“Thanks, Mr. Donahue.”
Outside, Donahue walked east on Waverly Place, turned north into Sixth Avenue, walked one block and swung east into Eighth Street. He entered a small shop where a swart young Italian steamed a hat in the window and where another was polishing the shoes of a man who sat in one of six chairs. Farther back, behind a glass showcase displaying shoe polishes, creams, laces, and hat bands, stood another man who did nothing. Towards him went Donahue.
“You own this place, brother?”
“Shu.”
“Knew that guy Adler was bumped off last night?”
“Yeah, shu. Useta come in here lots.”
“Nice old guy, wasn’t he?”
“Fine—a guy, shu. Kinda funny… y’ know what?”
“Yeah.” Donahue leaned on the glass showcase. “You remember if he brought in a hat to be cleaned a few days ago?”
The man chuckled. “Yeah, shu. Was ver’ funny ’bout de hat. Say we should be moocha careful… y’ know what? Shu. Was good hat. Say, you ’member dat man was slice up two mont’s ago… Mr. Crosby?”
“Crosby? Sure do.”
“Was his hat. Was a hat Mr. Crosby geeve dis guy Adler. So Adler say we gotta be moocha careful… y’ know what?”
“I get you.” Donahue nodded towards the front of the shop. “That boy clean the hat?”
“No. Was feller I chuck t’ree days ago. Joosta fire him—like dat. Gotta fresh. Was a wise guy. Yeah, shu. Nick Bonalino… no good. Moocha wise guy. Play de pool all-a time. Friends drop in and keep up de talk and Nick no do mooch work. So I fire him. Was always tell me he getta good job singing in night-club.”
“What night-club?”
“Watcha call de Hey-hey Club—McDougal Street. Jeep joint….”
“I know the joint.”
“Say, you dick?”
“Yeah, I’m a dick. Any other dick in here today?”
“No.”
Donahue brightened, gave the man a cigar, and breezed out.
Chapter III
McDougal Street south of West Houston is no beauty spot. Dark as a pit at night. Narrow and dirty, honeycombed by pseudo-Bohemian night-clubs that specialize in the fleecing of late-wandering drunks and sober suckers. One or two men standing in front of an innocent-looking dark-faced house are all the signs you will find. No glitter of lights. No telephone listing. The taxicab drivers know them all. And the police. Thus the notorious Hey-hey Club….
Donahue passed three men leaning against the iron hand-rail of a six-step stoop, climbed the steps, pushed open a dark door, entered a dimly lighted room. Two men looked at him. They wore tuxedos and had white, watchful faces. Behind them was a booth where a blonde took Donahue’s ulster and hat and gave him a check.
One of the two men guided him through gloom towards another door, and Donahue entered a low, long room that had a small orchestra platform at the farther end, tables along the side walls and sprinkled across the floor halfway to the orchestra platform. Beyond these latter tables was a space of floor about twenty feet by twenty. This was the dance-floor. Walls and ceiling were draped in purple. The tables were crowded, and at a large table near the platform sat a half dozen girls in showy evening dress. Hostesses.
Donahue was led to a table. He sat down and ordered Scotch straight with soda on the side. The waiter brought the drink and marked down on his pad: $1.50. The manager came over, leaned on the table and said:
“Want a girl friend?”
“No.”
“Okey.”
A group of slack-faced youths appeared on the platform, picked up instruments and started to play. Thirty couples crowded on the twenty-by-twenty floor and began to dance. Most of them were drunk. The orchestra played short numbers, and dawdled around until some drunk careened up to the platform and deposited a bill in the upturned high-hat there. Then the players grinned, picked up their instruments again, and played.
Donahue wagged his head and muttered, “Cripes!”
A waiter came over, scooped up his glass, said, “Same?” and Donahue nodded.
The band stopped. The dancers staggered back to their tables. The wall lights dimmed. A spotlight was thrown on the dance-floor.
A red-haired girl sauntered out, clapped her hands and yelled, “Now a little show, folks! A great little show! Greatest little show in old New York! Singin’, dancin’—all kinds of hey-hey! Open your eyes and get an eyeful! Open your ears and get an earful! Trixie Meloy, singin’ and dancin’, folks—and how!”
