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 facade 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 facade. 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.”
Asa made a telephone call, called off the telephone numbers, and hung up. Donahue gave him a resume of what he had done and the manner in which he had done it. The telephone rang. Asa answered it, pencil in hand. Beside each number on the slip of paper Donahue had given him, he wrote down an address. Finished, he said: “Thanks, Bill,” and hung up. He shoved the slip of paper across the desk.
“May God watch over you, Donny.” Donahue seemed not to have heard. He stared round-eyed at the addresses, his lips moving. “Ed,” he said, “may be Eddie Bishoff.”
VI
DONAHUE came out in Park Row and walked over to Broadway. He turned north and was nearing Chambers Street when a bull voice haled him. Before he could locate the voice a P.D. flivver hurtled to the curb. Tom Brannigan was leaning out, waving a red, beefy hand, grinning like a fool.
“Come here, Donny.”
“Hello, Tom.”
“Yah, boy-yah, boy!” Brannigan spat with gusto. “What the hell do you think? Hey?”
“Got me, Tom.”
“We got that punk identified. Louie Brown's his name. That punk you give the works, Donny. Hot dog! Yah! Ain't that hot, kiddo-ain't it? Yah! Well, we got him identified all right. A pal of a pal of a pal of mine-'Sure, I seen that guy,' he sez. 'Louie Brown's his name.' All I gotta do now, kiddo, is get my stoolies workin' to find out who was trottin' around with Louie Brown. Watch the papers, Donny. You'll be seein' things.”
Donahue forced a grin, not heartfelt. “Swell, Tom.”
“Goin' up a ways?”
“Yeah.”
“Jump in.”
Donahue dropped to the seat in the rear beside Brannigan and the police flivver started off. Brannigan erupted, slapping his knees, chewing a cigarette to rags, the feel of the hunt burning in his eyes.
“Just depend on Tom Brannigan, Donny,” he said. “I'll get that bum got away. Me, personal. Before sundown I'll have the name o' the guy was trottin' with Louie Brown. I'll bust everything but his windpipe. Yah.” Donahue got off at Eighth Street and walked west with Brannigan's voice still re-echoing in his ears. He did not doubt that Brannigan, who had a vast array of stoolies, would discover the name of the late Louie Brown's partner before sundown. Armed with the name of Eddie Bishoff, Brannigan would find his police record, get his underworld spies working, and eventually get Bishoff.
Donahue hardened in his purpose. It showed on his face. He knew of a private cop on the West Coast who had been engaged to turn over an amount of money to a gang of crooks in return for bonds that had been stolen from a Seattle bank. A bank official had engaged him. There was a slip-up. The bonds were returned well enough, but then the cops started in; hauled in the private cop for abetting the criminals, handed him a jail sentence, thereby setting a precedent.
Donahue knew he was headed for a jam. And he knew that if he got in the jam Mike Mueck would be fool enough to try to get him out and in so doing would entangle him self. And Brannigan was on a tear. Brannigan was ruthless, a hard cop, in his way a good one. But he would rough-house Donahue as quickly
and as explosively as he had, on many an occasion, shaken his hand and clapped him on the back.
In Grove Street, near Sheridan Square, Donahue neared the address that corresponded with the telephone number Louie had written alongside the name of Ed. It was a speakeasy. Donahue grumbled his disappointment. But he entered, following a long corridor that terminated in a bar, with tables along the wall. He went to the corner where a telephone stood, looked at the number. It corresponded with the number on the slip of paper.
Donahue went to the bar, hooked his heel on the rail and ordered a highball. The barman whistled sleepily while he mixed the drink. Donahue took a few swallows, frowned-not because of the liquor but because of an indecisive train of thought. Finally he drained the glass, got change from a dollar, went out. He had decided not to bring up Ed's name to the barman, since he believed that nothing would have been gained by it. He didn't want to spring Bishoff's name until he could be certain that it would bring definite information.
