Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask

by Frederick Nebel

  “The killing hit him hard. He had the keys to the house, he had the combination, but he was afraid it would mean another killing. Besides, Shadd was looking for him. So Willems got the idea of getting you.

  “You ran into trouble. You got the box, planted it in the garden. While you were sleeping, Willems went out and got the box himself, just before dawn. He made that call on me. He also called Shadd’s house in the country and said that the police were going out there on a hot tip. Shadd and his men beat it, for they’d killed Jansen, the caretaker. Willems figured that we’d spend all our time hunting Shadd. He knew someone would find the Lincoln he drove out in. Willems, of course, drove it off the road and put the shots in it. That would make us believe that Shadd had overtaken Edgecomb. As a matter of fact, it did. Up until the time I called Headquarters here when I arrived in Kansas City, I thought Edgecomb was still alive and knew nothing about Willems. And I knew nothing of Willems until I looked at him while you were standing in the door of his hotel room in Kansas City.”

  Donahue put his head in his hands, made a sour face. “It’s sure going to take me a long while to get back my self-respect.”

  “Nonsense, Donahue. You really caught Willems, didn’t you?”

  “Where did they find Edgecomb’s body?”

  Uhl winked. “They didn’t find it. A man in a boat picked up a toupee. It took them an hour to find the place that made it. The place identified it as belonging to Edgecomb. That was enough to make Willems confess.”

  Donahue reached for his hat. “Come on back to the hotel and sock a bottle of Scotch with me.”

  “I’d like to, but my liver can’t stand it.”

  “Okey. Then it means looking-glass drinking for me. I’m going to get plastered and then I’m going to call my boss on long distance.”

  “What, a new case?”

  Donahue laughed. “Hell, no. By the time I get through telling him what I think of him, young Donahue will probably be out of a job.”

  “I wouldn’t do that.”

  “I wouldn’t either,” Donahue said, “if I stayed sober. That’s why I want to get plastered!… Well, toodle-oo, Uhl.”

  Pearls Are Tears

  A string of them, along with other things, is handed to tough dick Donahue

  Chapter I

  Donahue came in with his ulster open, the collar negligently turned up. A snap-brim tan felt leaned over one ear. He elbowed the door shut and stood for a moment leaning against it, a droll half-smile hovering on his wide, good-humored mouth.

  “Your humble servant, Mike,” he said.

  Mueck moved forward in the carved mahogany chair and laid smooth white hands on the green desk blotter, palms down, fingers splayed. He bowed with his blonde leonine head; his gray eyes twinkled; he lifted one side of his mouth in a sly, jovial leer.

  “Same old Donny.”

  “Same old Mike, only”—Donahue looked around—“considerably more prosperous.” He dropped into a chair facing Mueck, lit a cigarette, blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Well, counselor?”

  Mueck was a striking figure of a man, even while sitting. With his fingers clasped, he rubbed the heels of his hands slowly together, regarded Donahue with a bland look.

  “I didn’t want to speak too much with Hinkle over the phone,” he said. “It’s a delicate matter. For me.”

  “How much is in it?”

  “Five hundred.”

  “For you and us?”

  Mueck shook his head. “I get nothing, Donny.”

  Donahue scoffed with his brown eyes.

  “Honest,” Mueck insisted quietly.

  The two men eyed each other steadily. Then Donahue shrugged and gushed smoke through his nostrils.

  “All right, Mike.”

  “You’ve got to believe me in that, Donny. You know, or ought to know, that I’ve always been on the level with you. I asked Hinkle to send you over because I believe I can depend on you—implicitly.”

  “What’s troubling you, Mike?”

  “Do you remember the Jennifer jewel theft—six months ago?”

  “That old eccentric dame who lost her fifty-thousand-dollar necklace?”

  “Yes. But stolen. Not just lost. Well, Mrs. Jennifer happens to be a client of mine. She had me come over last night. She was, well, all of a-twitter.” Mueck picked up a pencil. “She has a chance of recovering that necklace—for twenty thousand dollars. She’s a paralytic, you know; never goes out of the house. A man called her up last night, offered to return the necklace for the sum I mentioned—and no questions asked.”