Trixie Meloy swept onto the floor. She hadn’t much on. She was a high-kicker. She danced badly and sang worse. The crowd applauded. She toured the tables and the drunks gave her tribute in crisp bills. Donahue gave her a chuckle.
Came the red-head yelling, “Now a bit of Spanish—right here in the little old Hey-hey Club. Castanets, folks—and other things. Watch her shake the Spanish…. Señorita Martinez, folks—hot from old Madrid!”
Castanets and Señorita Martinez whirled out on the floor. She had black, shiny hair and a fixed smile. The drunks gaped. The orchestra boys smirked. The señorita did her stuff, did an encore, made the round of the tables and collected.
Then the red-head waved her hands. “Now—now, folks. A great big surprise. Nick Bonalino, the singing waiter. He’s going to sing How Come You Do Me Like You Do?”
It was the waiter who had served Donahue. He was tall, young, handsome in a smooth, dark Italian way. Donahue settled on his elbows and watched him. The boy could sing. He didn’t bother with the gestures. But his voice was rich and soft.
“How come y’ do me like y’ do-do-do?
How come y’ do me like y’ do?”
Donahue finished his drink, watching Nick Bonalino.
“Gonna lay yo’ head on a railroad line,
Letta train come along an’ pacify yo’ mind….”
Nick was good. He had to give two encores. He made the round of the tables. Donahue put a dollar in the hat.
The side-lights went on again when the spotlight went off. The drunks got up and danced.
Nick came over to scoop up Donahue’s drink.
Donahue said, “You’re good, boy.”
“Thanks.”
“Maybe I can do things for you in a bigger way.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Drop around to my hotel at ten tomorrow morning. The Brooke. West Ninth Street. Donahue’s the name.”
“Jeeze! Wait! How do you spell it?” Nick wrote the name down on the back of a card. “Ten?”
“Ten.”
“Jeeze! Thanks. I’ll be around.”
Donahue paid four-fifty for three drinks, got up and left the Hey-hey Club.
At ten o’clock next morning Donahue was sitting in his hotel room when the telephone rang and the man at the desk said Mr. Bonalino was calling.
“Send him up,” Donahue said.
Nick Bonalino looked like a sporting man when he entered the room. He wore a large-brimmed tan hat, a yellow overcoat of military cut, brown trousers that broke over buff-colored spats. He carried a Malacca stick and smoked a cigar.
“Hope I’m on time, Mr. Donahue.”
“Sure. Sit down.” Donahue had closed the door. He slushed red-leather mules across the carpet, picked up a pipe and crammed tobacco into the bowl. He dropped to a wide easy-chair, lit up and looked at Bonalino with mild amusement.
“You look like ready money, Nick.”
“I ain’t, though. A man’s gotta keep up appearances.”
“Yeah.” Donahue leaned back comfortably. “I’m sorry I got you up here, Nick, on the pretense of getting you a job.”
Nick dropped his bright-glowing face and looked confused. “I don’t get you.”
Donahue waved his pipe indolently. “I’m a dick.”
Nick Bonalino started. “A dick!”
“Take it easy, kid. I’m a nice dick. You look like a nice guy to me. Everything will be nice.”
“But, jeeze, me—I don’t—Me?”
“I didn’t get fired. I left.”
“That’s better. Fits in better. Then you left. Okey… you left. Why?”
Nick Bonalino got up and glowered, darkly handsome. “Because I was through with ’at guy. Because I was through with ’im.” He slashed his yellow-gloved hand dramatically back and forth.
Donahue looked amused. “From hat cleaner to singing waiter. Is that—up or down?”
“I was getting a try-out, ’at’s what I was. So I had to wait on tables too. And I had to pay the boss fifty bucks to let me sing. And I went over big. And I only started there last night.”
“That coat you’ve got on rates at least a hundred bucks. The hat’s no less than twelve. The spats five. The suit looks like about eighty. How come a guy cleans hats, suddenly busts out in a rash of good clothes? How come, Nick? Huh? On the up and up now, kid.”
Nick Bonalino towered in his lean dark way. His black eyes glittered. “Dicks don’t act this way. I don’t know much about them, but I know when they want to ask a guy questions they don’t make nice dates like this.”