He took a cab to Twenty-sixth Street. The address was that of a small apartment house. A row of mail slots was in the lobby, with names above. One was-Miss Kitty Bra-don. Donahue pushed into a narrow, bare foyer. There was no elevator. He started up a staircase. There were two apartments on each floor, the doors facing each other across a small landing. On the third landing Donahue stopped and looked at the door marked 4B. He looked at the name under the bell-button.
He listened at the door. His right hand closed around the gun in his coat pocket. He used his left thumb to press the button. He eyed the door steadily. Heard footsteps. A woman's voice. “Who is it?”
“Special delivery, ma'am.”
The lock clicked. The door opened a matter of two inches.
A blonde head appeared. A hand thrust out. Donahue grabbed it. “Quiet, sister!”
He elbowed the door violently, shouldered in, kicked the door shut. His gun was in his hand, his voice low-“Not a chirp, sister.”
“Ow-you're hurting!”
He flung down her arm, trained the gun on her, backed her down the short, narrow corridor, into a small living-room. He nodded to a divan.
“Sit down.”
She fell to the divan, drawing up her legs, rubbing her hands back and forth across her chest, her eyes wide. Donahue stepped to the door, looked into a kitchenette, saw part of a bedroom. He looked quickly back to the girl, his eyes keen. “Where's Nora?”
“Nora-?”
“You heard me. Nora.”
“She's-out.”
Donahue remained standing. He pointed at the woman.
“You knew Louie Brown!”
She clasped her face between her hands.
“And”-Donahue was incisive, hard-“you know Eddie Bishoff!”
She shrieked: “Who-who are you?”
“Never mind who I am. Where's Bishoff?” She put her head back, gasping, saying nothing. Donahue hefted his gun.
“I haven't all day. Get your breath and tell me. I want to know where Bishoff is. I don't care about your girl friend-unless I have to find her to find Bishoff. But I want Bishoff. Louie Brown knew you and Nora Slaven.”
“You're a cop!” she cried. “That's what you are-a cop!”
“Yeah, I'm a cop,” Donahue drawled. She appeared to make an effort to pull herself together. She stood up, pressed her hands to her hips, moved to a half-open window and inhaled great draughts of air, kneading her hips. Then she pivoted and faced Donahue, her face very white, very grim.
“You've got to help her,” she murmured.
“Help her!”
“Nora-you've got to help her-or help me-whatever Way you want to put it.” Donahue wagged his gun. “Sister, don't try to kid me.”
“For-sake!...” She clasped her hands together, moving them up and down monotonously, emotionally. “She's a good girl-but bewitched. She's a good girl-but a fool, a little fool, an awful fool. Please-believe me!”
Donahue relaxed, a shadow falling over his face, sarcasm fading from his lips, his lips softening, his eyes keening but at the same time losing their contemptuous glitter.
Yet he spoke bluntly-“Shoot.” Willing to listen, yet still watchful, wary-still mindful of the fact that he had been bitten many times, the scars still on his memory. “It's got to sound damned good, my lady.”
The woman had not the aspect of a hot-house lily, but at the same time she had a vague prettiness. Emotion had tensed her; she stood image-like, only her lips moving.
“I don't know what he did. He came here last night-late-around midnight. He looked murderous. But he was cool, in that cool way he has. He wanted us to hide him here. I loathed him. But Nora-well, he was a friend of Louie's. She never believed they were bad men. She met them where she worked-in a night club. She came from Utica. He said he had tried to save Louie-he was wounded-in the arm.
“But I wouldn't let him stay. I didn't know what had happened, but I wouldn't let him stay. I own this flat. I got Nora to give up that night-club life, she was such a little fool. I tried to get her away from Louie. But he had that morbid fascination for her; she pitied him-he had hard-luck stories.
“So he was wounded. And we argued. He said he got wounded trying to save Louie. He must have known this would be a good place to hide. It's a respectable house. I was terrified. So then Nora said, like a baby: 'He's Louie's friend. I've got to-stand by him.' I wouldn't let him stay here. I was furious-then furious at Nora. She went with him. He said to me, while she was in the bathroom: 'You keep your mouth shut about this or I'll kill you-and her.' So she went away with him, to nurse him.”
