Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (67 page)

“That’s the way I figure. Has this—um—Red Phalen anything against you?”

Donahue shrugged. “I just tossed him out of my office once for trying to pull a fast one on my files. He probably once read a book about how reporters have the free run of the town and it went to his head.”

Bickford nodded. “I have trouble with him myself sometimes.”

“Oh, Red’s all right,” Donahue said, going towards the door, “except when he gets in your hair.”

Bickford raised a forefinger. “Don’t give him any dope on what I told you, Mr. Donahue.”

Donahue chuckled. “I wouldn’t even give Red the right time,” he replied, backing out of the office.

“Wouldn’t you, pally?” said Phalen, leaning against the corridor wall. His expression was not pleasant.

Donahue pivoted. He went on his way saying, “Go roll your hoop, nuisance.”

Donahue went to a Greek place in Sixth that night for dinner. The walls were covered with large photographs of wrestlers and boxers; a famous Italian tenor; a radio crooner. There was one of those pianos that work when you feed it nickels.

Sam came over to the table and said jovially, “Hey-lo, Meester Donahue. Whatcha you have, hahn?”

“A double Martini, steak, French fries, tomatoes and salad.”

“Huk-key, Meester Donahue.”

Donahue spent half an hour over the food, another half hour over Turkish coffee and brandy and a long heavy cigar. He looked lean, smooth, in a blue serge suit, his face well-shaved, a bit hawkish, beneath the hard black sheen of his hair. As he was leaving Sam gave him a brandy on the house and plucked a piece of lint off the back of his overcoat.

Outside, there were two cabs at the curb. The nearest had its engine purring and Donahue got in, slammed the door behind him, said: “The hockey games,” and sank back into the seat. It was a ride of ten minutes. He was early and went around to the lavatory, and he was standing in a corner lighting a cigarette when he felt a hard object thrust against the small of his back. His eyes flicked upward at the bare wall, he finished lighting the cigarette and let the match fall.

“Spill it,” he said, raising his hands half-way.

“That’s very clever. You’re Donahue, ain’t you?”

“I’m Donahue.”

“Donahue the private cop?”

“Sure.”

“I thought so.”

“Who are you, the big man from the South?”

“Keep your puss to the wall, Donahue! And skip the funnies!”

Donahue, his cigarette between his lips, inhaled, let the smoke lag from his nostrils. He stood straight, well-planted on his feet, looking even a little debonair. “I’m keeping my puss to the wall.”

“The door’s latched,” the low, stern voice went on. “I latched it. So don’t try to stall thinking someone’ll waltz in.”

“Who’s stalling? If you’ve got something on your mind, get it off. I don’t want to miss the games.”

“You’ll miss the games, handsome, if you don’t talk. What were you doing in 545 at the Coronet?”

Donahue inhaled languidly, though he did not feel languid. He said offhand, “Who sent you—that pup Phalen?”

“Never mind who sent me! I asked you—”

“I heard what you asked me. What did Phalen pay you, fifty bucks? Or could he raise fifty bucks?”

A crack on the back of his head made his teeth shake and he pressed his eyelids close together, wincing. He swayed a trifle and the cigarette fell from his lips.

“That’s just the barrel of it, Donahue. The muzzle’s used for something else.”

Donahue made himself sway a little more. He made his legs break at the knees and let himself fall against the wall

“Snap out of it!” the voice behind him rasped.

“Ugh,” said Donahue.

When he was half-way down the wall, his body looking limp and useless, he felt the man’s hand tussle with his shoulder. Donahue suddenly shot one foot backward and threw himself down to his knees. He connected. But instantly the lights went out and he figured that he had driven the man against the light switch. He heard the man groaning, heard feet scraping on the floor. He drew his gun, swiveling on his knees and trying to get a bearing by the sounds the man made. His gun was cocked and he felt wide awake, tight-drawn. Then there was a moment’s silence during which the man apparently made no move. Donahue continued to remain motionless, on his knees, sitting back on his heels.

Then he heard a loud click and instantly the door was flung open, dim yellow light poured in. Donahue caught a glimpse of an overcoated shape diving out through the doorway. Donahue raised his gun but in that moment the fleeing man collided with two others. There was a short, violent tangle of bodies. Donahue let down the hammer of his gun, shot to his feet and lunged towards the door. The overcoated man had broken away and vanished, and Donahue, piling through the door, got tangled up with the two men who had tried to enter the lavatory before. They made no attempt to fight with him, but they simply were unable to get out of the way. Donahue finally broke between them, leaped for the lobby and found himself wading through the crowd there like a man trying to run in water.

