Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (66 page)

Donahue moved sidewise, three steps. With his left hand he picked up the Continental telephone. The hotel operator answered. Donahue said: “Send up a flock of cops to Lester Paisley’s apartment. A lot of people went nuts up here.”

Kelly McPard stood behind his desk, with eight fingertips resting on it. The nails were pink, clipped, clean. Rosebuds bloomed on Kelly McPard’s cheeks; his eyebrows were arched high, his blue eyes twinkling. A chuckle began deep in his throat, rose and flowed out liquidly.

“Good old Donny,” he said.

Donahue was eating a banana, the skin peeled in four strips and draped down over his hand.

“Helvig started it,” he said. “It was funny. You can’t always tell about liquor. Helvig kept taking slug after slug—to brace him up, I guess. Instead, it let him down. He became a raving maniac, raving with fear. He was afraid to come down here. He lost all his reason. Then Pete Korn figured Helvig was making to pull a fade-out and a double-cross—and so Pete lost his head. Sam Beckert never had any head to lose, so it remained where it was. Nice people.” He took a bite of banana, chewed.

The door opened and Alex Karssen came in, swinging a stick. “I heard briefly over the phone,” he said, “that fireworks broke out in an uptown hotel.”

Kelly McPard sat down, shook with chuckles. “Pinwheels, rockets, Roman candles….”

“You see, Alex,” Donahue said. He paused to swallow a lump of banana, went on: “As far back as a month ago they planned to frame the Emperor into losing not only this fight but his life as well. I think I got an inkling then that something wrong was in the wind, because Paisley started going around town making cracks against the Emperor. Up until then, Paisley had always said good things about King Brown.

“The facts now are these: The Emperor was to chuck Sam Beckert and throw in with Mike Dolan. Sam and Paisley and your Commission’s doctor, Helvig, talked it over. They were going to needle the champ. Helvig was to get a cut of ten grand.

“When that Hollywood gossip column ran that item, Sam Beckert went to Mike Dolan and called him, but Mike admitted nothing. However, Sam was sure, and not without reason, that Mike Dolan was to get the champion. In a heated argument Sam said to Dolan: ‘You’re muscling in, Mike. If ever you get the champ away from me, you’ll get him dead. I won’t give him up.’ So when Sam confronted the Emperor, the Emperor beat about the bush, but Sam knew. The Emperor was a bum actor.

“And finally Sam managed to bribe the hotel telephone operator who had overheard Mike’s and the Emperor’s conversation, and then he knew. Sam started out for revenge, and meanwhile he planned to rake in a lot of dough while getting his revenge. The trouble was, in order to do away with the Emperor he had to do away with Dolan—because he had promised Dolan the only way he’d get the Emperor would be dead.

“Of course, Sam Beckert couldn’t be caught openly betting against his man. So what? So he turned over a pile of dough to Paisley. Paisley would bet against the champ, clean up. But then it would be risky to turn the winnings back to Beckert through open banking channels. They got the idea of a front and so formed the Keystone Realty Company.

“When Paisley cleaned up on the fight, he wrote out a check to the Keystone Realty Company for the amount he had received from Beckert to bet with plus the amount he had won. Later, the money was to dribble back to Beckert. All this we got from Paisley’s lips. Down at the hospital, we got the rest from Helvig, your Commission’s honorable doctor who okeyed the Emperor just before he went into the ring.”

“But the autopsy,” broke in Karssen, “proved that nothing had been done to the Emperor.”

Donahue said: “Nothing had. All these plans I mentioned had been laid a month before the fight. Gunmen were hired to go West and camp on Dolan’s trail, to be ready for the go-signal. The Keystone Company was formed. Beckert was all primed to bring vengeance against Dolan and at the same time make a big winning. Then a week before the fight Helvig discovered something wrong with the Emperor’s heart. He didn’t tell the Emperor but he told Beckert. The Emperor was through training and had been ordered to rest. Helvig told Beckert that any exertion would kill the champ. He told Paisley. None of them told the Emperor.

“It was Beckert who said that there was no need then to do away with Dolan. But Helvig was scared. He knew he would examine the Emperor before the champ entered the ring. He wanted not the slightest suspicion to fall on him. He figured that if Dolan lived he would come out with the news that Beckert had threatened to turn the Emperor over to him dead. This would bring down a lot of investigation and cross-examination, and the only examination Helvig wanted was an autopsy, which he knew would be safe. So Helvig refused to send the Emperor into the ring unless Dolan was taken care of. He was afraid of Black Harlem as well as the law. Beckert knew of only one way to take care of Dolan and he gave the word. If Brown keeled over, that was to be the signal!”