She moved to the divan, dropped to it, rubbing her palms slowly together, elbows on knees. She stared transfixed at the carpet.
“I followed them,” she said; then looked up, startled, her eyes springing wide-open. “You've got to save her-save that little fool! She's innocent!”
“Go on,” Donahue muttered.
“So-I followed them. Nora took a suitcase. She looked dazed, and nun-like. The awful little fool!” She sobbed, then bit the sobs back. “First she bound up his arm-tightly. Then they went-and I followed. I followed them to the Hall Hotel, on Broadway, near Thirty-seventh Street. They registered as Mr. and Mrs. Norman. The poor little fool!”
Donahue groaned, raised his hands, looked at the ceiling.
“I swear,” she said, “that Nora doesn't know what she's doing! Isn't there something-something you can do? I want to save her. I'll take her out of New York-take her back to Utica-anything. But, please, she's innocent!”
Donahue sat down. Sat down and shoved his gun into his pocket, lit a cigarette and eyed the woman for a long time through the smoke that dribbled upward. And she eyed him, eyes wide-open, frank, candid, deeply troubled. Donahue grunted. He slapped a palm to a knee, left it there, looking down at the fingers. He grunted again, making a face. Then his lips tightened. He looked up.
“You've got to get them out of that hotel,” he said. “Get them-Why?”
“If I went there and crashed in their room there wouldn't be a chance of getting your friend in the clear. It would be slaughter and she'd bounce into trouble. We've got to get them out of that hotel-that's final.”
“But then what?”
He jabbed a finger towards the floor. “Telephone her. Tell her you're sorry you acted the way you did. You've thought it over-and you're sorry. Tell them to come here. Impress on them that you think it would be safer here than in that hotel.”
“But”-she spread her hands-“there would be slaughter here and she'd be drawn in anyhow. And so would I. It would be an awful mess.”
“Listen,” Donahue said, getting up. “I can go over to that hotel and crash it. Or you can do as I say. I want Bishoff. For the information you've given me, I'm willing to try my best to keep Nora out of it. And to do that, we've got to get both of them out of that hotel first.”
“But don't you see-”
“Be quiet. I see. I know. You've got to depend on me-and the breaks. Telephone the hote
l. Talk them into coming over to hide out here. Leave the rest to me.”
She held her breath for a long minute. Then she said quietly: “All right.” She rose and walked white-faced to the telephone.
VII
THEY SAT WAITING, LISTENING. Sometimes their eyes crossed, but for the most part they said nothing. The woman sat very straight on the divan, her hands folded primly in her lap, her face grave. A small clock ticked on a console. In another apartment a radio was playing. Donahue sat with his gun hanging between his knees, his coat open.
He said in a hoarse whisper: “Now remember-convince her. Don't get out of town too suddenly. Wait a while. And never say anything about my being here. If I get him out-and I hope to-I do!-never say anything about it.
This guy Bishoff has a record against him a mile long.”
She whispered, “I'll do my best.”
They went on sitting, listening, looking at the clock. The woman bit her lip, knotted her hands, moved her lips without audible sound. She got up and paced back and forth, feeling her throat, touching her lips with her tongue.
“Steady,” Donahue murmured.
She sat down again, fanning herself with a newspaper, rolling her eyes.
Donahue muttered: “You've got to look natural when you meet them. The way you are now-”
“I know-I know,” she said, trembling. “Oh...-!”
“Sh!” He looked around. “Got any liquor?”
“I never use it.”
“Hell!”
She got up and went into the bathroom, washed her face with cold water. It seemed to steady her. She came back into the living-room, holding her chin up. Sat down again.
The door-bell rang.
Donahue stood up, putting a finger to his lips. The woman rose. Oddly enough, she looked calm-suddenly calm. She even smiled grimly. She went swiftly out into the little corridor.
Donahue stepped to one side of the console, flattening against the wall. He held his gun waist-high. The radio downstairs had stopped. He could hear every sound. He heard the latch click as the woman opened the door.
“Hello, Nora, dear-Eddie.”
“Oh, Kitty-you're so sweet!”
SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames Page 14