Roper’s heavy slow footfalls came back across the bare studio floor, and then he came into the living-room.
“That’s nice,” he said. He looked at Adler. “Who’s this?”
“Houseman,” Donahue said.
Roper said, “Yeah?” and then moved towards the fire-place, pulled a chair up close to it and sat down with his back to the fire huddling his big bony shoulders. He looked mournful and detached.
“Now,” he said, “let’s go over it.”
Donahue, holding the little black address book in a clenched hand in his pocket, smiled with long narrow teeth and said, “Sure, Roper,” amicably.
Chapter III
When Donahue left the house in Waverly Place, it was ten-twenty, and the morgue bus was drawing up to the curb. There was no crowd, since no commotion had at-tended the quiet murder of Crosby, and crowds in Waverly Place are rare anyhow.
Donahue crunched stout shoes on freezing slush as he headed west, turned into Sheridan Square. He crossed the Square and went down into dark windy Grove Street. Where a dim yellow light glowed from a door submerged five feet beneath the level of the sidewalk. Donahue turned down the flight of stone steps, passed through the open doorway, turned right against a closed door, opened it, walked ten feet down a narrow corridor, opened another door, and entered a long bar at which stood eight scattered men.
The slack-faced barman, who was idly picking his teeth, said, “’Lo, Donny.”
“Bunt,” Donahue said. “Scotch and soda.”
“How’s the racket?”
“On the up and up.”
While the barman was uncorking the Scotch, Donahue walked the length of the bar, entered a telephone booth. The sound of the nickel dropping in the slot was audible outside the booth. Donahue talked for a minute, hung up. Then another nickel made a noise. He talked again, hung up, came out and picked up a pickle from the lunch counter on his way to the bar. He downed the Scotch straight, chased it with soda, rang a half dollar on the bar.
He said, “Be seeing you, Bunt,” and walked out.
Returning to Sheridan Square, he went down a West Side subway kiosk, took a northbound local to Fourteenth Street, left the local and caught a northbound express. Ten minutes later he left the express at Seventy-second Street, took a local to Seventy-ninth, got off and climbed the stair-way to Broadway. He walked one block west and turned south into West End Avenue.
The Avalon-Plaza was a small apartment-hotel better than middle class, just short of swank. Donahue passed a braided doorman, pushed a revolving door around, climbed three marble steps, turned right and climbed three more, and then walked down a narrow quiet foyer. To the corpu-lent complacent man at the desk he said, “Will you tell Miss Tenquist that Mr. Donahue is calling?”
The man said, “Certainly,” and repeated the names to the switchboard operator. When he turned back to Don-ahue saying, “Yes,” Donahue asked, “What number?” And the man said, “A-455.”
A small silent elevator whisked Donahue to the fourth floor, and the elevator boy leaned out to point and say, “Down that way, sir, around the bend.”
There was a brass knocker shaped like a harp on the door marked A-455. Donahue raised it and let it fall back to its brass base.
The latch clicked and Miss Tenquist looked quizzically at Donahue. She had loose brown hair and wore a blue peignoir casually and becomingly.
He eyed her steadily with round hard brown eyes and showed his long narrow teeth in a fixed smile.
Without saying anything, the woman stepped aside and looked around the room vaguely, and while she was doing that Donahue walked into a small but not inexpensive living-room. To the left were two doors. One led to a bath-room; the other to a bedroom.
When she had closed the door, Donahue, hat in hand, said, “I called you from downtown.”
“Yes?” She was eying him strangely, uncertainly, and color was creeping into her cheeks.
He was smiling at her fixedly. “I didn’t tell you over the phone that Crosby’d been murdered.”
Her small white fingers flew to her mouth but did not succeed in stopping an explosive, “Oh!” that burst from spread lips. Her brown eyes dilated wide with sudden horror. Then the lids wavered, the eyes rolled a bit. Dona-hue took a step toward her, arms outthrust. She backed away, putting the back of her hand against her forehead. She sank to a divan and said breathlessly, “Oh… mur-dered!” tragically.