When he reached the street, hundreds of men and women were arriving. He stopped, his eyes dagger-sharp and whipping about in all directions. But he had not seen the man’s face, he had only a vague idea of what the man looked like from the rear. After a moment he relaxed.

He took his hat off, reset the crown, placed it back upon his head. He dusted off his overcoat, his knees, popped a cigarette from his leather case and lit up. It had all the earmarks of the kind of thing Phalen would do: send a gunman after him to get information. Yet Donahue knew that he could not successfully point the finger at Phalen. You have to have evidence.

On his way from the hockey games, Donahue dropped in at the Casa Caliente. He tossed hat and overcoat on to the checkroom desk, pushed aside black drapes and made his way around the edge of the dining and dancing room to the bar. The bar was situated in a long, open alcove, two steps up from the main room.

“Hello, Mr. Donahue,” the barman said. “Been around to the games?”

“Yeah. Scotch, Julius, with soda on the side.”

“Was the games good?”

“Swell.”

Julius turned to get the Scotch and a syphon and Donahue turned to hang his elbows on the bar, prop his back against it. Walter Hazen, the owner, came up and said: “Haven’t seen you since Repeal, Donny.”

They shook hands and Donahue asked, “How’s it feel to be legal, Walt?”

“I sleep better, anyhow.”

“That’s something. Who’s that girl over there?”

Hazen turned. “Which?”

“Walking across the dance-floor.”

“Search me. Maybe I can fix—”

“Uh-huh. I just asked.”

His drink was ready and he turned around, poured the Scotch into the glass of iced soda and jigged the glass swizzle stick. He ate some potato chips and finished half the drink at a swallow. Julius was showing him a new match trick when the girl climbed on to a high stool beside him. Both looked at each other at the same time and the girl smiled.

“Hello,” she said frankly, warmly.

“Greetings.”

Julius picked up his matches and went down to the other end of the bar.

“See what you did,” Donahue said. “He’ll pout now.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Buy you a drink?”

“Oh, no; no, thanks.”

She turned to regard him with a shy little smile twitching at her lips. He wasn’t looking at her; he was hunched over the bar making wet circles with the bottom of his glass. But presently she said towards the side of his face:

“About—this afternoon….”

He looked at her. “Huh?”

“I—I hope you didn’t think anything wrong.”

“About what?”

“I mean—well, the way it happened. The way you walked in and found me primping and then the way I went out. He’s forgetful about those things, though—about introducing people. But he’s a dear old man.”

“Oh, that. I hadn’t thought of it.” He finished his drink and beckoned to the barman. “Do it again, Julius.”

Julius reached for his matches.

“The drink, I mean,” Donahue said. Julius looked disappointed.

The girl blushed a little and said: “I guess I was foolish to speak to you this way. But what did you think when you saw me there?”

He raised his palms, looked at her. “I tell you I didn’t think anything.” He had to laugh at her earnestness.

She regarded him curiously. “Don’t you care what people think of you?”

“Of course not.”

“But don’t you think it might help sometimes if a person thought good of you rather than bad?”

“Listen,” he said, pretending to slump, “maybe we’d better dance.”

A man, a tall, very young man in dinner clothes, came up and said: “Pardon me,” to both of them; and to the girl, “We didn’t know where you’d gone, Fern. Isn’t this my dance?”

She slid off the stool, leaned over and said close to Donahue’s face: “It matters sometimes,” in a grave, anxious whisper. He put his glass to his lips and over the rim of it watched her walk off with the tall young man. The young man had pink cheeks, wavy golden hair.

Donahue turned to Julius. “Know that girl was sitting here?”

“Nah. The guy with her is Judge Emmett’s son. I thought you knew her.”

Donahue raised his drink. “I do,” he lied. “I was just asking you.”

He left the bar and headed for the lounge and was putting his scarf round his neck when Phalen came in with a couple of other legmen and three girls. The crowd was pretty high and Phalen, gesturing flamboyantly, shouted:

“M’gawd, gals, look! It’s Handsome himself!” And then sententiously: “Look, out, gals. Get within ten feet of that maiden’s prayer and you’re lost. Lost!”

