisco. Central office detectives working on the death of Mike Dolan, nationally known boxfight solon who was killed in a motor accident last night, discovered a spent .38-calibre bullet imbedded in a tree near the spot where Dolan crashed. The theory is that someone may have fired at Dolan, missed, but that Dolan, ducking, might have lost control of his car and smashed up.

“Since all the windows in his sedan were shattered by the crash, a theory that one of these windows was broken by a bullet cannot be verified. No bullets were found in the body of the car. The police are seeking a motive, urged by the facts that the car was proved to have been in excellent mechanical condition, that Dolan had not been drinking, that the road was wide and, at the time, free of rain. Dolan also is reputed to have been an excellent driver….”

“Idiom,” said Paisley.

“Pardon?”

“I’m working this out.”

Donahue lit a cigarette. “Knew Mike Dolan, didn’t you?”

“Met him.”

“I wonder who could have tried to bump him off—and why?”

Paisley finished his drink, paid up. “Well, see you some time, Donahue.”

Donahue held on to his arm. “How about now?”

Paisley looked down at Donahue’s hand reflectively. Then he took it off. “Some other time. Friends due at my hotel.”

Donahue held his arm again, said in a low voice: “You’ll regret it if you don’t see me now, Paisley. I’m not kidding.”

Paisley looked through his thin shell-like glasses. His face was hatchet-thin, wooden. He said liplessly: “Come on, then.”

They went up two flights of stairs, walked down a corridor. Donahue opened a door, stepped aside and let Paisley walk in past him. Then he closed the door. Paisley walked to the middle of the large, mannish living-room, sat down on the edge of a straight-backed chair, took off his glasses and, polishing them, looked up politely and wooden-faced at Donahue. With his white hair, his thick black eyebrows, he seemed a strange and provocative man.

Donahue said: “When did you work up an interest in real estate?”

“It’s always a good investment if you get in on the ground.”

Donahue nodded. “It sure is. It’s like everything else, though. A guy wants to sink his money in a gilt-edge investment. For instance, you wouldn’t think of buying bonds in a tank bank. If you had a lot of dough, you’d sink it in something with a solid foundation, some organization that has a reputation.”

“I suppose. Now we’re talking banking, eh?”

“No. Real estate. For instance, suppose you had between one and two hundred grand. You had the choice of several banks or corporations in which to sink this dough. You’d sink it in the best you could find, wouldn’t you? I mean, in these times—when it’s dangerous to speculate on a dark horse. You’d do that, wouldn’t you?”

“I suppose I would.”

“Just as an example. I’ll take something offhand. Take the Keystone Realty Company. A small outfit with a dump of an office on Sixth Avenue—one man in the office and a ten-bucks-a-week typist. This outfit opened shop exactly twenty-eight days ago. It’s not a member of the City Realty Board. It started with a cash deposit in a West Side bank of three thousand dollars. Its owner-manager used to run a road-house and tourist cabins on the Boston Post Road until two years ago, when he was knocked off by the cops on a liquor charge. There’s an example. Now you wouldn’t sink your dough in an outfit like that, would you?”

Paisley’s wooden face did not change its expression. “What is this, a new kind of game?”