“Without benefit of clergy,” sneered Donahue.
“That's enough juice outta you!” barked the man. “Take his gun, Clio.”
She tapped Donahue's hip pockets, then his coat pockets. She wore a puzzled look.
“Look under his arm,” coached the man, and moved around to Donahue's left side.
She got the gun and stepped away.
The man with the gun came closer, “Now that ice, brother.”
Donahue bit him with a contemptuous eye. “Ah, lay off that. I haven't got any ice.”
“Frisk him, Clio.”
The man moved around behind Donahue, pressed the muzzle of his gun against Donahue's back. The woman went through Donahue's vest pockets. She went through his coat pockets. She went through his pants pockets. Then she emptied his wallet on the table.
“Nothing, Jess,” she said.
The man came around to face Donahue. He was a big-shouldered man, the same one Donahue had seen yawning in the room in Waverly Place. His eyes were glacier blue, his nose battered, his lips wide and thick. He bared a row of teeth, two of which were gold.
“I want that ice, Donahue. You got it. You switched it when you got it from Bonalino, when that Poore rat was sent up. I know you private dicks. You're a lot of crooks, and a hunk of ice like that was worth more to you than any job could pay you for a lifetime. I tell you, I want it!”
“Well, if I had it, guy, I'd give it to you. But I haven't got it. That's on the up and up.”
“You know where it is, then! Where is it?”
Donahue grinned. “Sure I know where it is.”
“Then where is it?”
“At a precinct in Harlem.”
The man's eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. You sap, you've been on a blind trail. I had the ice. I had it tonight. I took it from Tubba Klem. He was Poore's cell-mate in the Big House. He got it from Friedman, the pawnbroker. I put a bullet in Tubba's guts, and I had to leave the ice with the precinct captain. Tubba smoked out Roper, a precinct dick, before I got him. You'll see it in the first editions.”
“That's just a line, Jess,” the woman said. “He's stalling for time. Don't swallow that.”
Jess jabbed the gun hard against Donahue's stomach. “Listen, baby. You're in a hell of a tough spot-”
“I know I am, Jess. And I'm trying to get out of it. So help me God, I'm telling the truth.”
The woman laid Donahue's gun on the divan and said, “Jess, if you swallow that you're a jackass. This guy is as two-faced as they come. Let's take him for a ride.”
Jess said, “How would you like to go for a ride, Donahue?”
“Come on, be your age,” Donahue said. “Don't you suppose I'd cough up if I had the ice? I told you where it is. Call the hospital and see if Tubba Klem isn't there. There's the phone.”
“What hospital?”
“The Harlem Hospital on Lenox Avenue.”
“Look up the number, Clio.”
The woman found a telephone book, flipped the pages, found the number. “Call it,” said Jess.
“What, I should call from this room? Don't be that way. Make this bright boy do it.”
“Go ahead, Donahue.”
Donahue put the call through, and while he was waiting for the connection Jess told Clio to take it over. Donahue handed her the phone.
In a few seconds she said, “Harlem Hospital?... I want to know how Mr. Klem is?... All right. Thanks.”
She hung up, scowled. “He's resting.”
Donahue smiled. “As I told you.”
The woman spun on him, her green eyes murderous. “So you think you're out of it, eh?” Her nostrils quivered, her whole body began to vibrate.
Jess snarled, “Snap out of it, Clio!” but his tone smacked of indecision.
She snapped at Jess, “Are you turning la-de-da?” The man's jaw hardened, but he said nothing. The woman clenched her hands and jerked her green stare back to Donahue. “No, you're not out of it! You're going for a ride, brother! You're going to get your guts blown out!”
Now Donahue was baffled.
Her voice rose, quavering hysterically. “You hear me! You're going for a ride!”
“What the hell good will that do you?”
“Good? A lot of good, you-damn dick! A lot of good! All right... the ice is safe in the precinct. But you get yours anyhow. You know what you did to get this ride? Do you?”
“No,” dully.
Blue veins stood out on her forehead. “You sent my sister up for ten years.”
“You're-”
“My sister! Irene Saffarrans!”
“Good God, Clio!” growled Jess. “Calm yourself!”
