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

by Frederick Nebel

  The phone rang.

  Homer said: “Answer it, Donahue.”

  “Don’t be dumb!” Archie said.

  “Fat-head, the operator knows he’s up here!”

  Donahue stumbled to the desk, picked up the phone and held it in both hands. Homer was beside him.

  “Answer it!”

  Donahue picked up the receiver and put it to his ear. Homer put his head close to Donahue’s, near the receiver, and Archie crowded Donahue on the other side with his gun.

  Donahue stammered: “I guess—you have the wrong—”

  The voice said: “But this is Frank—Frank Castleman. This is you, isn’t it, Donny?”

  “Oh, yes. Oh, Frank.” Donahue’s eyes smoldered, his throat ached.

  “That stuff isn’t here yet. What do you suppose—?”

  “It will, Frank…. I’m sorry. I’m busy!”

  He hung up abruptly and the two men eyed him strangely.

  Homer snarled: “You lyin’ two-faced bum!”

  “What’s the matter?” Archie asked.

  “He was just talkin’ to the D.A., the louse! He’s workin’ for the D.A., he is!”

  “You’re crazy,” Donahue scoffed. “That was—”

  Homer leered. “So it’s the D.A. you’re workin’ for?”

  “No. I owed him some money. I was sending it—”

  “Yah!”

  Homer stepped back. “Archie, you stay here with this two-timin’ wiseguy. I’ll go get more instructions.”

  “Okey, Homer. Don’t be long.”

  “I’ll phone from a drug-store and then come back. If he tries to get fancy let him have it and then lam.”

  “Right!”

  Homer shoved his gun into his pocket, opened the door, looked up and down the corridor and went out.

  Chapter IV

  Archie chuckled. “So you’re working for the D.A., old pal, old pal?”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Sit down in that chair and keep your hands on the arms of it.”

  Donahue sat down and eyed Archie sourly. “You guys make me sick. You’re dumb—plain dumb.”

  There was a knock.

  Archie stiffened, whispered: “Who’s that?”

  “A lady friend,” Donahue said, looking at his wrist-watch.

  “A lady friend!” Archie’s brows bent. “Tell her to scram!”

  “Can’t.”

  Archie came over and towered. “Tell her scram, damn you!”

  “I have a date with her. If I tell her to scram she’ll think there’s something wrong.”

  “The hell she will. Tell her to beat it and you’ll call her later.”

  “Now you are dumb.”

  Again the knock.

  “You hear!” Archie hissed. “Tell—your—date—to—scram!”

  Donahue got up, looked wearily at Archie. He went slowly to the door and Archie followed closely with his gun level. Donahue looked at the door panel.

  He said: “I’m sorry I have to disappoint you. I’ll call you later. I’m very busy right now.”

  “But—”

  “I’m sorry. You’ll have to go.”

  After a moment there was a muffled, “Oh, all right.”

  Archie backed up. Perspiration had come to his forehead in those few minutes. He forgot how to smile. The color had ebbed from his face.

  Donahue turned and went back to the chair. He was undergoing a change in demeanor. He became self-satisfied, unconcerned. He crammed and lit a pipe and whistled a few bars.

  Archie eyed him narrowly. “What are you so happy about?”

  “Oh… because I didn’t take that header.”

  Archie threw a look at the door, whipped it back to Donahue. “Who was that?”

  “A girl friend.” Match went to pipe and through the smoke and flame Donahue’s eyes were turned upward at Archie. “I had a date with her.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “I don’t give out girl friends’ names.”

  “All at once you’re getting pretty smart.”

  “And you’re losing the sense of humor you breezed in here with. If we had a checker board we could play checkers.”

  Archie was white. “There’s something screwy here.”

  “You think Homer’ll be back?”

  “Of course he’ll be—” He stopped short, as if a new idea had walked up and hit him; then he snapped: “Say, what makes you think he won’t be back?”

  “Did I say he wouldn’t be back?”

  “You didn’t exactly say but—” He stopped again, exasperated. He backed to the door and listened, keeping eyes and gun still trained on Donahue.

