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

by Frederick Nebel

  “You were born dumb, fella,” Louie said.

  Klay sucked in a breath and remained quivering where he stood, his eyes frozen on space.

  Louie clipped: “Okey, Buck. We lam.”

  “Yeah, bo!”

  They backed to the door. Louie opened it and motioned back out. Buck ducked behind him and Louie paused a moment on the threshold.

  “Pleasant dreams, guys!”

  He vanished, slamming the door.

  Chapter VIII

  Klay whirled, his gun held level with his waist. Donahue jumped from behind, ripped the gun from his hand and sent him spinning across the room.

  He snarled: “That was a swell frame you walked into, Klay. Thanks. I’m going to get those hoods and I’m going to get those papers.”

  He lunged across the room, yanked open the door and barged out. But Klay had the gun he had taken from Louie, and he reached the door a split-second behind Donahue, opened it and bounded down the stairs.

  He caught up with Donahue at the hall door and Donahue whirled on him. “Swell, Klay! You’ll be along—a cop—and that’ll cover me. But remember, baby—”

  Klay went through the hall door, down the steps, and saw Buck and Louie a half block away, walking east. He broke into a run and the two ahead saw him and darted across the street, their heels flying.

  Donahue caught up with Klay and they ran side by side. Klay’s face was white and shiny now with sweat, and little muscles worked at the corners of his mouth. Buck and Louie turned at the first corner, and when Donahue and Klay reached it they saw the other two pounding north.

  Klay raised his gun and fired. The shot crashed a window and glass fell, rained noisily on the sidewalk. Buck and Louie turned east and Klay and Donahue went after them past public garages and run-down frame houses. Pedestrians scattered. Vehicles pulled up to the curb and stopped.

  Donahue lifted his gun, aimed offhand while galloping and fired. Buck missed a step, swayed a bit but kept rushing head long beside Louie. Louie turned around and fired two shots past Buck’s shoulder. One smacked against a fire-hydrant and the other whistled above Donahue’s head. Klay fired and Buck put his hands straight out and began stumbling. He stumbled faster and faster, tried to look back, then plunged suddenly to the gutter—so hard that his legs flew upward, banged down again, as he rolled, with a ringing of heels on the pavement.

  Neither Donahue nor Klay stopped to look at Buck. They knew Louie had the envelope, and Louie was beyond, fleet as the wind. Trucks were backed up against warehouses here. Louie weaved among them; plunged down an alley, and was almost through when Klay and Donahue spotted him.

  Klay slowed down to fire. He missed and Donahue rushed past him and pounded his heels down the alley, reached the next street and swung east. Louie cut across in front of a horse-drawn truck, turned to fire around the back of it. The shot clanged in a refuse can and raised dust from it.

  As Donahue started across the street, Klay tripped him. Donahue, who had been running fast, fell hard, rolled over and over while Klay sped on. Donahue heaved up, stretched his long legs and overtook Klay at the next corner.

  “Smart, aren’t you?” he called; stuck out his leg and sent Klay hurtling into the gutter.

  A shot from Louie’s gun tore off the lapel of Donahue’s overcoat pocket, and Donahue, though off balance, fired and his shot knocked Louie against a house-wall. Louie rebounded, ran on for a dozen paces, then jumped behind a pole and fired. Klay broke into a run, firing again. Louie made the alley and Donahue reached the entrance as Klay did, and heard Klay’s empty gun click. He saw Louie turning again to fire. Donahue stopped in his tracks. His gun boomed. Louie wilted and began sagging backward. Then he stopped moving, swayed for an instant, crashed down.

  Donahue broke into a run, reached Louie and dropped down beside him. He tore the envelope from Louie’s inside pocket, was rising when Klay fell on him, clubbing his revolver.

  “I knew it was empty,” Donahue said, reeling. “I heard it back at the entrance—or I’d never have come in this alley ahead of you!”

  “Give me those, Donahue!”