Donahue's brown eyes opened wide.
“Shut up, Jess!” she cried. “You've got to go through this with me. You promised. That's what we came here for. If we didn't get the ice, then we were to get this louse. You promised, Jess! You can't let me down!”
“Wait a minute,” broke in Donahue. “For God's sake, sister, you're crazy-”
“And you shut up, big boy!” she snarled. “You've said all you're going to say! You hounded her. You sent her up for ten years. Ten years! You're a sneak, a dirty double-crossing yellow dog-”
“And you're a liar!” Donahue broke in hotly. “I sent her up. Yes, I did. But I managed to get her ten years instead of fifteen, which she deserved. She double-crossed every man she ever traveled with. She caused the deaths of Crosby, Babe Delaney, Bruhard, and the little old Adler. And because of her Poore went to the Big House. Don't tell me! That sister of yours was a crook-and a dirty one-from the word go! I know you janes-the whole lot of you! I wouldn't wipe my feet on you! And I know how to treat a lady, sister, when I meet one. But this lousy business I'm in-”
“That's enough,” she snapped. “Jess, we'll take this guy. Down the stairs and out the side entrance. We'll walk him to the car and ride him up First Avenue and pitch him from the Willis Avenue Bridge,”
Jess's eyes nickered, and muscles bulged alongside his jaw. His voice was muffled when he said, “Okey, Clio.... Put your hat on, Donahue.” '
“Listen, Jess-”
“Put it on!” choked Jess.
Donahue picked up his hat. His face turned gray, a humid look came into his brown eyes.
Clio went over and listened at the door. Then she unlocked it. Opened it. Jess jerked his chin, and Donahue walked past him slowly into the corridor, his lips hueless.
Clio whispered, “Past the elevator to the stairway!”
“Go ahead, Donahue,” said Jess.
Donahue had taken two steps when the elevator door opened.
VII
THE THREE STOPPED. Jess slipped his gun into his pocket. The elevator door was open, but no one came out. The girl looked at Jess and Jess looked at the girl. Donahue looked towards the elevator. None of them could see its door, but all knew that it had opened.
Then it closed. It was a silent elevator. You could not hear its movement in the shaft.
Jess drew out his gun. “Mosey along, Donahue.”
The girl led the way to the end of the hall, opened a door that led to a cement stairway. Their feet echoed on the way down. It was really a fire exit. Jess walked behind Donahue, his big hand white-knuckled on the gun.
Presently the girl stopped. “The next landing is the last, Jess. Shove the rod in your coat pocket. If he makes a break let him have it.”
“Okey, Clio.”
They went out into a marble corridor where a few lights burned. They started down an arcade lined by exclusive little shops-all dark at this hour. Glass swing-doors were at the end leading into Ninth Street. Donahue marched between the man and the woman.
Clio moved ahead when they neared the swing-doors. She pushed one open and held it open while Jess prodded Donahue into the street. Then she let the door swing shut on its silent spring, and they started east on Ninth Street towards University Place.
“Hey, you!”
The woman f
lung a look over her shoulder. Jess hugged his gun tight and twisted.
There was a man standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel entrance. Even in the gloom Donahue recognized Billy Ames.
Said Billy Ames, “Put 'em up!”
“It's a frame!” the woman muttered. “That guy was waiting for us! Donahue knew it!”
Her hand jumped from the pocket of her blue coat and a small automatic spat sharply. Ames had jumped sidewise. The woman bared her teeth and sent three shots in rapid succession. One of them got Ames. He flinched, and then the gun in his hand banged.
“Oh-o,” the woman grunted. One of her legs buckled, and she slumped to the sidewalk.
Jess roared and blazed away, and Ames staggered backwards, as his own gun thundered. Donahue fell on the gun in the woman's hand, tore it from her feeble grasp. He whirled on Jess, charged him and jammed the muzzle against his side, press the trigger. The explosion was muffled by Jess's clothes.
Jess heaved away, groaning. He started running. Donahue streaked after him. Swinging into University Place, Jess twisted and sent two shots at Donahue. One nailed Donahue in the left leg, and he skidded against the building. He clawed his way to the corner and saw Jess running north on University Place. He toiled after him, hopping on one foot, dragging the other. If only he had the long-barreled twenty-two!