Donahue stood up, dropping his amused look. “I’m a private dick—”
“Then you got no right to ask me all these damn questions!” He slapped on his hat, pivoted and started for the door.
Donahue slid sidewise with amazing rapidity and blocked the door.
“No you don’t, Nick.”
Nick tightened his full lips, showed clenched teeth, and uncorked a short right jab. It landed on Donahue’s jaw. His head jerked. A blaze leaped into his brown hard eyes. A twisted look of contempt jumped to his lips. Lightning-like, a one-two punch… and Nick hurtled backwards, fell over a chair, crashed into a telephone table, brought down telephone, books, and another chair.
Nick lay there, rather tangled up in the telephone wire, looking shocked and dazed, the top of his hat crushed in, the brim pressing down against his ears.
Donahue walked to the secretary, took out a Colt’s .38 revolver, handled it with a negligence born of old familiarity.
“Get up, Nick. Get up, you poor dumb dago.”
Nick got up, his overcoat askew, his hat still crushed on his head. Donahue picked up the telephone, set it on a chair.
“You’re not a bad guy, Nick,” Donahue said. “Don’t try to get wise around me. I don’t like it. I don’t like wiseacres…. Now keep your ears open. You must know about the Adler murder… over in Grove Street, night before last. Anyhow, you cleaned a hat of Adler’s a few days before he was murdered. Then you left your job. Then Adler was murdered.”
“What—me—murder a guy!”
“Nah, did I say that…? But listen. You cleaned a hat, an English hat. You found something in it. You found a diamond in it.”
Nick Bonalino’s face turned very red. He laughed. “Ha! Me find a diamond? Ha-ha!”
Donahue moved his gun around and laid his brown gaze hard on Bonalino. “You found a diamond, Nick. I can see it in your face. You found it. If you don’t come across you’ll be mixed up in this murder. You found the diamond. You found that diamond. You—you have that diamond!”
“Honest to God, mister—”
Donahue took two fast steps, held the muzzle of his gun an inch from Nick Bonalino’s stomach. “I said, Nick, you’re not a bad Wop. Just a little wise. Just inclined to be something of a sheik. But that’s all right. Twenty, aren’t you…? Well, anyhow, this is murder. Want the police to slam you around? Come on, Nick, I’m a good guy, a great guy when you know me. But if you try to stall on me, I’m a louse. That diamond, Nick….”
“God, I ain’t got it—”
“You had it. You stole it—”
“I didn’t steal it! Adler didn’t know it was there! I just spoiled the lining and I had to put a new one in, and the diamond fell out. I just—kept it.”
“Where is it?”
“I hocked it. I got two hundred fifty on it. I needed these duds to make a nice appearance at one of them clubs. In tips and what I got for singin’ last night I made twenty-five. I figured to get the diamond out when I had the jack and have a ring made. Kind of be nice to have a ring when I’m singin’ in the spotlight.”
“Too bad, Nick… but I want the diamond.”
“I ain’t got the jack. I only got thirty-eight bucks to my name.”
“I’ll get the money. I want the diamond. I’ll go with you and we’ll get the diamond.”
“Jeeze, I didn’t know! Jeeze, murder…!”
“Okey, Nick. You’re a good guy. I like you.” He rubbed his jaw. “You hit like a mule, kid.”
“Hell, I didn’t mean it. I got all steamed up.”
“Yeah. So did I…. Have a drink while I put shoes on.”
The hock-shop was in Fourteenth Street. It was about the width of a railway coach, and half the length. The window was littered with cheap novelties. The interior was dark and gloomy, and behind the showcase a man sat at a high desk and regarded the insides of a watch beneath a brilliant green-shaded light. He looked around when Bonalino and Donahue entered, got down off the high stool, picked up the stub of a cigar and put it between his teeth. He was a small, slim young-old man, with a sallow gray face and big horn-rimmed glasses, black curly hair.
“I’ll take this,” Nick Bonalino said, laying the hock ticket on the counter.
I. Friedman picked up the stub, looked at it, looked at Nick, and went into the rear. He reappeared a couple of minutes later, opened a small envelope and poured out an oblong stone.
