SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames

by Frederick Nebel

  “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, while 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 sidewise 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-”

  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 muzzl
e. 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....

  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.”

  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, conceale
d 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.”