Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (7 page)

Micky Shane snapped, “You big bum, there ain’t nothing here! Stein bailed me out and come down here to talk to me! Of all the wet-blankets I seen in my time—”

“Enough out of you, hop-head!” cut in Donahue.

Stein began, “Donahue, in the name of reason—”

“To hell with reason!” roared Donahue, getting darker. “Shut up, both of you! You, Stein, take your clothes off! Strip!”

“Why, I—”

“Strip!”

Micky Shane said, “Don’t you do it, Stein. This guy’s just a bad smell.”

“Donahue,” rasped Stein, “I won’t submit to this humiliation!”

Micky Shane yelped, “Don’t you, Stein!”

Donahue took one quick step. His gun rose, came down hard against Micky’s head, and Micky hit the floor with glazed eyes. Stein made a leap for the door. Donahue jumped after him, caught him by the collar, yanked him back and sent him spinning across the room. Stein hit a chair, tumbled over it, banged his head against the window sill. He lay panting and gibbering, holding his head.

“Get up,” said Donahue. “Get up and take your clothes off. If you don’t want to take them off, give me what I came here for. Get up!”

Stein drew his knees up to his chest, crouched on the floor. Donahue went over, grabbed a handful of Stein’s shirt and heaved him to his feet. He shook him violently.

“All right, keep your pants on, but raise your hands!”

“Donahue, stop this. You can’t—”

Donahue jammed a hand into one of Stein’s coat pockets. It came out empty.

“Keep ’em up, Stein!”

Micky Shane was crawling on hands and knees. Donahue heard him and twisted about. Stein drove a fist to Donahue’s ear. Donahue shook his head, swung back on Stein. Micky flung himself at Donahue’s legs. Donahue went down like a felled tree. But in falling he grabbed one of Stein’s legs and Stein went down too.

Micky planted his teeth in Donahue’s leg, and Donahue yelled, “Damn you!” and twisted violently. Stein had a foot to use and he walloped it against Donahue’s head. Donahue clenched his teeth and wrenched Stein’s leg so hard that Stein cried out in pain. Micky let go of the leg and threw himself farther up on Donahue, striking the back of his head with hard little fists. Stein was kicking Donahue in the face, and Donahue reached back, caught one of Micky’s arms and forced him off his back. He muscled around dragging Stein with him, his gun beneath his stomach. He recovered his gun, suddenly heaved towards Stein and rapped the barrel against Stein’s head as Micky was scrambling to his feet. Stein grunted and lay flat on his back, and Donahue was on one knee when Micky kicked him in the jaw. The blow drove him tumbling back over Stein, but he rose in the midst of Micky’s next attack, blood dripping from his face, and with his left hand caught Micky by the throat. With his right he clubbed the gun twice on Micky’s head, held him for a moment with his left hand, then let him drop limply to the floor.

He stood for a brief moment breathing heavily, while drops of blood from his face stained the front of his sweat-soaked shirt. He was a little numb, blinking his eyes and moving his jaw from left to right. He coughed, then sneezed, and rubbed his nose.

He put his gun in his pocket and got down slowly to his knees beside Stein. He went through Stein’s coat pockets, drew out a leather wallet, dropped it on the floor. He went through Stein’s trousers pockets. He found nothing he wanted. He picked up the thick wallet and opened it, pulled out a lot of cards. Then he pulled out a lot of bills. A ring fell out with the bills and rang lightly on the floor. Donahue snatched it up, rose, stood looking at it. He smiled at it, tossed it into the air, caught it and shoved it into his pocket.

He went over to a wash basin, poured water from a pitcher, leaned over the basin and with his hands splashed water into his face. He put his face down into the water, holding his breath. He backed away from the basin, shook his head, groped for and found a towel and dried his face. He looked at himself in a cracked mirror. A couple of cuts were bleeding.

There were black and blue welts on his forehead and jaw. He took out his handkerchief and patted the cuts gingerly, making a face.

Stein and Micky Shane were still prostrate on the floor. Donahue looked at them without interest. He shrugged. He picked up the basin of water and drenched Micky Shane’s head. He threw what remained in the pitcher into Stein’s face. He lit a cigarette and sat down on a chair.

Ten minutes later Micky Shane sat up looking like a man in the throes of a hangover. He held his head between his hands and grimaced and said, “Oh, hell.”

“Hell’s right,” said Donahue.

“Oh-o,” groaned Micky.

