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

by Frederick Nebel

  It sounded silly. He knew it sounded silly. He felt his ears burning. The guy with the sideburns would cut Kiff down like nobody’s business. Kiff was no great shakes as a gun artist. A snooper, Kiff was.

  Kiff said: “First it’s a jane—then it isn’t a jane—Donahue! What do you take me for? You been hanging around that corner for something. I watched you. Then I find out it’s you and I walk away. But I think—hell, he’s up to something, that guy. I come back and you’re gone.”

  “Well, can’t a man stand on a street corner?”

  “I’m going in there, Donahue. I don’t know but what you’re hand in glove with a lot of heels. Roper always figured you for a two-timer—”

  “Don’t you call me a two-timer, you cheap gumshoe!”

  “Get outta my way!”

  “Kiff!” Donahue got between him and the door, bulking.

  “A jane I know is in there. That door’s locked. By——! You can’t enter this house without a warrant!”

  “Warrant! Holy Mary, I never in my life bothered with a warrant! Get out—”

  “Kiff, you dumb animal!”

  Donahue grabbed him, desperate now. He knew that if Kiff entered that door it would be murder. They’d murder Kiff. They wouldn’t be caught red-handed with all that dough on them. And for the first time he found himself reacting to a moral obligation. Not one that included Kiff. To hell with Kiff! Kiff used to work stoolies on the street girls when he was on the vice squad. It was Mike Mueck. The East Side boy who grew up to be a swell lawyer. And himself too. Oh, Donahue was thinking of himself—

  Kiff cursed and whirled. A blackjack crashed down on the crown of Donahue’s hat. Donahue reeled away, fell against the wall of the building, fell down to the pavement.

  Kiff broke through the door. Donahue, getting to his knees, saw Kiff disappear.

  Three shots boomed out of the hallway.

  A figure staggered out, slammed headlong to the pavement, lay motionless.

  Donahue, half-risen, flung himself backward, fell into the recession between two store-windows. He heard two pairs of feet running—running away down the street. He got up, took his hat off, punched out the dents, replaced it on his head.

  Windows grated open. Voices called. Heavy shoes came pounding from the distance.

  Donahue stood on his feet, hefting his gun. He saw the two men tearing down the street, the tall one, Eddie, far in the lead. Eddie had the money on him. Donahue clamped his teeth, raised his gun, his arm out straight. Flame tore from the black muzzle. A woman screamed and a window slammed shut. Flame burst again. The little man reared, keeled over, struck a pole and spun down to the sidewalk.

  Donahue broke into a run. Eddie had disappeared. Donahue reached the little man where he lay beside the pole. He rolled him over, ransacked his pockets. No money. But a small black wallet, worn and bent out of shape. Donahue thrust this in his own pocket.

  He stood up, looked back. A couple of cops were over Kiff’s body. Donahue walked towards them swiftly, his face drawn, his lips dry. Damn Kiff for a snooper, a busybody! Everything would have gone off nicely but for Kiff. And Kiff had cooked his own goose. And Donahue had had to shoot that little guy….

  Chapter IV

  The two cops squared off, their guns drawn.

  “Hello, boys,” Donahue said.

  “Stick your hands up! Who are you?”

  Donahue didn’t put his hands up. “I’m Donahue, an Interstate operative.”

  “What the hell are you doin’ around here?”

  Donahue jerked his head. “I just plugged a guy.”

  “Grab him, Joe!”

  “Wait a minute!” Donahue said. “Not Kiff. A guy up the street.”

  “What guy?”

  “The guy bumped off Kiff.”

  “Go ahead, Joe—go look at that guy he plugged.”

  Donahue pointed. “By that third light.”

  Joe started off.

  The other cop put away his gun. “He’s dead—Kiff’s dead. How’d it happen?”

  “I don’t know. I came around the corner here as the shots went off. I saw Kiff falling. There were two guys running away. I yelled at them. They didn’t stop. Then I fired and got one of them. The other guy got away.”

  The precinct station was in an uproar. Donahue was in a room with Detective-Sergeant Brannigan.

  “You saw them babies, Donahue—you saw them—”

  “Get me right, Sarge,” broke in Donahue. “I saw them running away. Running away. I just yelled to them to stop. They didn’t. So I let ’em have it.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you get the other guy?”