  “Why don’t you throw it to the cops, Mike?”

  “Damn it, I wanted to, Donny! I talked myself blue in the face trying to dissuade her. But, no. The necklace has a great sentimental value. She is willing to pay the twenty thousand. The man who telephoned her wanted to make a rendezvous with her. Of course, she can’t go out. She told him to come to the house. He wouldn’t hear of it. Then she said that she would appoint an agent to carry out the deal, explaining to the man why she could not meet him. He agreed to this. She told him to call back this afternoon at five.”

  Donahue said: “Well, why don’t you act as her agent?”

  “Please.” Mueck held up his hands. “You know damned well, Donny, that I wouldn’t dare. I have my legal reputation to think of. If something happened during the course of the procedure, if the police got wind of it, I would stand a fine chance of being accused of compounding a felony. Besides, it is out of my line. But at the same time I feel I should try to humor my client. Hence you. She wants that pearl necklace and wants it bad. The cops disgusted her just after the robbery by running around a lot, drinking her liquor, and finding out nothing. She doesn’t want it to happen again.”

  “And I’m supposed to take the twenty thousand, meet the crook, turn over the money and receive the necklace.”

  “Yes—if you want to take the job.”

  “It sounds like a soft snap.”

  “I won’t say whether it is or not. I’ve put my cards on the table, and it’s up to you. You can call on Mrs. Jennifer this afternoon, get the money and receive the instructions the man will give over the telephone.”

  “I sure hate to turn over twenty thousand to a crook, Mike. It kind of runs against the grain.”

  “The same with me. But you couldn’t tell Mrs. Jennifer that. She wants the necklace, she’s willing to pay for it.”

  Donahue crushed out his butt. “It sounds so simple that I’ll bet there will be a hitch somewhere. That necklace should have been fenced long ago.”

  “The crook might be a first-timer. Maybe he couldn’t find a fence. The necklace is well known, you know.”

  Donahue said abruptly: “I’ll take you on.”

  “Good. But remember, Donny, I am not your client. I have nothing to do with this. Your client is Mrs. Jennifer. When you go around there she’ll settle the bill.”

  Donahue stood up, grinned. “Mike, I’ve never spoken to you about it.”

  “I know I can depend on that, Donny.”

  “You know little old me, counselor!”

  Chapter II

  Hinkle, the agency head, said: “How well do you know this Mueck?”

  “We used to play duck on the rock together.”

  Donahue sat at the desk opposite Hinkle in the Interstate office and counted crisp new bills. Hinkle eyed the bills reflectively.

  “That’s a lot of money, Donny. I hope this chap Mueck is strictly on the up and up.”

  “I know, Asa. If I had any doubts—hell, do you think I’d take this job?”

  He shuffled the bills together, snapped a rubber band around them and slipped the lot into a heavy manila envelope. He put the packet in his inside pocket and buttoned his coat. He looked at his strap-watch. It was twenty to six.

  “The old dame made me swear to be a nice boy,” he said. “I shouldn’t try to flimflam this crook out of his jack. Imagine! Well”—he shrugged, scowled—“it’s her dough. Though it g
ives me a pain to do this.”

  “What time do you meet the crook?”

  “At ten o’clock.”

  Hinkle wagged his head. “I certainly hope you don’t get in trouble, Donny.”

  “What a swell moral support you turned out to be!”

  Chapter III

  Donahue leaned against the mail-box on the corner, the belt of his ulster drawn in tightly, the gusty wind tussling with his turned-up collar, snapping at the brim of his hat. A street-light hung a wan glow over this Greenwich Village intersection, sometimes picking out Donahue’s chin when he raised his head to peer searchingly.

  It was a dark, dismal crossroad, blockaded by one-and two-storied houses, none of them pretentious; a meeting of the ways flanked by shadows, sapped by alleys, undermined by areaway speakeasies. Far away could be heard the sound of intermittent Elevated trains; five minutes by foot, was Sheridan Square.

  Donahue drummed his heels on the pavement. He was impatient as well as cold. It was half-past ten.

  Suddenly a man appeared on the opposite side, stood motionless, his hands in his pocket, his face a blur beneath a yanked-down hat brim. Almost imperceptibly Donahue tensed. Force of habit as well as the urge of precaution made his hand tighten on the gun in his pocket.