“My——!” said Alex Karssen.

“The Emperor was okeyed by your Commission’s doctor and went into the ring to die. He fought like a madman. It got him.”

Karssen rasped: “I’ll see that those fellows get life!”

“They will,” Kelly McPard said cheerfully.

“They’d better,” Donahue said. He tossed the banana peel into a basket, added: “Black Harlem’s honing its razors, Alex, and it’s life or”—he was wiping his mouth—“else, Southern style.”

Tough dick Donahue struck him behind the ear with a hard left fist

Donahue pulled open a side door of the Hotel Coronet and came into the arcade with a gust of raw wind that kited the long skirt of his blue ulster round his rangy legs. He went swinging on past smart shops towards the lobby, one hand pocketed, the other rapping a newspaper against his thigh at each step. From the breast pocket of his ulster a handkerchief protruded in two overlapping triangles. He wore a gray hat well off his face.

As he neared the lobby entrance, he heard the sound of Cuban music at the thé dansant in the Flamingo Room and picked up the tune with a whispered whistling. He reached the lobby and was cutting diagonally across towards the elevator bank when Phalen, the Post Express legman, turned from trying to date the brunette at the cigar counter and called out:

“Hey, look at Handsome.”

“Poison in your soup, Red,” Donahue said cheerfully, on his way.

Phalen tossed a wise-eyed wink at the brunette, popped a cigarette butt into a sand-filled urn and set off after Donahue.

“What’s the rush, Donny?”

“Date.”

“Who is she?”

“What’s the matter; did little beautiful at the counter give you the air?”

Phalen was pacing him. “Me, I’m her everything, bo.” His thin face was the color of sand and it was dry like sand. His smile was slow, twisted, and his eyes were sharp, brazen, and he had a dandified way of wearing his clothes. He spoke glibly: “No kidding, Donny. I’ve been trying for hours to stir up news.”

“So what?”

“So news is where you are, usually. You wouldn’t kid me, would you, pally?”

They stopped in front of the elevator bank and Donahue said in a mock-confidential voice, “Keep it under your hat, Red, but”—he put a hand significantly alongside his mouth—“there’s a blonde upstairs who doesn’t want to be alone.”

One of the elevator doors opened and Donahue swiveled away from Phalen and strode into the car.

“I mean,” Phalen said, following, “on the level.”

Donahue chuckled with rough good humor, said, “Don’t be a horse’s neck, Red,” and straight-armed him out of the car. And to the elevator boy, “Shoot me up, will you?” And when the car had started—“Five.”

Number 545 was at an L in the corridor and Donahue used a small bronze knocker shaped like a crouching cat. In a moment the door was opened by a short, heavy-set man dressed in a dark, speckled-gray lounge suit. He was holding a pair of rimmed nose glasses chest high, and with a slight inquisitive dip of the head he said:

“Mr. Donahue?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Come right in.”

Donahue entered a small foyer and laid his hat on a small table there. He saw, beyond, through the Lancet arch, a girl standing sidewise to him; her chin was tilted upward and she was peering into a small vanity mirror and adjusting a brimless dark hat. She wore a three-quarter length black lapin coat, and as Donahue followed the middle-aged man into the large living-room, she made a quarter turn, gave him a brief, hesitant smile of greeting and turned again to her mirror.

The middle-aged man led him to a far corner of the room and said: “Pardon me just a moment, Mr. Donahue.” And Donahue nodded, unbuttoned his overcoat and stood gazing down on to the boulevard below. There were several apartment houses and a tall, lean hotel across the street. He heard the man and the girl talking in the foyer but did not catch what they said; he did not try. The sound of the door being opened and closed was followed shortly by the man’s return.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Donahue.”

“Not at all, not at all, Mr. Loftman.”

“There; take a seat, please; that one, any one.”

He looked fifty-odd and wore his snow-and-iron hair like a plume, unparted. His clothes were loose, sack-like, but obviously expensive, and when he replaced his glasses upon his nose he looked scholarly and a little older.