  Donahue seemed to enjoy his pipe. Archie came towards him with a white threatening face. “I’m getting tired of this, Donahue. I’m getting damn’ tired of this.”

  “Have it your way, then. Go ahead. Homer is coming back. Homer is coming back.”

  “Who was that jane?”

  “All right, I’ll tell you. She was the maid. She comes around at this time to turn my bed down. Why not try using your head for a change?”

  “You lie, Donahue! You lie! Homer isn’t coming back. You know Homer isn’t coming back!”

  Donahue grinned. “You’re losing your grip, Archie.”

  “Yeah? Grip, eh?” His eyes shot around the room desperately. “I’m bailing out of this joint. Don’t move, you!”

  Archie back to the door, fumbled for the knob, turned it. He opened the door and threw a quick look outward. “Start after me, Donahue, and I’ll let you have it!”

  Donahue sat very still, holding the pipe between his teeth. He watched the door close. He did not hear Archie’s footsteps because the carpet in the corridor was very thick. He let a minute pass, then stood up. He went into the bedroom, took another gun from a bureau drawer and loaded it. He thrust it into his pocket and went to the door. He laid his ear to the panel.

  A quiet knock on the other side started him. His left hand froze on the knob.

  He muttered: “Yeah?”

  “Can I come in now?”

  One eye squinted. He drew the gun from his pocket, whipped the door inward. A young girl stood there.

  “Get in,” he clipped.

  He grabbed her by the arm, pulled her in, closed the door. It locked automatically.

  “I’m Helen—”

  “I know, Helen. You look like her. And you may not know it, but you just got me out of a sweet jam. Sit down. What’s bothering you?”

  She looked neat, clean. Eighteen or so. Quiet-eyed and a little afraid.

  “My mother wrote me—just last week—that if anything happened to her, I should see you.”

  Cherry Bliss’s girl, down from an up-state boarding school.

  Donahue’s voice was low—“I’m sorry about your mother, Helen.”

  “You are Mr. Donahue, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah.” He was eying her vacantly. The daughter of one of the big town’s most notorious vice queens. “What name do you go under?”

  “Helen Thompson.”

  “Seen any reporters yet?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t. For——sake, don’t! Anybody else know you’re in town?”

  “No. I—mother wrote me last week that she was afraid. She told me that if anything ever did happen I shouldn’t show up at the funeral. She told me—who she was. I never”—her eyes dropped—“knew. She said she’d got out of the—business—two years ago, but that a lot of men were still hounding her. Then yesterday I saw the paper. I saw her name—the name I never knew was her name. I didn’t say anything. I came down.”

  “And you never told anybody?”

  “No. Only you.”

  He sat down facing her and took her hands. “Now don’t be frightened, Helen—What are your plans?”

  She was on the brink of tears. “I don’t know. That’s why I came to you. Mother seemed to think a lot of you.”

  “Any dough?”

  “I’ve
got about twenty dollars. Mother left some, I know, but I’ll have to wait till things clear up to claim it.”

  “No you don’t!” he cut in. “What, claim her money? Come out and tell who you are? It’ll ruin you!”

  “I must see her—funeral.”

  “Nix. You came to me for advice, didn’t you? All right, I’m telling you what to do. Clear out of town. Don’t go near the funeral. You’re the dead image of your mother and you’d be recognized.”

  “But I have no money.”

  “I owe you something, Helen—for tonight. When you knocked—well, after that a guy talked himself into a swell case of yellow fever.”

  “I saw him come out,” she said. “I was hiding behind the stairway. I thought something was wrong when you spoke to me through the door.”

  His thoughts were miles ahead. “Listen. You’ve got to clear out of this town tomorrow. I’ll get you some dough and buy you a ticket to Denver. Stay at the Brown Palace there till you hear from me. Listen. You’d better get home now. We’ll talk this over tomorrow. Tonight—well, I’m busy. I’d take you home but it’s best that you’re not seen with me.”

  “When I came in the lobby—a man looked at me.”

  Donahue had a rough chuckle. “Don’t blame him!”

  “I mean, in a peculiar way. His eyes followed me all the way to the elevator.”

  “What’d he look like?”