  “I had a job getting one. It was pretty dark. The other guy just got away. I should go running around the streets and have a cop take a shot at me!”

  “He went in that house, Donahue. There’s bullet marks in the walls. The damned house was supposed to be empty. No rooms was rented to anybody. The house was empty. But those two babies must ha’ been in there, ’cause Kiff went in. Kiff got the works in the hall there and must ha’ fell out the door. If I only had an idea why Kiff went in that house. But I ain’t.”

  “Maybe he knew the place was empty and saw a light in there—”

  “I’ll get that other guy, Donahue. He’ll burn for this, and before he burns he’ll get the beatin’ of his life. We’ll beat him till his eyes pop. I got a general alarm out. We’re pick-in’ up any guy don’t look right. We’ll get that baby!”

  When Mueck opened the door he was in bathrobe and dressing-gown.

  “Well, Donny—”

  Donahue stepped into the apartment, closed the door, said: “Well, Mike, I got the pearls.”

  “Great!”

  “Oh, you think so?” Donahue scaled his hat on to the divan, threw open his ulster, began pacing up and down. “Not by a long shot, Mike. There’s trouble and plenty of it. Kiff, a precinct dick, got the works.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “Hell, no, I didn’t. But one of the guys I called on did. And I had to plug one of the guys—to save my face. And incidentally, your face.”

  “——! Donny!”

  “Keep cool, Mike. I knew damned well this job should have been thrown to the cops. But it’s done now, and I suppose it’s up to me to find a way out.”

  “Are—are you suspected?”

  Donahue stopped. “No. Not yet, anyhow. They think I’m a great guy because I plugged one of the hoods that got Kiff. Kiff—that snooping old fool! But”—he wagged a forefinger—“the cops are throwing out the old dragnet, and if they pick up the other guy, find the jack on him—Listen, Mike, this is not going to be any bed of roses.”

  “But how did it all happen? Sit down, Donny. Have a drink.”

  Donahue sat down. Mueck poured out some Scotch. Donahue downed it straight. He told Mueck what had happened. Mueck walked up and down, eyes glued on the carpet, teeth nibbling at lips.

  Donahue cracked fist into palm. “I tried to keep Kiff out of there! I knew damned well that if he went in those two hoods would let him have it. But the jackass took a swipe at me with his blackjack and I took a header. Before I could organize myself it was over.”

  Mueck sat down, spoke quietly: “It looks bad, Donny.”

  “Don’t worry, Mike. I’ll keep you out of it.”

  “Nonsense! Do you think I’d let you take the rap alone?”

  “Be your age, Mike. What’s the use of everybody taking the rap? And besides, shut up about a rap. So far I’m in the clear. Just act as if nothing happened. And tell that client of ours to keep her face shut.”

  “I shouldn’t have got you into this, Donny. But I didn’t dare take it myself. The legal profession is the butt of a lot of unfair criticism these days. And a lawyer found acting as intermediary for thieves is immediately suspected of cashing in on it. But, damn it, Mrs. Jennifer wanted those pearls! She would have paid more than twenty thousand for them! Oh, she’s a hard client, Donny. Eccentric as blazes. They were her mother’s
pearls.”

  “Yeah?” Donahue was dangling the long string. “They’re sweet—they’re certainly sweet. But they’re causing a lot of tears, Mike.”

  Mueck took them and ran them through his fingers.

  “What do you intend doing, Donny?”

  “The guy who got away looked like a real gun, Mike. He looked hopped up too. A tough hombre. We’ve got one chance of cleaning out of this.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve got to get to that guy before the cops do.”

  He had lied—naturally enough—to Kiff. Kiff had tried to butt into his business. Kiff had had a hunch that Donahue had been hanging around that corner for other reasons than amorous ones. So Donahue had lied. The lie was based on many ramifications. He had had to protect himself, the crooks he later met; and he had not wanted to start something that in the long run might well have reached and drawn in Mueck.

  Mueck stood up, gestured with both hands. “Hell, Donny, I don’t see why you should run the chance of getting killed.”

