Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (65 page)

“Yeah.”

Paisley stood up. “Hell, I thought you wanted to talk to me about something sensible. I never thought you had a screw loose, Donahue. I’ve got to get along.”

Donahue went and stood in front of the door, folded his arms, leaned against it. “You’re not really in a hurry, Paisley.” He wore a dark, mocking smile.

“I really am,” said Paisley.

“I’m not. I’m not going to touch you. But before you get through this door you’ve got to get through me. I want to know why you sunk one hundred and eighty-seven thousand in the Keystone Realty Company.”

“I believe that’s my business, Donahue.”

“Is it? When you never before had at one time more than ten grand to your name?”

Paisley made an impatient gesture. “You bore hell out of me. I tell you I’ve got to get along. Don’t be a mug.”

“You’ll talk first.”

Paisley drew a small automatic pistol from his pocket. “I hate to do this, Donahue, but you’re a bigger man than I am and I couldn’t knock you down. Keep your hands up and move away from that door.”

A closet door opened and Kelly McPard said: “Got a permit to carry that rod, Mr. Paisley?”

Paisley stiffened, looked over shoulder. McPard was holding a gun in one hand, his badge in the other. The badge caught the light, gleamed.

Paisley lowered his gun. He said: “This man wouldn’t let me out.”

“He didn’t try to stop you. He just said he’d stand in your way. You pulled your gat on him.”

Paisley’s nose-glasses shimmered. His dry, cold voice said: “A frame, huh?”

“I wouldn’t think of framing you, Mr. Paisley. The laws of this State—”

“I know the laws of this State!” Paisley snapped.

“Then I suppose you’ll come along down to Headquarters with me.” Kelly McPard came towards Paisley and with his left hand took the gun from Paisley. “I won’t put cuffs on you, counselor. We’ll walk out just like we were old friends.”

Paisley said dryly: “Just a couple of rats,” eying both men.

“That ought to make you feel at home,” Donahue said.

“Tsk, tsk!” McPard said. “Is that nice, Donny?… Let’s go, Mr. Paisley.”

They went on out of the room.

Donahue lit a cigarette, inhaled deeply, let the smoke idle from his nostrils. After a moment Ken Teebolt opened the door.

He breathed out: “Everything okey, Donny?”

Donahue grinned, nodded.

The bolt clanged. Ken Teebolt let Donahue out into the alley, said: “You think it’s wise?”

The tilt of Donahue’s hat brim made a diagonal dark shadow across his face and only half of his tight grin was visible.

“No,” he said. “But I figure they’ll come after me eventually. I hate suspense.”

He turned and went rearward through the alley, cut around the wall of the Arena, hit a side street and followed it to a main drag. A taxi came along and he stepped into the street, held up a finger. Brakes squealed and Donahue was inside before the cab stopped. He clipped out the address as he dropped into the puffy leather seat.

He did not smoke. He hummed absent-mindedly, but kept a dark, intent eye on space. The cab finally stopped and a few seconds passed before Donahue realized it had stopped. Thrusting a bill through the window, he climbed out and received the change through the front door. He tossed back a dime.

The lobby of the hotel was rectangular. There were many people in the lobby, sitting or moving about, but all talking; yet there was no din. Severe, unostentatious doorways led to arcades.

Donahue rose in a black enameled elevator studded with narrow beveled mirrors. When he got out, thick carpet absorbed his footfalls. He took his gun out of his pocket, took his hat off. He placed the gun in the crown of his hat, crumpled the hat and held it carelessly in his left hand. He stopped and knocked at a door, leaned indolently with his right shoulder against the right side of the doorframe.

Pete Korn opened the door. He was in evening clothes. Voices bubbled in the living-room beyond. Pete Korn was getting ready to say something when Donahue walked past him. The scene in the living-room was a gay one. Sam Beckert and a tall, gaunt man wore evening clothes. At a glance the tall, gaunt man looked distinguished; he had a shock of iron-gray hair, wore rimmed nose-glasses with a black ribbon attached. There were three girls present—none of them was over twenty-five. All were drinking cocktails.

Sam Beckert threw up a boughlike arm, boomed: “Hi there, Donny, old kid! Come on in, old pal! Have a cocktail! We’re all waitin’ for Les Paisley. All gonna see a show…. Meet the girls. Girls, meet Ben Donahue, a great guy!… And Donny, you ever met Doc Helvig? This is Doc Helvig, the Box Commish’s doctor.”

Fifty if a day, Helvig looked as if he had taken a lot of liquor on board. “It’s a pleasure, Mr. Donahue,” he said with profound gravity. “Mr. Paisley will be home soon.”