He said: “I’ve had occasion to use other branches of your agency and found them all dependable. That’s why I telephoned you to come over. What I really want this time, however, is a messenger. I wanted to get you here and make tentative arrangements with you. The messenger is not to be sent yet, but when the time comes I want to be certain of having him ready—instantly—to board a plane for the East. He will fly, meet my wife at a bank I shall name. She will turn over to him a certain amount of money and he will fly back with it and deliver it to me at this hotel.”

Donahue leaned forward. “It might be simpler and less expensive for you to have it wired here.”

Loftman gazed down absently at his unlit cigarette. “Possibly you don’t care to undertake it?”

“It was just a suggestion. I can have a man on call, any time you say. There’s always at least one man on reserve. No retainer’s necessary.”

Loftman rose. “Within the next twenty-four hours I shall know definitely. You say there is always someone at the agency?”

“Night and day. And if you want to speak to me personally, they can always locate me, any hour.”

“Good, I’ll telephone you.”

Loftman stepped back, tossed his unlit cigarette into a tray, put his heels together and dipped his big head.

Donahue went towards the foyer saying, “Thank you for the opportunity, Mr. Loftman.” He picked up his hat from the table and made his way out into the corridor. As he was walking away from the closed door he heard hurrying footsteps and turned to see Phalen coming towards him rapidly. Behind Phalen, slower-gaited, was Bickford, the house officer.

Phalen jerked a thumb back over his shoulder. “Blondie want to be alone again?”

“Funny, you are,” Donahue muttered, taking long strides.

“Blondes are the curse of the working classes, Donny.”

“One of the curses of my life is a red-headed legman with a nasty mind.”

“No fooling, pally. Is there anything in the wind? I’ll do right by you in the paper.”

Bickford caught up with them and said in a hoarse, grave voice, “Hello, Mr. Donahue.”

“Hello, Mr. Bickford,” Donahue said, and they all got in the elevator and rode down to the main floor.

Phalen poked Bickford in the arm and said, “Donny’s a pain in the neck. Ever know that, Bick?” as they left the elevator.

The house officer wore a neutral stare. Phalen sauntered off towards the cigar counter and then Bickford turned to Donahue and said, “Mr. Donahue, could I have a few words with you?”

“Sure thing.”

Bickford jerked his shiny bald head. “My office.”

When they were seated in his small cubbyhole, Bickford planted his hands on his broad knees and stared gravely down between them. “I don’t want to pry in your business, Mr. Donahue, but could I just ask you if you think the 545 business is okey?”

“What do you mean—okey?”

“Well, sir, I mean, whatever the business is, it won’t make a stink in the hotel, will it?”

Donahue chuckled. “I think not. It’s just a matter of messenger service. No tailing, no shadowing.”

Bickford let go a large sigh. “Well, I’m glad to hear that,” he said, but still looked a little troubled. “Because that 545 caused us a headache a couple of days ago. It was on the fourth, the day before Loftman checked in.” He shrugged. “It’s a job, keeping monkeys out of this hotel, Mr. Donahue.

“You see—and this is under the hat, Mr. Donahue. I seen a couple of guys in the lobby from time to time and I got to wondering about their faces. They were down in the register as Herbert Gearman and P. T. Lancaster, but that didn’t mean a thing. So finally I shot over to Headquarters and went over the mugs there. And sure enough—they were Marty O’Fallon and Jess Fauls, a couple of con men and gamblers and a lot of other things, with a record longer than a coast-to-coast railroad ticket.

“So I got McCartney from Headquarters—he’s a good friend of the house here—and we walked in on O’Fallon and Fauls and Mac said, ‘I’ll give you birds just fifteen minutes to pack up.’ They tried to stall but Mac planted himself right in the living-room and they had to pack. Well, we didn’t want any notoriety here in the hotel and Mac said the best thing to do would be put ’em on a train. Which we did. We made ’em pack and then Mac walked ’em over the station and made ’em buy tickets all the way to California. And he stayed there till the train pulled out. It was a close shave but with the help of Mac we did well.”

“But what makes you sorry about the new tenant?”

Bickford sighed. “Just an idea, I guess. Just the kind of goofy idea a guy gets sometimes. I guess it was seeing a private dick coming out of there so soon after this other mess.” He slapped his knees. “Well, thanks, Mr. Donahue; thanks.”

“If I thought there was anything wrong, I wouldn’t touch it—and I’d tell you.”