“Yes,” Donahue clipped. He went on rapidly in a blunt incisive voice, “He’d been murdered when you got there. He’d been murdered before I got there. He was lying in his bedroom all the time and I didn’t know it.”
She said, “Oh, oh,” behind teeth that tried to close hard, and a harried look battled in her eyes.
“Listen,” Donahue said, sitting down beside her. “You were worried when you came there tonight. Who are you? How long have you known Crosby?”
“I’ve known him—quite a while.”
“Not so long. I happen to know you came over on the boat with him.”
She caught her breath, trained her eyes on the carpet. “Yes, I did. I knew him in Europe. We met in Europe.”
“Listen. When you came in tonight, how did you get in?”
She had her handkerchief pressed against her mouth now. She looked squarely at Donahue with her wide-open eyes. “Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean, ordinarily you ring the front door bell to get in that house. You didn’t. You came right in. You must have had a key.”
She swallowed. “Who are you?”
“I told you my name. That’s not answering my question. Did you have a key?”
She got up and started walking around the room. Dona-hue got up and trailed her around the room, asking, “Now did you, did you?” She whirled and cried, half in tears. “What if I did have a key?”
He stopped and spread his hands palmwise, saying, “That’s what I wanted to know. Then you had a key. You must have been a very good friend of Crosby’s.” He smiled crookedly. “Very intimate, eh?”
She looked confused. “If you want to put it that way.”
“That’s all right by me,” he grinned. “We’ll forget all about that. But here’s something else. That guy I said was Crosby’s room-mate wasn’t. Why didn’t you tell me no-body lived with Crosby when I made that crack?”
“I still don’t know what right you have to ask all these questions?”
“When I mentioned that guy, I remember you kind of tightened up—as if you knew who I meant.” He lowered his voice, hardened it. “Listen to me, little girl, it’s all right if you were playing house with Crosby—that was his privilege and yours. But when a guy gets his throat carved and you act dumb when I shoot questions at you—” He shook his head. “That doesn’t go at all—not with this baby.”
She was trembling, but she put fire in her voice when she cried, “Who—who are you?”
“Just a private cop earning his salary…. You knew Crosby well. All right. He sent for a private cop. Now you ought to know why. We don’t know. He called up and said he’d explain when we sent a man down. So I went down. This smooth-faced guy let me in, saying he was Crosby’s room-mate. Then you drift in. Say, who was after Crosby—and why?”
She blew her nose and shook her head and said beneath her handkerchief in a panicky voice, “I don’t know! He didn’t tell me anything!”
Fury leaped in Donahue’s dark eyes. His hand shot out, caught the girl’s wrist and he heaved her close up against him.
He snarled, “I hope to tell you you’re a damned little liar!”
“Ow… you’re hurting!”
He released her abruptly and she fled backwards across the room. He chopped off an oath that did not quite get to his lips and scowled darkly at the girl.
“Don’t pull a song and dance on me!” he rapped out. “We can get along fine as long as you don’t play me for a jack-ass. Come on now, break clean. What kind of a racket are you in on?”
“I—I do
n’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I said don’t song-and-dance!”
“I tell you—”
A knock on the corridor door stopped her. She flung a look at the door. She flung a look at Donahue. Donahue made a motion for her to open the door while his right hand went around to his hip-pocket and drew out a Colt’s .38 revolver with an abbreviated two-inch barrel. He took six backward steps into the bath-room, left the door open.
The girl had her hand on the knob of the corridor door, and all color had drained from her face.
Chapter IV
She opened the door. Her body stiffened and her hands started towards her breast. She backed up as the small neat young man came in slowly and smiled with his agree-able white teeth. His right hand was significantly in the pocket of his ulster. He reached around back with his left hand, closed the door, stood with his back against it and turned the key in the lock.
He said in his pleasant lively voice, “Hello, Irene.”
The girl had backed up against one arm of the divan, and she sat tensely against it, hunched forward, in an awkward position that had about it something of breathlessness. Her brown eyes were fixed wide on the small neat young man. His rather dark luminous eyes twinkled.
He said, casually, “Babe didn’t get it.”
She scraped the side of the divan with clawing fingers. Fear began to distort her face, and she kept twisting her head from side to side. Her lips opened, her teeth opened, and she began to breathe hoarsely.