  Donahue stopped against the house-wall, rebounded and drove his fist to Klay’s jaw. Klay took it and struck with his gun, crashing in Donahue’s hat. Donahue grunted and jumped back, stopped the next blow with an upraised arm; cracked his own gun against Klay’s jaw and drew blood. White-eyed, Klay came back at him, walloped his foot to Donahue’s stomach. Donahue tried to cry out but couldn’t. He had bullets left in his gun but he was not fool enough to plant his trademark in Klay. He took three blows on the head while still fighting for his breath and holding his hands to his injured stomach. Blood flew from his cheek.

  Louie had started crawling. He crawled past the fighting men, and Donahue saw him and tried to push off Klay. Klay twisted, saw the gun in Louie’s hand and broke with Donahue, plunged towards Louie. Louie fired, grimacing. Klay doubled up and struck the cobbles with his forehead.

  Louie turned his gun on Donahue but Donahue was waiting for him. He let Louie have it. Louie rolled over quietly and lay very still.

  There were running feet in the alley, and Donahue, cramming the envelope into his pocket, saw Kelly McPard and a couple of uniformed policemen. He leaned against the wall, wiped his face, looked at the blood on his fingers. He grimaced again, pressed knuckles hard against his stomach.

  “Hey, Donny,” McPard said, puffing to a stop.

  “I think Klay’s shot.”

  “What the hell!”

  “Yeah. This mug here. He let Klay have a dose.”

  McPard pointed. “You and Klay working together to get these two hoods?”

  “Believe it or not, Kelly. Side by side. We ran side by side all the way.”

  “This the pinch you called about?”

  “Yeah.”

  McPard looked puzzled. “You didn’t say Klay was there.”

  “He wasn’t. He joined me. He’s been Johnny-on-the-spot ever since last night.”

  McPard bent his ruddy face. “You shot too?”

  “No. I got kicked in the belly. A lousy two-timer kicked me in the belly.” He kept rubbing his stomach, licking his lips, making painful grimaces. “I ought to get a drink. A good shot of brandy might help. There’s a speak right around the corner.”

  “Go ahead, then. But come back here, Donny. Now don’t go sliding out on me!”

  “Promise.”

  Donahue went on through the alley, walked a block and entered a speakeasy. “Brandy,” he said. He dragged his feet into the lavatory, took the brown envelope from his pocket. He drew a stamp from his wallet, affixed it. He undipped his fountain pen from a vest pocket and wrote on the envelope: Frank Castleman—and the address.

  He returned to the bar, swallowed his brandy and shouldered out into the street. He walked to the next corner, looked up and down, dropped the letter into a mail box.

  When he trudged weary-footed up the alley Kelly McPard was waiting for him and one of the cops was kneeling with Klay in his arms.

  McPard said: “Klay said there were papers, Donny.”

  “Did he?”

  “Kid, I’d like to see ’em. Klay asked me to. He’s a cop. I’ve got to give him a break.”

  Donahue leaned against the wall and held his coat open. “Search me, Kelly.”

  Kelly searched him, then dropped his hands and looked up into Donahue’s eyes. “Where are they, Donny?”

  “Maybe that was just an idea Klay had. Sort of rambling in his mind. I’ve got no papers.”

  “You wouldn’t cheat on me, would you, Donny?”

  “Not on you, Kelly. I don’t cheat on white men.”

  He Could Take It

  Tough dick Donahue gets caught in the inside of a jam where he takes plenty

  Chapter I

  Donahue came into his hotel apartment coughing. The camel’s-hair coat he wore was stained, his brown Homburg was dented. He walked straight to the bed and dropped flat on it. His hat fell off and wobb
led several feet across the floor. He lay for a minute swearing to himself.

  After a while he got up, pushing with his arms, and stripped. He looked at himself in the elongated mirror that took the place of panels in the closet door. His flat, hard stomach was blotched with abrasions. A black and blue welt capped his right hip bone. His face was sallow beneath the brown.

  He went into the little pantry that contained an icebox and a porcelain sink. He cracked a piece of ice and held it first against one abrasion and then another. His teeth chattered. It was only a little past noon but he went into the bathroom, showered—first hot, then cold.

  He didn’t rub down. He swung into a terry cloth robe and let it absorb the moisture. From the pantry he carried a bottle of rye and a glass with three lumps of ice in it. He poured the glass half full of rye and dropped into a club chair. The liquor rushed color to his face but two resentful lines still clung between his brows.