Crossing the street, Jess turned for another shot. Donahue heard the bullet snick past his ear, heard it crash the plate glass window of a shop. Donahue fell down, lay panting at the curb. Jess ran on towards a parked car.
Donahue got up and tried to run on both legs. The experiment drew a rasp of pain from his throat that was clipped short by tightened lips. He hopped across the street, his breath clotting in his throat. He heard the cough of a starting motor, saw smoke belch from the parked car's exhaust. He clamped his teeth and tried to run again on both legs. The pain seemed to stab to his brain. It made him dizzy. But he stuck it out. Stuck it out till he reached the back of the car. But the car was starting.
Donahue grabbed the spare tire, got his arms around it. He was dragged a matter of ten yards before he got his foot clamped in the inside of the rim. He hung on grimly as the car wheeled around a corner. It was a big sedan.
East on Sixteenth Street, past Stuyvesant Square, and then north on First Avenue with the throttle wide open. Donahue hung on, his wounded left leg lying across the tail light, shooting pain through his body with each bump. After a while the car slowed down to a normal rate of speed. It made a left turn into Thirty-seventh Street and rolled past garages and dark-faced houses. Halfway up the block it swung in to the curb and came to a stop.
Donahue was already off the tire. He staggered up the side of the car as Jess pushed the door, open and shoved a foot out.
“Come right on out,” said Donahue, “but watch your step.”
“Why, damn my soul-”
“Out Jess, or I'll finish you right here.”
Jess stumbled out, one hand pressed to his side, pain on his face.
“I gotta get a doc, Donahue.”
“So have I, you big bum.”
Jess was breathing hoarsely, doubling up.
“But you walk now,” Donahue said. He reached out with his left hand and tore the gun from Jess's hand. “Walk to Lexington Avenue. There's a hotel up there where I can telephone.”
“I can't! So help me, I can't go another step!”
Donahue leaned against the car, his face drawn. He hefted the two guns. “Get, Jess-or I'll empty both these rods in your belly!”
Jess staggered away from the car. Donahue toiled after him, dragging his left leg, hopping on the right. Jess dragged his heels, bent far forward, both hands held to his side. They crossed Second Avenue, crossed Third and started up the hill towards Lexington. Half way up Jess fell to the pavement, groaning.
“Get up, Jess!”
“I can't. Honest to God, I can't! Oh-o.... God.... God!”
Donahue started towards where Jess lay, but he never made it. He dropped three feet short, and lay braced on one elbow. Jess was sitting facing him, hands gripping his side, torso rocking from side to side. The street was dark, deserted; not even a house light shone. At the next corner was the hotel.
For fully two minutes they said nothing. They could hear each other's labored breathing, see each other's sweat-smeared and pain-twisted face. Then Jess fell quietly side-wise.
Donahue looked at him through glassy eyes. The street began to fade. Jess became a dark blur lying on the sidewalk. Donahue's braced arm collapsed, and his head struck the sidewalk. He could not move it. Blackness was sweeping down on him.
His hand tightened on the gun he had taken from Jess. He pulled the trigger, kept pulling it until the hammer clicked. The echoes of the shots hammered violently in the narrow street.
“This last play was a bad one. We've got it straight now that Poore sent Tubba Klem after the ice. Poore figured that Friedman had switched it. And we've got it straight that Irene Saffarrans had a long talk with her sister and Irene figured that you'd switched the ice.”
Donahue sighed. “Okey, boss... okey. Get the ice and get rid of it. It's the unluckiest hunk of ice I ever tailed. I'm on my back for a month, and I don't want to hear about it, don't want to talk about it. I'm sick of guns and gun-toting frails. When I can walk I'm going to go to the country. I know a guy up in the mountains. He's got a cabin there. And it's quiet as hell. God, Asa, it'll be good to smell the woods and forget all about business!”
Asa sat back with a reflective smile. “You know, Donny, I'd like to go with you.”
Donahue glared. “Nix. You couldn't get enough newspapers, and you couldn't go an hour without talking about your life's work. Nix, boss. Just nix.”