The small neat young man came forward, taking his time, smiling pleasantly. He said, “And I didn’t get it.”
She cringed, held her arms out, palms towards the man. She crouched behind the palms.
She choked, “Babe… you didn’t—”
“No, Irene. I didn’t. Not that. I just slugged him…. Aren’t you the two-timing little—?”
“For God’s sake, Alfred… go out!”
“Don’t try to kid me. Babe’s not here. Babe’s still in the land of nod, as the poets say…. And will it be poetic justice if I break your nice sweet jaw?”
“Alfred!…”
“I’m talking, Irene. What a jack I’ve been. I always knew you used to be sweet on Babe, nuts on him, but I thought that was all over—”
“I swear it is, Alfred!”
“Bah! You two-timed on me, but Babe didn’t get it. Maybe he did get it. But he didn’t have it. He passed it on to someone… to you.”
“No—no!”
Alfred drew out a very small but business-like automatic and leveled it at the girl’s breast.
He said quietly, “One of us has it. Babe hasn’t. I haven’t. You have!”
“Please… I swear!…”
He raised his left hand slowly and placed the fingers around the girl’s throat. He pressed the muzzle of the gun against her breast. He smiled at her.
“For two-timing, Irene, you ought to get a belly full of this. I may yet. But first I want to know who has it.”
“I—don’t know, Alfred! That’s God’s truth! Go out… come back later!”
He laughed leisurely, tightened his fingers on her throat until she gagged and raised her hands to grip the arm that held her. She teetered on the arm of the divan, lost her balance, fell backward on the divan kicking up white smooth legs.
Alfred took two steps and looked down at her where she lay panting and rubbing her throat. He leaned over a bit and slapped her face. She cried, “Ow!” and she meant it. Alfred slammed the pistol against her ribs and she screeched. He stood up, took two more steps, turned on a radio. A jazz band boomed into the room. He returned to the divan and struck the girl again—with the gun. He planted a knee on her stomach and went on striking her. He did not look mad, merely interested in his work.
Donahue stepped from the bathroom, walked across the carpet, stopped behind Alfred, and when Alfred’s gun hand rose, Donahue gripped it, twisted sharply and spun Alfred around to face him. Alfred’s gun was in Donahue’s left hand, and Donahue’s gun was in his own right hand. Dona-hue struck Alfred playfully on the head with Alfred’s gun, and when Alfred fell back grunting, Donahue grinned and said:
“Does hurt, doesn’t it?”
Alfred regained his poise, smiled and said, “Yes, a bit.”
The girl sat up, sobbing. She rose and burst out crying and stumbled to the bathroom.
Donahue eyed Alfred and said, “Turn off the radio.”
Alfred turned off the radio. He smoothed his collar, pushed back his black smooth hair and kept looking at Donahue with mild and polite interest.
“You’re a smooth——,” Donahue said drily.
Alfred smiled, said, “Association,” brightly.
Donahue said, “Well, I’m not smooth. And I don’t like smooth guys.”
“Do you mind if I light a cigarette?”
“Yes I mind.”
Alfred shrugged. “You’re uncommonly hard to get on with.”
“I’m damned hard to get on with.”
Alfred sighed. Then his face brightened. “Irene is a very temperamental soul.”
“We’ll discuss you right now. Never mind about Irene…. Listen, you—what the hell was the idea of handing me a line in Crosby’s apartment?”
“Must we go into that?”
“Oh, I think we ought to—since it’s very likely you carved the poor slob’s throat.”
Alfred laughed lightly. “Now, now, Mr. Holmes!”
Donahue took three hard steps and jammed his own gun so hard against Alfred’s chest that Alfred exploded, “Ugh!” and almost fell down.
Donahue clipped, “You’re not funny at all, bozo!”
Alfred got his breath back, laughed in confusion, shoved back his hair and said, “My, you’re like a regular New York cop.”
Donahue struck Alfred on the head and Alfred fell down on the floor, sat with his head in his hands and rocked back and forth groaning.
Donahue said, “I don’t like wisenheimers.”