Donahue stood up. “I’m blowing, little bad boy. Stein’s not so used to getting socked on the dome.” He drew the ring from his pocket and held it up between thumb and forefinger. “See, Micky? See?”

Micky Shane stared bleakly at the ring. “Okey, Donahue.”

“You should have got rid of it in New York.”

“I couldn’t. The only fence I knew was a friend of them palookas that was my buddies. I was looking for a fence here I knew about, but he’s been in stir for three months.”

“And Stein said he’d find one for you, eh?”

Micky groaned, “Oh-o,” again and held his head.

Donahue walked to the door, opened it, said, “Good-bye, little boy. And stay out of big time. And tell Stein for me when he comes around that I enjoyed my visit in St. Louis. Thank him for the way he went out of his way to make my visit interesting.”

“Oh-o,” groaned Micky, and lay down on the floor holding his head.

Donahue took a cab to his hotel and sent a wire that said: “Got it. Leaving tonight.”

Then he spent half an hour in a cold tub reading all about how Detective Rudolph Hocheimer of Police Headquarters had tracked down and apprehended the murderer of Detective Lucas Cross and Antonio Nesella. There was also the story about Eva. Hocheimer got a big hand all around, with his picture on the front page.

Donahue got a big laugh.

An unsuspecting artist, a girl on the make, two rodmen and—tough dick Donahue.

The taxi slopped and skidded through brit-tle slush and its right front wheel grated against the curb as squealing four-wheel brakes dragged it to a stop. Grimy water splashed the sidewalk.

Donahue, lurching in the darkened back, said, “Never mind the trimmings, brother,” and then pushed open the door.

The driver said, “These lousy streets,” with a grievance, while reaching out a hand to take a dollar bill Donahue thrust through the connecting window. When the driver returned fifty cents Donahue gave him a dime, stepped out into the freezing slush and banged the door.

Donahue climbed the narrow stone steps of the gray-faced house in Waverly Place. The glass vestibule door was open, but the door behind it was locked. Beside this door was a white button which Donahue pressed.

Presently a figure materialized behind the white-cur-tained glass door, and then the door opened and a small, plain-looking man of middle years said, “Yes, sir?” inquir-ingly.

Donahue said, “I’d like to see Mr. Crosby.”

The man opened the door wide and said, “He’s on the top floor in the studio apartment—number fifty-two.”

“Thanks,” said Donahue.

He went halfway down the hall and climbed three stair-cases. Number fifty-two was at the back of the hall, and there was a streak of light between door and threshold.

He knocked and heard some movement inside. But it was fully a minute before the key turned in the lock. Then the door opened and a small youngish thin man, neatly dressed in blue serge, looked at him.

Donahue asked, “Mr. Crosby?”

The man smiled with white agreeable teeth and said, “No, he’s not in.”

Donahue looked at his strap-watch. “He was to be. It’s eight-thirty. We had a date for eight-thirty. I’ll park.”

He walked in without waiting to be asked, took off his brown Borsalino. His black hair was thick and had many shining undulations. His face was long, lean, tawny-brown and his eyes were nut-brown beneath wiry black brows. He threw his hat on a wide divan and opened his raglan coat.

The small neat young man closed the door, and still wearing his agreeable smile, said cheerfully, “Have a seat. Crosby ought to be back if you say you have a date with him…. I didn’t get the name?”

“I’m Donahue. My boss sent me down here. Crosby called up late this afternoon and asked to send a man down…. You a friend of Crosby’s?”

“We room together.”

Donahue dropped into a huge leather easy chair beside a fireplace in which red embers glowed. He snapped a match on his thumb-nail and lit a cigarette. Throwing the match into the fireplace, he said offhand, “What’s worry-ing Crosby?”

The neat young man was standing with his back to the door eying Donahue quizzically. “Was something worry-ing him?”

Donahue looked up sharply. “Enough to want a private dick.”

“Oh… I see.” The neat young man put his hands on his hips. “He just came back from Paris, you know. We haven’t seen much of each other. But he looked worried. I didn’t know. Didn’t he say anything over the telephone?”

“No. He just said send a dick down.”

“Then he must be worried!” The neat young man left the door, crossed to the bathroom, came out a minute later and said, “He should be back any minute. He went out to get a bite to eat. I’ve a date. Hope you don’t mind waiting alone.”

“Not at all.”

The neat young man put on a blue ulster and a derby and pulled on yellow gloves. “Make yourself at home. Cigs in the box there, and some cigars, I think. Tell Crosby I’ll be back late.”