  When a knock sounded on the door he scowled at the door but said nothing. When the knock was repeated he growled: “Who is it?”

  “Me, Donny.”

  “Don’t be so anonymous.”

  “Me—Libbey.”

  Donahue slushed red leather mules towards the door. His manner was not ingratiating when he opened it.

  “What! You’re not glad to see me, Donny!”

  “I’m never glad to see you.”

  “Oh, grandma, what big eyes you have!”

  “In, pest.” Donahue kicked the door shut, sloshed the liquor around in his glass while eying Libbey stonily. “Hooch on the coffee table. Perrier or Canada Dry in the pantry. Wet your whistle and scram.”

  The City News Bureau man chuckled. “You’d be a nice guy to have around the house a lot. But—genius must have its moments.” A thumbnail snapped a match to flame and Libbey lit up. “So Klay got it, huhn?”

  “You were around, weren’t you?”

  “I saw Kelly McPard. Great dick, Kelly. How’d it happen you and Klay joined up against those two heels, Buck and Louie?”

  “What did you come here for, Libbey?”

  “To play marbles, if I played marbles, but I don’t play marbles. Kelly McPard said Klay tried to help you collar these two eggs. Is that right?”

  “You’d take Kelly’s word for it, wouldn’t you?”

  “I didn’t think you and Klay were on good terms.”

  “Maybe that was an idea someone had.”

  “These two eggs that were killed—I hear they were implicated in the murder of Cherry Bliss, the vice queen with whom you had a date the night she was unkindly bumped off. There’s a rumor around town that Cherry was turning some information over to an unknown party. You that party?”

  Donahue smacked his empty glass down on the coffee table. “Do you want a drink?” he snapped.

  “I might.”

  “Then take it and beat it.”

  Libbey took a jolt straight, without ice. “Thanks. I can’t figure out how you and Klay happened to join up. I know Klay had no use for you, and you no use for him. Then suddenly you become pals against two heels. Klay goes down in a blaze of glory and you bump off the guy that did him in.”

  “Miracles happen.”

  “In Heaven maybe, but not—”

  “You go,” Donahue muttered. “Get out of here. I’ve got an awful pain in the gut and you don’t do it any good.” He strode past Libbey and opened the door. “Out, bozo.”

  Libbey shrugged, helped himself to another drink. He sauntered to the door saying: “Thanks for every little thing.”

  Donahue said nothing in a wooden-faced way.

  Libbey cocked an eye. “Say, Donny, do you know if Cherry had a kid?”

  “A what?”

  “A daughter.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Of course, you wouldn’t tell me if she had.”

  Donahue indicated the open door. “You were going out, weren’t you?”

  “That’s right! I was! Toodle-oo!”

  Donahue locked the door and poured more liquor into his glass. He sat for a while, drank half a pint of rye straight and then got up and began pacing the room, his face flushed and angry. The phone bell stopped him and he answered it.

  “Where are you, Frank?… Good. Come right up.”

  He hung up and went over to stand by the door, cramming a pipe from a leather pouch. He was ready when the knock sounded. He opened the door and Frank Castleman, the District Attorney, said:

  “You look lousy, Donny!”

  “I’m feeling better, Frank. In.”

  Castleman was a stocky square-built man with ruddy cheeks and a good jaw. He left his hat on and kept his hands in his overcoat pockets. His face was curious but also a bit worried.

  “Drink, Frank?”

  “Not so early. What happened to you?”

  Donahue opened his robe.

  “My—!” Castleman said. “Did a horse kick you?”

  “No. A horse’s neck.”

  “Huhn?”

  “Klay…. Sit down, old boy.”

  Castleman sat on the edge of a high-back chair and blew his nose into crisp white linen. Donahue fell back into the big club chair and planked his long legs on the Ottoman. Breeze coming in through a partly open window tossed fragrant whiffs of tobacco smoke towards Castleman.

  The District Attorney lifted candid eyes. “Get the papers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Where are they?”

  “In the mail.”