A little straw-blonde cried plaintively, “I wanna get lost!”

“Did you say ten feet?” another asked, plucking at Phalen’s sleeve. “I want to make sure.”

Walter Hazen came through the black drapes and said, “Please, not so loud, not so loud.”

“Go hang your neck, Walt,” Phalen called to him.

Donahue had his hat and coat on by this time and, drawing on his gloves, he was detouring towards the door.

The little straw-blonde cried, “O-o-o-o, you big handsome mans!”

Phalen lurched between Donahue and the door, screwing up his face. “Too good for us, hey?”

“Look out, Red.”

“Too almighty good for us, hey?”

“Beat it, Red; you’re plastered.”

“Hah! Big, young, successful private dick too good to ’sociate with working boys and girls, huh?”

Donahue, still drawing on his gloves, raised his chin towards the other two legmen and said: “Take it before I do something with it, boys.”

They swayed over and grabbed hold of Phalen. “Come on, Red; cut it out,” one urged. “Walt’ll think we’re drunk and—”

“Lemme at him,” Phalen croaked, his eyes blazing.

The two legmen held on to him.

Donahue said over their heads: “See you sometime, Walt,” and went out, closing the heavy door quietly.

“Ran away!” Phalen exulted. “He couldn’t take it!”

“Ah, my big brave star reporter!” one of the girls cried.

Donahue went to court next day, to testify in an insurance fraud case, and when he got back to the office, at three-thirty, Miss Laidlaw looked up from her typewriter.

“Lieutenant Kelly McPard telephoned about ten minutes ago and asked if you would kindly come over to apartment 545, the Coronet.”

Donahue stopped getting out of his overcoat and asked, “What’d he say?”

She moved prim precise lips. “Just that you should come over.”

He shrugged his shoulder back into his overcoat and stood looking quizzically, a little darkly, at the surface of his secretary’s desk. Louie, the office boy, was methodically stamping envelopes.

Then Donahue said: “I’ll be there if anyone calls,” and left the office.

He went downstairs and looked up the line for a street car. There was none in sight, so he flagged a taxi and rode out towards the West End. Donahue got out of the taxi near the Park and took the front entrance into the Coronet. He went past the desk, caught an upbound elevator and got off at the fifth floor. The long skirt of his ulster slapped his calves as he swung long legs down the corridor. He knocked on 545 and a uniformed policeman opened the door, saying:

“Oh, hello, Mr. Donahue.”

Donahue did not remember his name, so he just said, “Hello,” and passed from the foyer into the living-room. A couple of policemen were standing about, and across the room, at the entrance to the bedroom, there was a group of men gathered behind a police photographer, who was taking a picture of the bedroom. The man from the coroner’s office was shoving things into a black satchel.

Phalen was standing on his toes, peering over the photographer’s shoulder. Plain-clothed Kelly McPard was taking neat little drags at a cork-tipped cigarette, and when he turned to knock some ash into a tray, he saw Donahue and raised his eyebrows, smiled. Donahue moved his chin upward, in greeting, and then McPard left the others and came across the room.

He was a tall man, and pretty stout, but the dark tailormade clothes he wore lessened the effect of his stoutness. His pale hair was neatly slicked down and he had a round, pink face; but nose, eyes and mouth seemed concentrated over a very small portion of it. His eyes were shrewd and at the same time genial. White, starched cuffs crowded his plump, pink hands.

“I break into your routine, Donny?”

“Not at all, Kel,” Donahue replied, his eyes fastened on the group at the bedroom door.

Kelly McPard smiled and nodded towards the partly open pantry door and Donahue followed him into a small, rectangular room, tiled, and fitted with an electric refrigerator, a porcelain sink and a high white porcelain stool. McPard drew the door shut. He pressed his cigarette into the sink and it sizzled briefly against the wet.

“I hear you were up here yesterday, Donny.”

Donahue sat on the stool, propped his heels on the metal foot-rest and leaned comfortably back against the wall. He nodded.

“What did Loftman want?” McPard asked, his voice quiet, unhurried.

“He wanted us to send a messenger East. It wasn’t definite at the time I saw him. He just wanted to make sure we’d have a man on call.”