Beckert poured a cocktail. Donahue wandered across the room, laid his hat on top of the radio. The radio was making a lot of noise. Then he walked across and took the cocktail Beckert held out.

Beckert looked suddenly gloomy. “Thinkin’ about King, Donny, I gotta drink myself outta the dumps. Y’ know, even though your heart is bustin’, laugh, clown, laugh. It was a play I seen or somethin’, once…. Sit down, Donny. Les’ll be along any minute.”

“Any minute,” Pete Korn muttered.

Donahue finished the drink, set the glass down. Beckert started to pour another, but Donahue made a gesture, shook his head.

“No, Sam. I’ve had enough today.” He stood wiping his lips and gazing idly about the room. Thrusting his handkerchief into his breast pocket, he said: “Send the janes out of the room a minute, will you, Sam?”

“Huh?”

Helvig swayed over. “I remember now, Mr. Donahue. I think I met you at the Arena once, a couple of years ago. When Bat Brady and Jo-Jo Link were weighing in.”

Donahue nodded but looked at Beckert, and said: “Want to talk to you.”

Beckert shrugged expansively. “Sure thing, Donny.” He pivoted hugely, jerked a thumb. “Girls, scram into the other room a minute, will you? Me and Donny’s gotta talk.”

The girls rose, went into an adjoining room and closed the door. Pete Korn sat on the arm of a chair, put a match between his lips and began chewing it with his little peglike teeth. Helvig stood spread-legged, swaying like a tree in a gentle wind; his mouth and eyes hung open oafishly, and he did not look distinguished.

Beckert’s eyes got round, very watchful and curious, and he took several gulps at his cocktail but did not take his eyes off Donahue for a second.

Donahue’s eyes had a dark up-from under look. “Heard the latest from San Francisco, Sam?”

“Huh?”

“The cops out there think Mike Dolan was put on the spot. They found a bullet near where Mike crashed.”

Helvig looked at Pete Korn. Pete Korn was nibbling the match to shreds and his eyelids were so narrowed that it was impossible to tell at whom he looked.

“It came over the radio,” Donahue added.

“Yeah?” Sam Beckert droned, his eyes dull.

Donahue nodded. “I understand the Emperor had a long talk with Mike on the phone—out on the Coast, some time ago. The Emperor and Mike were going to hook up, weren’t they?”

Pete Korn spat shreds of the match to the floor.

Beckert rolled out a laugh. “I ain’t ever heard.”

“I did,” Donahue said. “Mike Dolan was killed an hour after the Emperor died.”

Sam Beckert walked heavily across the room, set down his glass and came back heavily. His forehead was wrinkled, his heavy features began to sag dully.

“Look here, Donny. You makin’ cracks or ain’t you? Seems to me you’re gettin’ damned steamed up over nothin’.”

Donahue said coldly: “I’m not half as steamed up as I ought to be. I don’t like having X notes shoved under my door. They scare me and make me sore as hell.”

Pete Korn put another match in his mouth. Helvig’s eyes got rounder.

Sam Beckert’s loose lips flopped as he said: “For——sake, what you talkin’ about?”

“You know what I’m talking about, Sam. We’re all thinking about the same thing—the Emperor Brown. Did he fall or was he pushed?”

Sam Beckert roared with laughter. “Oh, that! Ho-ho! You can’t kid me, Donny. Poor old King just smashed. You oughtta know that from the autopsy report.”

“It’s the first autopsy report I never believed.”

Sam Beckert’s face got heavy again and his brows shot together. “Boy, you’re makin’ them dirty cracks fast!”

Pete Korn got up, chewed faster on the match, flexed his little legs. Helvig’s mouth hung agape, and he mopped sweat from his forehead, drew the handkerchief up under his chin. He crossed the room and took a long slug of whiskey straight.

Donahue said: “Sam, it’s a long story—”

“Shut up!” Beckert growled. “I don’t have to clown around with you and I ain’t. Les Paisley’ll be here any minute and you can talk to him. I’m a plain man and I ain’t up to sparrin’ words with a wise Mick like you.”

Donahue grinned. He grinned first at Sam Beckert, then at Pete Korn, then at Helvig. He said: “You’ll be wasting time, Sam.”

“Huh?”

“Paisley won’t show up.”

Sam Beckert took a loggy backward step. Helvig gulped down another strong shot of whiskey. Pete Korn stopped chewing and closed his dry lips. The stub of the match jutted like a fang. Bracing himself on his huge legs, Sam Beckert’s eyes stared and a cloudy look overtook them.

Donahue said: “Paisley’s down at Headquarters. Kelly McPard picked him up. I turned him over to Kelly. It’s about money, Sam. About a lot of money that was juggled over the fight. And about the Keystone Realty Company—”

Helvig choked, took a drink of water. Sam Beckert turned to look at him, then looked back at Donahue with his wide, foggy eyes.