  “I’d rather do that than run my chances with the cops—at this stage. I’ve got to, Mike. This guy is a killer and I have no qualms about going after him. You and I are fairly honest men. But that wouldn’t prevent the law from having you disbarred and very likely pitching me in jail. If they get that guy—find the dough—he’ll talk. And will it be rough on me? Don’t ask!”

  “Remember, Donny, I’m with you—I’m not trying to slide out.”

  Donahue laughed. “I never had any doubts about that, Mike.” He pinched Mueck’s arm. “And remember, let me handle it, old kid. It’s the kind of work I’m cut out to handle.”

  “I feel sort of—”

  “I know how you feel. But you couldn’t help me by baring your breast to the H.Q. crowd. I’ll see the old dame in the morning. She’s got to bury this necklace among her other souvenirs.”

  Chapter V

  Hinkle looked worried when Donahue breezed in at ten next morning. He looked up from the newspaper.

  “I see you’re a hero, Donny.”

  “Well, I gave the dame her necklace and she almost wept on my shoulder. I told her a few things though. I talked turkey. She swears she’ll never mention the necklace. She never wore it anyhow. It’s an heirloom.”

  “Did you stop in at H.Q.?”

  “Yes. I got there in time to witness the line-up. They had dozens of guys. But not the guy I want.

  Hinkle wagged his head. “What a mess!”

  “I took a walk through the Rogues’ Gallery. I spotted the guy. Man, he’s a bad hood! So I helped myself to the dope they’ve got on him. He’s been arrested ten times—for almost everything on the calendar: dope, felonious assault, concealed weapons, petty larceny. But he beat them all. Eddie Bishoff’s his name.”

  “Did they identify the other guy?”

  Donahue sat down, said: “No.” He drew out a small black wallet, tapped it on an open palm, smiled. “I took this off that guy, Asa.”

  “What the devil did you want to do that for?” Donahue made no reply. He whistled to himself, emptied the wallet on the desk. “The cops,” he said, “have got more than a hundred guys combing the city—not counting the stoolies these hundred guys will swing into action. I’m one guy against that mob—one guy, Asa—”

  “I was leery of this job—”

  “Don’t crab!” Donahue smacked his palm down on the photograph of a woman. “I’ve got this. Picture of a dizzy broad. ‘Love to Louie from his Nora.’ And here—down in the corner—‘Barcelona Club. Jan. 4th.’ A cabaret girl. ‘His Nora.’ Okey”—Donahue waved the picture—“I’ll find that dame. Louie was the little guy. He put one bullet in Kiff. Eddie Bishoff put two.”

  “Are they making any progress at H.Q.?”

  “No. They dragged in a lot of punks and busted a lot of hose on some guys. They’re mad for a pinch, what with the vice squad getting razzed these days. Here, this”—Donahue flattened a sheet of paper on the desk—“is a list of amounts of money, with dates alongside each amount. Small amounts. It’s on the back of a piece of Hotel Grebb stationery. That’s a one-fifty a night flop-house on Seventh Avenue. The paper looks old. But the picture doesn’t.”

  “Who’s in charge of the case?”

  “That bruiser Tom Brannigan. All steamed up. I was just talking to him at H.Q. He said if I ran into the guy got away I should tip him off and he’d see I got a case of Scotch. Big-hearted Mick, that Brannigan. I told him I’d snoop around. He said it was okey by him. I said: ‘Tom, suppose I smack into this bird and have to shoot it out with him?’ Tom looked down-hearted. He said: ‘Hell, Donahue. Save him for the boys. We want to take it out of his hide and then pitch him to the D.A.’”

  “Do you want a man to work with you?”

  “No. It’s solo for me, Asa. And don’t say anything to any of the boys. And don’t mention Bishoff’s name. Well”—he grabbed up his hat—“I’ll be seeing you, sweetheart.”

  The Barcelona Club was closed at noon. It huddled between two drab brick houses in West Tenth Street. Its black door was flush with the street. Donahue knocked. A man opened the door and put out a wedge-shaped face.

  “Barney here yet?”

  “Who is it?”

  “Donahue. Barney knows me. Ask him.”

  The door closed. Donahue waited. A minute later the door opened and Barney De Vere looked out—grinned, opened the door wide.

  “Bar’s not open, Donny—”

  “It’s not that, Barney. Can we have a little talk? I’m hard up for a little information.”