  “In the mail! What was the idea—”

  “Take it easy, Frank. It was my only out. I figured Kelly McPard would frisk me. My gut hurt after Klay kicked me and when Kelly came up I said I wanted to slide around the corner and get a drink. I did. I sealed the envelope they were in, put your name and address on it and dropped it in a box. When I came back sure enough Kelly frisked me. Klay, dying, must have said something to Kelly.”

  Castleman looked at the floor. “You use your head, I guess, Donny. How did Klay get mixed up in it?”

  “Well, he must have been tailing me this morning—or one of the eggs. I nailed Buck in his flat and then Louie came in. I got the papers and then I phoned for Kelly. He’s a white guy. I wanted to give him the pinch. Then Klay came in and tried to take hold of things. He wanted those papers. He flashed his badge and got very sore when I wouldn’t turn ’em over. We had the two heels handcuffed. Klay was afraid to take the papers out of my pocket. Afraid I’d jump him. So he released one of the heels and the heel released the other.

  “Klay was going to let them go because they knew too much. But they turned on him and bailed out with the papers. He knew he had to get those papers. Well, I wanted them too. So we went after the heels and shot it out with them. Buck got killed on the way and Louie got his in that alley. I took the papers from him. Klay’s gun was empty, but he tried to take ’em from me. While we were fighting, Louie came to long enough to plug Klay. Then I had to plug Louie for keeps. Then Kelly McPard turned up.”

  “This Louie—this Buck—did they kill Cherry Bliss?”

  “Of course. She was going to hand those papers over to me free of charge. They objected. They wanted dough for them. So they bumped her off and left her in front of that speakeasy.”

  “Who all were mentioned in the papers?”

  “Detective Klay for one. He was shaking down Cherry even after she’d bailed out of the vice racket. There were others. I was in a hurry. I didn’t look at all of them. I did see Magistrate McGiff’s name—and another vice squad dick named Carney. He used to be Klay’s partner. But they’re in the mail. You’ll get ’em in the morning.”

  Castleman said: “You’re sure no one knows you’re working for me?”

  “I haven’t told a soul. There’s enough evidence in those papers to raise hell in this city. I’m glad you’ll get ’em, Frank.”

  Castleman stood up. “I have you to thank, Donny. What did Kelly McPard think about this scrape?”

  “When he’s made up his mind—he�
��ll come and see me.”

  Castleman thought for a moment, blank-eyed; then shook his head and looked worried. “Kelly McPard’s the whitest dick in the city. I’d hate like the very devil to see you and Kelly become enemies. Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I think he will. He didn’t quite get what I told him. He didn’t say whether he believed me or not. He was trying to think. Because Klay, dying, must have told Kelly about the papers.”

  “What will you do—if he comes?”

  “Tell him a fable in slang. Klay died, didn’t he—two hours later? The heels are dead. Who’s to prove I had any papers? Don’t worry about me, old boy.”

  “I do, though, Donny. I don’t want you to get in too deep.”

  Donahue scowled. “Hell, don’t be an old woman, Frank!”

  “I’m no old woman, but—”

  “I’m sorry, Frank.” Donahue made a sour face, touched his stomach. “My gut.”

  Chapter II

  Donahue slept through the afternoon. Slept off all of the liquor and most of the pain. He sent the camel’s-hair coat and the brown Homburg out to be cleaned and went down to the lobby at six-thirty wearing a gray fedora and a gray topcoat. The blonde at the cigar counter gave him a dazzling smile.

  “You don’t come around as much as you used to,” she said, luscious lipped.

  “I didn’t know you were married, little beautiful.” He added with a look of mock-fright: “And that your daddy is a box-fighter.”

  He bought a paper and strode to the center of the lobby, snapped the paper open and downward with a loud report. The news was there in a black streamer. Detective Killed in Duel with Gunmen. Donahue grunted and reached the lobby. “Detective Klay fighting bravely to the end….”

  “Oh, hell!” Donahue scoffed out loud.

  “Beg pardon?” a red-headed bellhop said.

  Donahue warped a look downward. “Oh—hello, Roy.”

  The bellhop grinned, tossed a glance towards the cigar counter. “The blonde pooch is ga-ga about you, Mr. Donahue.”

  “A pooch is a dog, Roy—a little dog.”