Hinkle chuckled. “I guess you're right, son.”
Spare The Rod
WHEN DONAHUE came into the office Asa Hinkle, the pontifical-looking head of the Interstate Agency, looked up from the stock quotations he was frowning over.
“I thought you'd be at Tony's,” he said.
“I was learning some card tricks.”
“Well, I don't suppose that could be any worse than playing the market.”
“I told the boys I'd be right back.”
Asa Hinkle sat back and pulled a memorandum from the drawer. “You have a reservation,” he said, “on the Pennsy tonight-for St. Louis. You'd better take plenty of clean shirts.”
Donahue stopped a lighted match half-way to the cigarette that hung from his lips. Then he grunted, put flame to tobacco, and snapped the match into a cuspidor.
“Who the hell wants to go to St. Louis?” he said.
“Boy, the way my finances stand now, St. Louis is as good as any place. You'd better take along some Scotch, too. I hear they're having a cold snap out there and you can only buy gin and thrice-cut Bourbon.”
“Listen, Asa, the last time P went to that burg I almost got fogged out. Not only that, but there was a shyster there named Stein who double-crossed us.”
“This is simple,” said Hinkle. “It looks to me like nothing more serious than being a bodyguard. The client's name is William Herron. He's at the Apollo Hotel, in Locust Street-room 804. I think your train gets in at five tomorrow evening.”
“What's the matter; haven't they got any private dicks in St. Louis?”
“That is neither here nor there. Herron called us on long distance just before noon today. I told him that it seemed a little irregular and that I didn't think we could send a man out there unless we had a retainer. He said that would be given as soon as you arrived. I said that it was possible to send money over the Western Union. Half an hour ago I collected three hundred dollars that he sent by telegraph. I just wired him that Mr. Donahue would arrive about five tomorrow evening.”
Donahue tipped back his Homburg. “Providing you supply the Scotch.”
“I have two bottles here in the desk.”
“Suppose I get in Dutch out there?”
“Go to Moss Ga
rrity, in Olive Street. And remember, tip no more than ten per cent. And don't include any money lost in those East St. Louis gambling joints.”
“I'll be good.”
“I seem to have heard that before. But anyhow, start packing.”
The sound of wheels rattling over switches, the slow lurching of the Pullman, the muted jangling of bells, woke Donahue up. He looked out of the window and saw railroad yards: red lights, green lights, many steel rails shining in the gloom.
He picked up a book that had fallen to the floor, stowed it in the Gladstone, took a flat black automatic from beneath a suit of pajamas and shoved it into his pocket.
The train crawled into the shed. Donahue put on raglan and Homburg, submitted to the porter's ministrations, tipped him, grabbed up the Gladstone and got off. He defied porters on the way up the platform, went through the barn-like station and came out in Market Street. He took a taxi and it rushed him to Twelfth,-north on Twelfth, east on Locust. He got off at the Apollo Hotel.
He had wired ahead for a room on the eighth floor. They gave him number 812, and a black boy took the key and the bag and piloted Donahue aloft; opened a window in the room, opened” the closet door, grinned with white horse teeth in a sooty black face.
“Anything else, suh?”
“I brought my own.”
“Thank you, suh.”
The boy left and Donahue stood for a moment staring down into Locust street, where a pall of smoke and fog dimmed the lights. Then he took off hat and topcoat and sat down at the small metal desk. He took up the telephone receiver.
“Give me room 804,” he said. Presently he heard a man's voice, and said: “Mr. Herron?... This is Donahue, the Interstate man from New York. Should I come right over?... I'm down the hall from you in 812.... All right, I'll be right over.”
He hung up and sat staring blankly at the instrument for a full minute. Then he rose, wagged his head dubiously, frowned with his lean-cheeked brown face. He looked like a man reacting visibly to a vague inner instinct; to ah intangible warning against which his better judgment was as nothing compared with the force of circumstance. With a hoarse sigh, begrudgingly philosophical, he went to the door, opened it and locked it from the outside; went down the corridor with a shadowy forehead and slow deliberate footsteps.
SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames Page 8