  Abruptly the man started across towards Donahue, hard heels rapping the street, re-echoing.

  “How the hell much longer are you going to hold up that mail-box, buddy?”

  Donahue said nothing. He remained leaning against the green metal box, his chin buried in his collar, his eyes peering hard under the brim of his hat. Then suddenly he chuckled, hove his chin out of the collar, showed his teeth in a crooked grin.

  “How the hell long have you been watching me, Kiff?”

  The plain-clothes man reared his head, craned his neck, shoved his jaw forward, squinted as he screwed up his compact mustache. Then he put hands on hips, rocked on his heels.

  “So it’s you, Donahue.”

  “How is every little thing, Kiff?”

  They let it go at that for a minute, Donahue drumming his heels, wearing an amused smile, Kiff peering at him with hard little shiny eyes.

  Then: “What are you waiting for, Donahue?”

  “A date.”

  “In this neighborhood?”

  “Sure.”

  “What’s the matter with a speak? It’s warmer.”

  “The jane doesn’t like speaks.”

  “Boloney!”

  Donahue shrugged. “All right, Kiff. You see that dump over there? Well, a scrubwoman lives there. I’m going to rob her. Going to take her pennies away from her, Kiff. I’m sorry I lied to you about the jane, Kiff.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Kiff poked Donahue in the stomach, leering. “That’s all right, kid. Well, hope you have luck with the pennies. I’ll tell the copper on the beat to stay away.”

  Kiff laughed harshly, left a hard shiny look as he turned and swung off, heavy-heeled.

  Donahue listened to the sound of the heels fading away. Then he exhaled a long-held breath, swore briefly. Silence and the wind again. Five minutes later the creaking of a door. A man was in the street, motionless, ten feet from Donahue.

  A low mutter: “Hey, you!”

  Donahue straightened, kept his hands in his pockets, started slowly towards the man.

  “Yeah?” he said.

  He noticed the suggestion of a crouch in the small man’s attitude, the crook of his arm, the way his hand was rigid in the pocket of a blue jacket.

  “Are you the guy?” the little man said.

  “What kept you so long?”

  “That dick’s been snoopin’ around. Heard you and him talkin’.”

  “Where’s the scatter?”

  The little man jerked his head. “In here.”

  Donahue went gingerly through a doorway one step above the sidewalk. A gas jet supplied mediocre light. The hallway was narrow, beads of damp, cold sweat stood out on yellow walls.

  “Door at the end,” muttered the little man. “Just open it.”

  Donahue turned the knob and opened the door. A tall man with a patent-leather haircomb and dull eyes stood behind a table holding a gun. His face had the dry gray look of cigarette ash. He had a long goose-like neck, wore a tight white collar, tight dark clothes, long sideburns.

  The small man slipped in behind Donahue and closed the door. He was rabbit-like in his movements.

  “Okey, Eddie,” he said. “That shamus beat it.”

  Eddie said to Donahue: “If you brought that shamus with you, guy, I’ll turn your belly inside out.”

  The little man blinked bright blue eyes in a chubby red face. “Hell, Eddie, he’s okey. Ain’t you heard him and the shamus?”

  “Yeah,” Eddie said somberly, without conviction. “Show us the color of your dough, guy.”

  “I’ve got it,” Donahue said. “Show me the color of the pearls.”

  Eddie slipped a hand into his pocket, drew out a string of pearls, dangled them. Donahue stepped forward. Eddie drew the pearls in, lifted his lip wolf-like.

  Donahue said: “I want to count them.”

  Eddie laid them on the table, stepped back and leveled his gun at Donahue. Donahue, ignoring both men, picked the pearls up. He moved the string slowly through his fingers. There were fifty-two pearls. He then examined the settings and the clasp. He nodded, drew the packet from his pocket, and dropped it on the table.

  Eddie snatched it up while the small man stood behind Donahue with a gun. Eddie ripped the packet open, scowling, and counted the bills swiftly. Still scowling, he crammed the bills into his pockets.

  He jerked his head. “All right, bozo. Beat it.”