“Okey.”

The man said, “Well, good-night, Mr. Donahue,” smiled agreeably, opened the door and went out.

Donahue swung the chair around to face the fire and stuck his feet on a split log. When he finished the cigarette he opened the humidor on the low brass Moorish coffee table and helped himself to a cigar. He lighted it com-placently.

The bronze clock on the mantel said nine-thirty when he tossed the cigar butt into the grate and stood up with an impatient grunt.

A soft knock on the door made him turn abruptly and look at it. Then he crossed to the door, opened it and stood looking down at the face of an incredibly beautiful girl. She was smiling, but a glimmer of surprise showed through her smile.

When she said nothing, Donahue said, “Yes? Do you want to see Mr. Crosby?”

She nodded. “Ye-es.”

“He’s not in, but I’m waiting, too, so you may as well join me… though”—as she walked in—“I was just on the point of leaving.”

His eyes slanted down at her, appraised her with satis-faction, and he was closing the door when she turned around and stood with her back to the fireplace. She wore a mole coat and a dark snug cloche hat. She was very small, with small white teeth, brown big eyes and olive satin skin, and there was a distinct odor of liquid-heavy Shalimar perfume.

Donahue smiled, showing long narrow teeth. His dark eyes glittered, and he bowed, saying, “You might as well sit down.”

“I’ll get warm first,” she said, and shivered, adding, “Miserable weather!”

He said brightly, “Yes, rotten out. It’s been comfortable by the fire. Crosby should have been in long ago. We had a date. Guy lives with him asked me to wait and then breezed… he had a date.”

She said, “Oh, yes?” in a far-away voice, and threw a series of veiled looks around the room.

“You know Crosby well?” Donahue asked bluntly.

“Rather well. He telephoned me he was back from Eu-rope. I just dropped in… wasn’t certain of finding him. Since you have a date with him perhaps I’d better go.”

“Nonsense! Hang around.”

She sighed. “Mine is not important… merely a hello call. Did his friend say when Mr. Crosby’d come back?”

“No. No, he didn’t. He just said he figured he’d be back if we had a date. He was a nice agreeable little guy.”

Her eyes clouded and her lips tightened for the briefest of moments. Then she said, “Well… I’ll be going. I have an appointment uptown at ten.”

He said in a disappointed voice, “Well, if you must…” and moved with her to the door. “I’ll tell him you called?”

“If you will. He’ll know me… Leone Tenquist’s the name.”

Donahue said he would tell Crosby, and the woman went out leaving a faint smile and a breath of Shalimar perfume.

When the room was quiet again, the ticking of the bronze clock audible, Donahue muttered, “Don’t know what’s keeping that guy,” and started pacing up and down irri-tably. Ten minutes of this and he began looking around for a telephone. There was none in the living-room. He lit a match and prowled into the adjoining room. It was large and bare, with a skylight, and a dais and the paraphernalia of an artist. He found a button, switched on lights. He saw no telephone, but there was a room beyond. He entered this, couldn’t find the switch, struck another match and fumbled towards a small table beside a bed. He dialed a number in the Beekman exchange, waited, then said:

“Hello, Burt…. This is Donahue. Say, what time was I to call on this Crosby job?… I see. Well, it’s damned near ten now and nobody’s here…. Sure I’m in the place. His pal let me in…. Well, I’ll hang around till ten and then I’m breezing. Okey. ’By, Burt.”

The match had gone out. Donahue grumbled, swore, struck another and carried it towards the door. Before he reached the door he saw part of a man’s trousered leg ly-ing on the floor. He swung towards it, and the match’s dim light began to include thighs, waist, chest, head.

Bending down he saw that neck and shirt-collar were soaked with blood.

Glazed eyes stared at the match.

The match went out.

Donahue said, “Hell!” furiously in the darkness.

He rose and lit another match, found the light-switch, turned on the lights. He took another look at the dead man, had to step over him to get to the farther side of the room. There was a hooked rug lying twisted on the floor as though it had been mixed up in a scuffle.

A closet door was open, and clothes lay on the floor. A yellow suitcase was open, its lining slashed apart in several places. A Gladstone had undergone similar treatment. Drawers of a highboy were open; shirts, collars, under-shirts, pajamas, handkerchiefs were jumbled on the floor. A steamer trunk, open, had its insides hacked up after the manner of the suitcase and the Gladstone. Four hats lay on the floor, their sweatbands turned inside out. Red leather bedroom slippers had been slashed.