  “Rather fat, with a sandy mustache. Rather nice-looking man.”

  Donahue said: “Oh oh,” and took a turn up and down the room. He stopped and looked at her. “You stay here. Stay here till I get back. Don’t open that door for anybody else.”

  Chapter V

  Kelly McPard sat on a high-back chair against one of the lobby’s Ionic pillars. He held a newspaper before him. He had put on ancient steel-rimmed spectacles and looked peculiarly like a small town banker—complacent, urbane.

  He saw Donahue come out of an elevator and stride with a business-like air towards the cigar counter. He let the paper droop and his lips bent in a droll half-smile. He saw Donahue buy a paper, some cigarettes. He must have known that Donahue was using the mirrors behind the counter. He raised the paper again.

  Turning, Donahue’s gaze landed on McPard. The newspaper didn’t fool him, nor the apparent interest McPard displayed in its columns. Donahue crossed the lobby.

  “Hello, Kelly,” he said.

  “Why, Donny!”

  “Imagine your surprise!” Donahue mocked. “What are you on now, the hotel squad?”

  “Oh, I move about kind of.” McPard removed his spectacles, held them at arms’ length, squinted. Then he put them away in a worn leather case and patted a yawn. “I’m getting weary, Donny.”

  “Of what?”

  “Of all this dodge and double-dodge.”

  McPard stood up and eyed Donahue placidly.

  “So am I,” Donahue said. “Damned sick of it.”

  McPard said: “Let’s go up to your apartment and have a long, friendly talk.”

  “Nothing doing.”

  “I’d like to look your apartment over.”

  “I’d like to know where the hell you get your sudden crust!”

  McPard shrugged. “My boss over the precinct says I’ve got to show some results. He says if I can’t get you to come across I should bring you over the precinct.”

  “I didn’t think you’d rat on me.”

  “I’m a cop, Donny. You play me the run-around and you’ve got to expect the worst. Everything you’ve told me is a lie and I don’t like it. I’d like to poke around your apartment.”

  “Or else?”

  “We go over the precinct.”

  “And why my apartment?”

  “I’m curious about apartments.”

  Their eyes locked and Donahue said: “If you want to look my apartment over, you go get a warrant. I’m not going to have any flatfoot rooting around my apartment.”

  McPard touched his arm. “Okey. We’ll go over the precinct.”

  “Wait here. I’ll get my hat.”

  “No. You won’t get cold. I’ll stand the cab fare. Come on.”

  Donahue shook his head. “I need a hat and coat. I’m going in no drafty cab. You wait here and I’ll go up and get it.”

  McPard laughed, good-humoredly. “Not in these panties, Donny. I’ll go up with you. Why the hell do you want to be so stubborn? Why not—”

  “It’s a matter of principle, Kelly; that’s all. I started off by saying you can’t go in my apartment and I’ve got to stick by it. It’s the Irish in me…. But I’m going to get my hat and coat. I’ll send a boy up.”

  “Okey. Snap on it.”

  Donahue called: “Roy—oh, Roy.”

  The young red-head came over on the double and Donahue said: “Roy, this is Detective Sergeant Kelly McPard. Kelly this is Roy McAleer…. Roy, here’s my key. Go up and get my hat and overcoat—they’re in the closet. Turn the lights out, close the windows and put the pooch out.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Donahue!”

  The boy pivoted and headed for the elevators.

  McPard said: “You’re doing wrong, Donny, by going to the precinct. The boss has some rough guys there.”

  “You don’t think they’d shellac me, do you?”

  “How can I say? I wouldn’t, but you know the boss—he’s a go-getter.”

  Donahue sighed. “It’s tough I’m stubborn. What the hell do you expect you’d find in my apartment?”

  “Listen, kid. Walter Nass gave you a telephone number when you were there tonight. A jane called you up just before you came in.”

  “Walter tell you that?”

  “Don’t blame him. I put the screws on him. I didn’t get the phone number because he didn’t remember it. I bounced out after you and saw you make a phone call in the corner cigar store. Then you shot back to your hotel. Now you wouldn’t have shot right back here unless you had an appointment. I’ve been in this lobby ever since you came home. About half an hour ago I saw a girl come in. She acted strange, like she didn’t know the ropes here. Then she spotted the elevators and went up. I saw the marker stop at twelve—your floor. I haven’t seen the jane come down yet.”