“It’s a honey,” he remarked as he laid it in Nick’s palm. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”
“I just needed ready cash,” Nick said as he counted out two hundred and fifty dollars.
“Give you eight hundred any time you want to sell it.”
“Okey. I’ll think it over.”
“Sure.”
“So long.”
“’Bye.”
Donahue and Nick started west on Fourteenth Street.
Roper stepped from a doorway and fell in beside Donahue.
“Got a smell all right, eh?”
Donahue chuckled. “Hello, master-mind. See you’ve stopped bothering the kids who pitch pennies in back alleys.”
“Lay off!” Roper rumbled. “Who’s your friend?”
“Friend of mine.”
“I don’t like your company.”
“Go to hell.”
“Who’s your friend?”
“Mr. Bonalino…. Mr. Bonalino, this is Mr. Roper, a kind of detective.”
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Roper.”
As they walked, Roper said, “I been over to the house in Waverly Place. I left instructions not to let any cheap private fly-cop in.”
“Okey,” Donahue said. “That’s fine.”
“Listen, you. What you been doing in that hock-shop?”
“Looking around. Mr. Bonalino is interested in the case. He’s going to write a play about a good detective. So he goes around with me and sees how I work.”
“Huh!” Roper grunted.
They were approaching Union Square.
“There’s another hock-shop. I think we’ll drop in there.”
Roper slowed down. “Pretty wise, you, Donahue.”
“Be seeing you, Roper, when I can’t help it.”
Donahue and Nick entered another hock-shop. They looked in the showcase, killed five minutes, came out and walked on.
“He’s tailing us,” Donahue said.
They visited three more hock-shops, asked nothing, spent about five minutes in each. They wound up at Astor Place, entered the subway, got off at Bleecker Street and walked west.
“I think we’ve dropped him,” Donahue said. “All right. I have your address. You have mine. I’ll be getting in touch with you. If this guy Roper finds you and gets funny, call me up. He’s got nothing on you. Act dumb. Act indignant. If he tries
to frame you I’ll get a lawyer who’ll make an ass out of him. So long, Nick.”
When Donahue walked in on Hinkle he said, “Well, I’ve got the ice.”
“So soon? My, my!”
Donahue rolled the diamond on the desk. “I got Bonalino in the room and talked him into coughing up. He’s a good Wop, after you talk to him. He’d hocked it. Cleaned the hat and had to take the lining out. The diamond was behind the lining.”
“Meaning?”
“That Irene’s song-and-dance about hiding it in the tube of paint was a stall. She double-crossed Alfred. She never hid it in the paint tube at all. She hid it in the hat, the two-timing little——”
Hinkle said, “Greenberg will be in tomorrow. He knows stones. He’ll tell us the exact value. Meantime we’d better keep it in the safe.”
“Yeah. Now the thing is… we’ve got to locate Irene. Hell knows where she is. But if she isn’t behind this murder I’m a slob. I’ll bet she’s got another boy friend…. Roper tailed us to the hock-shop. But I got rid of him. I went into a few more hock-shops to give him the idea I was cruising the town like a regular story-book cop. That guy’s going to walk into a crack in the jaw any day…. Y’ know, I think I’ll take a trip up to Sing Sing and see if Alfred knows where Irene’s hanging out.”
“Go to it, Donny. But I don’t think he’ll know.”
“Anyhow, the ride’ll do me good.”
Chapter IV
At seven that night Donahue walked into his room at the Hotel Brooke. He stood in the center of the floor for a long minute, staring at the carpet, then flung his hat on the bed, took off his ulster and hung it up in the closet. He sat down by the telephone and called a number.
“Hello, boss. Thought I’d catch you home…. Yeah, I just got in…. No. Not a thing. I talked myself blue in the face but Alfred must have thought I was a liar. He wouldn’t open his mouth. He didn’t know anything about Irene. I told him she was playing around with a guy and everything. But not a rise out of him…. Yeah, I know it is…. Sure. That’s all we can do…. Okey, boss. Good-bye.”
He hung up, rose, took off coat and vest and unsholdered his suspenders. He put on slippers, stuffed and lit a pipe, turned on the floor lamp beside the easy-chair, and sat down with some magazines.
Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask Page 11