He roared: “I don’t believe it!”

“Call Headquarters and see. I told Paisley I’d come up here and tell you to come down. He’s in a tough spot and he’ll need you.” He nodded. “We’re going to find out that the Emperor was pushed—he didn’t fall. Better make it snappy, Sam. Paisley’s up against it and he’s expecting you.”

“Yeah?” roared Sam Beckert. “Okey. We’ll all go down. Come on, boys, get your duds on. The janes can stay here.” He stamped across the room, took a big overcoat out of a closet, heaved into it.

Pete Korn lifted an overcoat from the back of a chair, draped it over his left arm. He was chewing on a match again.

Helvig said: “I’ll stay here.” He was very drunk, his face loose and his mouth twisted, his eyes glazed. “I—I’ll wait.”

Sam Beckert was bluff: “Come on; you get your coat on. We’ll go down and show them mugs. All of us.”

Helvig sagged to a chair. “I’ll stay here, Sam. I got to.”

“You’d better come,” Donahue said.

“You hear me!” Sam Beckert boomed.

Helvig’s eyes flashed. He gripped the arms of the chair. “I’m not going down. You don’t need me. I—I’ll stay here and keep the girls company.”

Sam Beckert thumped across the room, reached down and hauled Helvig to his feet. “We’re all goin’ down—you hear!”

Helvig broke away and ran across the room, crouched in a corner, his eyes blazing. “I’m not!” He made a bee-line back across the room, slopped whiskey into a glass.

Sam Beckert punched the glass off the table. Helvig sucked in a breath, rasped: “It’s a trick! It’s a trick this fellow’s playing! I don’t believe Paisley’s down there! I won’t go!”

“You’re drunk,” Sam Beckert said. “The air’ll do you good. I tell you we’re all goin’ down!”

A glassy, cunning look came into Helvig’s eyes. He cackled. “You can go. But”—he shook his head—“not me. I tell you it’s a trick! You don’t know if Paisley’s there, do you? It’s just this fellow’s say-so. I tell you it’s a trick! It’s a frame!”

“Shut up!” Sam Beckert roared; he growled to Pete Korn: “Come on, Pete. We got to take Doc down. It’s for his own good.”

“Take Doc down,” Pete Korn muttered.

They started for him. But Helvig reeled backward across the room, hit the wall hard. A slab of iron-gray hair jumped down over his forehead. A gun jumped into his hand.

“I’m not going,” he said.

Beckert snarled: “You dope, put down that rod!”

“You heard me, Sam. You and Pete go. But not me. Go on!” he grated. “Get out of here!” And to Donahue: “And you, too!” His breath pumped hoarsely from his wide-open mouth. Sweat shone on his contorted face.

Donahue said: “You’re going, too, Helvig.”

“Am I? No, I’m not! For——sake, get out! Get out!”

Sam Beckert’s face was white, grave. “Doc, pull yourself together. You got to go with us. You got to. Don’t you understand you got to go?”

Helvig’s eyes shimmered. “Sam, for the love o’ gawd get out. Get out before I let you have it!”

There was a moment of silence, and then Sam Beckert said: “I guess we got to go. Come on, Pete.”

But Pete was chewing viciously on the match, and his eyes looked almost shut. His dry voice crackled: “I know what that baby’s up to! I know! And if you think I’m gonna stand for it—”

“Pete!” roared Sam. “You’re all goin’ nuts! Pete!”

Pete Korn drew fast. Helvig fired first, but missed. Pete’s shot drilled him, crashed him to the floor. There were screams in the other room.

Pete Korn whirled on Donahue, snapped: “And you hold everything!… Sam, frisk him.”

“I’m not heeled,” Donahue said, holding up his hands.

“Frisk him, Sam.”

Sam Beckert crossed to Donahue went through his pockets. He said: “He ain’t heeled, Pete.”

The match bobbed in Pete Korn’s mouth. He rasped: “Doc’s croakin’. Donahue did it, Sam.”

Sam Beckert gaped.

“Donahue did it,” Pete Korn repeated, making the match bob. He snapped to Donahue: “Turn that radio louder, you!”

Donahue took three steps, looked at the dials. He turned one. The radio blared, screeched. Pete walked over to Helvig, toed him. Helvig was rolling to and fro on the floor, moaning; a wild, steady stare in his eyes. Donahue picked up his hat from the top of the radio, turned. With his left hand he switched off the radio. His hat dropped from his right, and he held his gun.

“Don’t drop it, Pete,” he said. “Hold it—and hold that pose, darling. There’ll be no prints on the gun but yours. Stay where you are, Sam. Move, Pete, and you’ll get jarred.”