  “Well?”

  “I’ve seen her before, a long time ago, but my memory’s cloudy.”

  Donahue chortled. “That’s a hot one! You stand there and think that every strange jane rolls into this casa goes right to my apartment. Hell, I never thought I was so hot! You’re not really serious, are you?”

  “Donny, I’m getting seriouser.”

  “You know, Kelly, I’ve got a mind to take you up and show you what a horse’s neck you are!”

  “Okey. Show me.”

  “This bellboy will think I’m nuts. Come on.”

  They went to the elevator bank. The marker was still motionless at the twelfth floor.

  “Waiting for Roy,” Donahue remarked.

  Presently the marker began moving, and in a moment the elevator opened and Roy came out with the hat and coat.

  “In, Kelly,” Donahue said.

  “Here’s your key, Mr. Donahue.”

  Donahue looked down at the boy’s face, pale and curious now against the freckles. “Thanks, Roy.” The key was thrust into his hand—and something else. A slip of paper. Donahue’s hand closed on both and disappeared in his pocket

  They got off at the twelfth floor and Donahue led the way down the corridor. He whistled light-heartedly, but his eyes were glued on the door towards which they walked. He inserted the key, turned it and opened the door. His apartment was dark. He reached in and found the button, made light. His eyes flicked the living-room.

  “Come in, Kelly.”

  McPard came in. His eyes took in the living-room with one sweep. He plodded on into the bedroom, and Donahue took his hand from his pocket, read the slip in his palm.

  The “pooch” is out. I hope I did what you meant.

  He crushed the paper, took a long breath, let it out and sang a
bar from Chloe. He idled to the bedroom entry and saw McPard coming out of the bathroom.

  He pointed: “There’s a closet, Kelly. And don’t forget to look under the bed.”

  McPard looked in the closet and under the bed. He came across the room, his brows bent, worried.

  “Say, Donny, that crack about a pooch. I didn’t think you went in for dogs.”

  Donahue was cramming a pipe. He paused, his back to McPard. His eyes dragged to the ceiling with a weary hopelessness. Then he turned and said: “I like dogs, Kelly. Always have.”

  “I’d like to see the pooch.”

  Donahue darkened. “Go to hell! I sent the pooch downstairs. The bellhop sent it down by the service elevator. He does that every night.”

  McPard smiled. “I want to see the pooch. I like dogs myself.”

  Donahue threw pipe and pouch on a table. He yanked up the phone. “Bell desk.” He tapped his foot. “Hello, Roy. This is Mr. Donahue. Sergeant McPard doesn’t believe I have a dog. Will you go down the basement and bring it up?… Yeah, right now.”

  He hung up and said: “By and by, Kelly, I’m going to get sore.”

  Three minutes later there was a knock on the door and Roy stood there with a wire-haired. “Here’s Laddie, Mr. Donahue.” He gulped and handed over a very sleepy pup. He remained in the doorway.

  Donahue stroked the dog and said:

  “He’s just a dumb Irish dick, Laddie…. Well, Kelly, what should I do now—have the pooch stunt or something?”

  McPard growled, reddened. “Do what you want with it!”

  Donahue gave the dog back to the red-head. “Thanks, Roy. Take the pooch down and see they don’t feed it too much.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The door closed and Donahue spread his palms. “Now what?”

  “Now that you’ve got your hat and coat we’ll go over the precinct.”

  “What!”

  “You’re going to talk, Donny, and it’s not going to hurt me more than it does you. Come on.”

  Chapter VI

  Kelly McPard took Donahue out a side exit. He didn’t bother with handcuffs; didn’t even bother to remove Donahue’s gun. And he wore a concerned look.

  “I hate to do this, Donny.”

  “Isn’t it the crocodile sheds false tears?”

  “Oh, hell—don’t ride me like that.” He stopped. “Listen, Donny. Come clean. I hate like hell to tote you over the precinct. I tell you, the boss is a rough egg.”