  Donahue dropped the necklace into his pocket.

  “Beat it!” snapped Eddie.

  “Pipe down,” Donahue said. “It sure amazes me how a couple of punks like you get away with twenty grand.”

  “Beat it!”

  The small man opened the door.

  Donahue bit his lip, wrinkled his forehead, looked from one to the other, exasperated, reluctant to go, to leave twenty thousand in hard cash with these punks. Not because he pitied Mrs. Jennifer. Not at all. It was just on general principles.

  “Beat it, you! Beat it!”

  “Ah-r-r!…” Donahue snarled, spun on his heel, his back to their guns; banged the room door savagely behind him; tramped down the hall, the pearls in his pocket, his job done practically—Practically! He laughed bluntly to himself. Reached the hall door, put his hand on the knob, paused, thinking, deliberating, still reluctant to leave. But his job was done—done! His teeth lashed his nether lip. He swore, pulled open the door and stepped into the street. The wind slapped him in the face. He yanked down his hat, looking up and down the street; buried his face in the folds of his coat-collar. He waded through the wind, long-legged, rolling his shoulders.

  “Make your date, Donny?”

  Donahue stopped as he saw Kiff lounge from between two vacant store windows. Kiff was smoking a cigar. Kiff looked genial, jovial, hale-fellow-well-met. He shoved his chest out expansively, wobbled the cigar in the wind from one side of his mouth to the other; snorted as sparks showered back into his face; then was genial again, oddly blocking Donahue’s path, turning sidewise to keep the wind from blowing his long coat between his legs. Light and shadow danced a windy saraband around him; his big horse teeth kept showing; the red cigar end hummed and sputtered in the wind.

  “You playing tag or leap frog or something?” Donahue asked.

  “Just tag.”

  “All right, I’m it. Follow me.”

  Donahue started around the precinct dick, boring his head into the wind.

  “Wait a minute, Donny.”

  Still genial, still jovial, provocative. He twisted his blunt body to sideswipe and stop Donahue. Donahue lifted his hard jaw out of the coat-collar. He glared at Kiff. He looked angry, his brown face seemed strangely malevolent. Kiff grinned with his big horse teeth, a fixed grin, whil
e he weaved his head to keep the wind out of his eyes.

  “What the hell’s on your mind, Kiff?”

  “What’s on yours, Donny?”

  “Go to hell!”

  Again Donahue started forward. Kiff, instead of blocking him, fell in beside him, flanking him closely, turning his cheek to the wind.

  “You wouldn’t be down in this neighborhood for your health, Donny. What’s in that house, Donny?”

  “A still.”

  “Rats. They don’t cook stuff in this neighborhood.”

  “You know better, then.”

  Kiff stopped, grabbing his hat as the wind uprooted it. “I’ll go back in and see, just in case, Donny.”

  Donahue stopped. The wind had made his eyes water. He dabbed at them.

  “Why be a gofor, Kiff? Hell, are you hard up for a pinch?”

  “Sure. The chief’s been on our necks. A pinch is a pinch—any kind of a pinch.” Kiff kept backing up towards the house, holding his hand to his hat, looking awkward as the wind pushed his coat between his legs.

  Donahue said: “Wait, Kiff.” Went towards the precinct dick, gestured with his hand. “I went in there for a pinch myself, Kiff. That’s straight. But I missed out. There’s nothing in there. I was on a tail. I’ll be frank with you.”

  “Well, I’ll go in anyhow, Donny.”

  “——! Kiff, don’t be weak-minded like that! It’s nothing, I tell you. Just an idea I had.”

  The little guy—and the guy with the sideburns—Eddie—in there. Both heeled. And Eddie had looked hopped up. A hot rod he’d be if Kiff went poking his nose in there. They’d smear Kiff all over the walls.

  But Kiff kept backing up, then half-turned, moving side-wise towards the door. Donahue followed by fits and starts.

  “It was just an idea I had, Kiff. I wanted to—Hell, Kiff, don’t be like that. It’s a jane all right, but don’t bust in. Don’t pick on her. She’s a friend of a friend of mine.” He crowded Kiff. “I’ll go in first, Kiff, talk with her. I’ll—”