  They went into the lobby, across the dim dance-floor, down a short corridor and into a stuffy office. Barney nodded to a chair and Donahue sat down.

  “It’s about a jane, Barney.”

  “Oh-oh.”

  “Can’t remember her last name but I think she used to work in your little review. Maybe she does yet. Nora something—Nora—Nora—Well, a little brunette.”

  “Oh, you mean Nora.”

  “Yeah, Nora.”

  “Yeah—Nora Slaven. What did she do?”

  “Nothing,” Donahue said. “Not a thing. I just want to have a talk with her—a real heart-to-heart talk, Barney.”

  Barney sighed, shook his head. “She used to work here, Donny. Up until a month ago. She left, and she didn’t say why.”

  “Do you know where she went?”

  “No, I don’t, Donny. I often thought she might have run off with a little guy used to hang around here a lot. Louie Brown—or something, I dunno. Say, I see by the paper you did the cops a good deed.”

  “Yeah. Ran into a gun-fight and helped old John Law. Well, thanks, Barney.”

  “Drop in some time.”

  “Sure.”

  “Sorry I can’t help you out.”

  “Don’t know where she lived, eh?”

  “Well, she lived upstairs till she left.”

  Barney didn’t know that Louie Brown was the man Donahue had shot last night. Neither did the cops. The corpse was still that of “an unidentified man.”

  Donahue walked over to Sheridan Square and caught a north-bound subway train. He got off at Penn Station and walked a few blocks north on Seventh Avenue. He took a look at the drab façade of the Grebb Hotel.

  He dropped into a corner cigar store nearby and crowded into a telephone booth, got a number out of the directory. He put a nickel in the slot.

  Yes, the girl at the Grebb said, Mr. Louis Brown lived there. Donahue hung up, stood for a while near the cigar stand. He didn’t want anyone at the Grebb to know that he was looking for Louie Brown. He left the cigar store and went down to the Penn Station. He sent a wire to Louie Brown at the Grebb. “Call me when you get this. Jim.” Then he left the station and retraced his steps north on Seventh Avenue, entered the Grebb.

  The lobby was as drab as the façade. A dozen men sat around in wooden rockers. Donahue joined them and waited, watching the door. Half an hour later a Western Union messenger came swinging
in. Donahue rose casually and sauntered to the desk, flipped tourist and excursion leaflets negligently.

  “Wire for Mr. Brown.”

  The clerk turned from a ledger, signed the slip. He called over to the switchboard: “Brown in 408 in?” The operator buzzed.

  Donahue left the desk, went back into the washroom, killed ten minutes there and then came out. He took an elevator to the fourth floor.

  A master key paved the way for him. He slipped into a narrow room that had a narrow bed, a dresser, a cheap green armchair. The closet door was open. Inside were a couple of hats, a suit, a pair of shoes, a yellow suitcase on the floor. He opened the suitcase. It was empty. He searched the pockets of the suit. They were empty.

  Half a dozen shirts were in one of the dresser drawers. Socks, handkerchiefs, in another, and underclothes. Odds and ends in another: a pocketknife, some pennies, a tarnished cigarette case, some poker chips, cards. Donahue closed all the drawers, disgruntled.

  Then his roving glance landed on the telephone. Hanging from the mouthpiece was an oblong sheet of cardboard with an advertisement at the top and ruled horizontal lines beneath it. There was some scribbling on it. Donahue removed the cardboard and squinted. Names. Telephone numbers. Nora. Donahue drew his lips tightly against his teeth. He sat down and copied the names and numbers. Six names. Johnnie S…. Pete. Nora. Kitty. Ed. Luke. He returned the cardboard to the telephone mouth-piece, hesitated, then removed it, tore it to bits.

  He left the room, locked the door, went down in the elevator, out into the street. He made a flying trip to the Agency office, in Park Row.

  “Call up your friend in the telephone company, Asa,” he said, “and get the street addresses of those telephone numbers.”

  “Oh, you’ve been places, eh?”

  “Yeah. Louie Brown was the little guy’s name. He had a room at the Grebb Hotel. I busted in.”

  “How you get around!”

  “Well, go ahead, Asa. Those two dames on there—Kitty and Nora—have the same number. Pals, I suppose.”