He got down on one knee. He put Alfred’s gun in his pocket and used the hand that had held the gun to pull Alfred’s hands from his face. Alfred’s eyes were wet and he looked peeved.
“You don’t have to be so rough,” he said.
“You don’t have to make those musical comedy wise-cracks…. Listen to me, brother. You’re in a tough spot. Crosby was carved, and you were in his apartment when I got there. Crosby was murdered because he had some-thing that you guys wanted. You’re a red-hot—so is the jane… but you’re hotter than she is because she came there after the murder. She came in while I was there. We notified Crosby’s uncle that his nephew had got a dose, and the old boy’s coming into town like a bat out of hell—and he told us to carry on with the investigation. I’m carrying on—and you’re going to talk before I walk you into a pinch.”
Alfred became thoughtful. He said sadly, “Say, I am in a tough spot, ain’t I?”
“I wouldn’t fool you!”
The girl came back into the room sniffling and saying, “You dirty little rat, trying to link me with your dirty little schemes! I told you to stay away from me—to leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you. I’m sick and tired of being drawn into your schemes, and I’m sick and tired of seeing you.”
She picked up a heavy bronze book-end and hefted it. Hot scarlet overran her cheeks and her brown eyes blazed.
Alfred raised his hand. “Now don’t throw that, Irene.”
Donahue put in, “I thought it was Leone.”
She came over and stood quivering, the book-end in an upraised arm. “You’re a very small rat!” she cried.
Alfred said, “Now don’t, Irene—”
Donahue looked at Alfred and said, “Just for fun I ought to encourage her.”
The girl’s hand came down swiftly.
Donahue felt the book-end strike his head. He knew he was reeling. He knew blackness cascaded down upon him. There was another blow, a laugh—Alfred’s quiet laugh—and then there wasn’t anything.
Chapter V
Coming to at midnight, Donahue lay in the darkness for a few minutes feeling his head. When he touched a bump near the crown he said, “Ugh!” and then cursed. Then he sat up. He could see two windows, the night sky beyond them, some tattered star fragments. He fumbled in his pockets for a match, found one, struck a light and then moved towards the electric switch. He snapped on the lights.
He was still in the same apartment.
He said, “Hell and damn,” earnestly, and prowled around, wearing a brown predatory look. The bedroom was empty. Bureau drawers were open—empty; clothes closet was open—empty. He went around into the bath-room. It had been cleaned out except for a bottle with a little Listerine in it. Donahue poured it into a glass, added water, slushed his mouth out, spat noisily.
Alfred and the girl Irene had pulled a fade-away.
Donahue wet his hair, brushed it back with his fingers, washed face and hands and dried them. Returning to the living-room, he saw his gun lying on the divan. He picked it up, saw it was still loaded and replaced it in his over-coat pocket. His brown face was hard, sullen; he muttered diatribes in his throat behind his narrow clenched teeth. He went into the bedroom again, looked beneath twin beds, dumped out the contents of a waste basket.
He threw aside crumpled empty cigarette packets, a tooth-paste box, a copy of the Evening Sun, a theatre pro-gram of the Lyric showing Fifty Million Frenchmen, a Bascom ticket envelope, a passenger list of the S.S. Driatic, a dry cleaner’s bill, a colored cardboard box that had con-tained hairpins, an empty vanishing-cream jar, an empty rose-colored bottle that had contained fingernail polish.
Donahue reclaimed the passenger list of the S.S. Driatic. Under the C’s he found Robert C. Crosby. Under the T’s he found Alfred P. Tenquist; beneath this, Miss Leone Tenquist. He folded the booklet and thrust it into his pocket. His dark eyes glittered as he bent to throw the other ar-ticles back into the waste-basket.
He returned to the living-room, picked up his Borsalino, slapped it carelessly on his head and cringed, exploding, “Damn!” It was the bump on his head. He drew in a breath and went towards the door, making a sour face. He passed into the corridor, buzzed for an elevator. When one stopped he got in. When the doors slid open on the main floor, a man squeezed in as Donahue was going out, and as Dona-hue walked away he heard a bass voice say:
Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask Page 7