SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames

Donahue, lurching in the darkened back, said, “Never mind the trimmings, brother,” and then pushed open the door.

The driver said, “These lousy streets,” with a grievance, while reaching out a hand to take a dollar bill Donahue thrust through the connecting window. When the driver returned fifty cents Donahue gave him a dime, stepped out into the freezing slush and banged the door.

Donahue climbed the narrow stone steps of the gray-faced house in Waverly Place. The glass vestibule door was open, but the door behind it was locked. Beside this door was a white button which Donahue pressed.

Presently a figure materialized behind the white-curtained glass door, and then the door opened and a small, plain-looking man of middle years said, “Yes, sir?” inquiringly.

Donahue said, “I'd like to see Mr. Crosby.”

The man opened the door wide and said, “He's on the top floor in the studio apartment-number fifty-two.”

“Thanks,” said Donahue.

He went halfway down the hall and climbed three staircases. Number fifty-two was at the back of the hall, and there was a streak of light between door and threshold.

He knocked and heard some movement inside. But it was fully a minute before the key turned in the lock. Then the door opened and a small youngish thin man, neatly dressed in blue serge, looked at him.

Donahue asked, “Mr. Crosby?”

The man smiled with white agreeable teeth and said, “No, he's not in.”

Donahue looked at his strap-watch. “He was to be. It's eight-thirty. We had a date for eight-thirty. I'll park.”

He walked in without waiting to be asked, took off his brown Borsalino. His black hair was thick and had many shining undulations. His face was long, lean, tawny-brown and his eyes were nut-brown beneath wiry black brows. He threw his hat on a wide divan and opened his raglan coat.

The small neat young man closed the door, and still wearing his agreeable smile, said cheerfully, “Have a seat. Crosby ought to be back if you say you have a date with him.... I didn't get the name?”

“I'm Donahue. My boss sent me down here. Crosby called up late this afternoon and asked to send a man down.... You a friend of Crosby's?”

“We room together.”

Donahue dropped into a huge leather easy chair beside a fireplace in which red embers glowed. He snapped a match on his thumb-nail and lit a cigarette. Throwing the match into the fireplace, he said offhand, “What's worrying Crosby?”

The neat young man was standing with his back to the door eying Donahue quizzically. “Was something worrying him?”

Donahue looked up sharply. “Enough to want a private dick.”.

“Oh... I see.” The neat young man put his hands on his hips. “He just came back from Paris, you know. We haven't seen much of each other. But he looked worried. I didn't know. Didn't he say anything over the telephone?”

“No. He just said send a dick down.”

“Then he must be worried!” The neat young man left the door, crossed to the bathroom, came out a minute later and said, “He should be back any minute. He went out to get a bite to eat. I've a date. Hope you don't mind waiting alone.”

“Not at all.”

The neat young man put on a blue ulster and a derby and pulled on yellow gloves. “Make yourself at home. Cigs in the box there, and some cigars, I think. Tell Crosby I'll be back late.”

“Okey.”

The man said,' “Well, good-night, Mr. Donahue,” smiled agreeably, opened the door and went out.

Donahue swung the chair around to face the fire and stuck his feet on a split log. When he finished the cigarette he opened the humidor on the low brass Moorish coffee table and helped himself to a cigar. He lighted it complacently.

The bronze clock on the mantel said nine-thirty when he tossed the cigar butt into the grate and stood up with an impatient grunt.

A soft knock on the door made him turn abruptly and look at it. Then he crossed to the door, opened it and stood looking down at the face of an incredibly beautiful girl. She was smiling, but a glimmer of surprise showed through her smile.

When she said nothing, Donahue said, “Yes? Do you want to see Mr. Crosby?”

She nodded. “Ye-es.”

“He's not in but I'm waiting, too, so you may as well join me... though”-as she walked in-“I was just on the point of leaving.”

His eyes slanted down at her, appraised her with satisfaction, and he was closing the door when she turned around and stood with her back to the fireplace. She wore a mole coat and a dark snug cloche hat. She was very small, with small white teeth, brown big eyes and olive satin skin, and there was a distinct odor of liquid-heavy Shalimar perfume.

Donahue smiled, showing long narrow teeth. His dark eyes glittered, and he bowed, saying, “You might as well sit down.”

“I'll get warm first,” she said, and shivered, adding, “Miserable weather!”

He said brightly, “Yes, rotten out. It's been comfortable by the fire. Crosby should have been in long ago. We had a date. Guy lives with him asked me to wait and then breezed... he had a date.”

She said, “Oh, yes?” in a far-away voice, and threw a series of veiled looks around the room.

“You know Crosby well?” Donahue asked bluntly.

“Rather well. He telephoned me he was back from Europe. I just dropped in... wasn't certain of finding him. Since you have a date with him perhaps I'd better go.”

“Nonsense! Hang around.”

She sighed. “Mine is not important... merely a hello call. Did his friend say when Mr. Crosby'd come back?”

“No. No, he didn't. He just said he figured he'd be back if we had a date. He was a nice agreeable little guy.” Her eyes clouded and her lips tightened for the briefest of moments. Then she said, “Well... I'll be going. I have an appointment uptown at ten.”

He said in a disappointed voice, “Well, if you must...” and moved with her to the door. “I'll tell him you called?”

“If you will. He'll know me... Leone Tenquist's the name.”

Donahue said he would tell Crosby, and the woman went out leaving a faint smile and a breath of Shalimar perfume.

When the room was quiet again, the ticking of the bronze clock audible, Donahue muttered, “Don't know what's keeping that guy,” and started pacing up and down irritably. Ten minutes of this and he began looking around for a telephone. There was none in the living-room. He lit a match and prowled into the adjoining room. It was large and bare, with a skylight, and a dais and the paraphernalia of an artist. He found a button, switched on lights. He saw no telephone, but there was a room beyond. He entered this, couldn't find the switch, struck another match and fumbled towards a small table beside a bed. He dialed a number in the Beekman exchange, waited, then said:

“Hello, Burt.... This is Donahue. Say, what time was I to call on this Crosby job?... I see. Well, it's damned near ten now and nobody's here.... Sure I'm in the place. His pal let me in.... Well, I'll hang around till ten and then I'm breezing. Okey. 'By, Burt.”

The match had gone out. Donahue grumbled, swore, struck another and carried it towards the door. Before he reached the door he saw part of a man's trousered leg lying on the floor. He swung towards it, and the match's dim light began to include thighs, waist, chest, head.

Bending down he saw that neck and shirt-collar were soaked with blood.

Glazed eyes stared at the match.

The match went out.

Donahue said, “Hell!” furiously in the darkness.

A closet door was open, and clothes lay on the floor. A yellow suitcase was open, its lining slashed apart in several places. A Gladstone had undergone similar treatment.

Drawers of a highboy were open; shirts, collars, undershirts, pajamas, handkerchiefs were jumbled on the floor. A steamer trunk, open, had its insides hacked up after the manner of the suitcase and the Gladstone. Four hats lay on the floor, their sweatbands turned inside out. Red leather bedroom slippers had been slashed.

Donahue prowled around with a keen predatory look in his eyes. He touched nothing. He came back to the dead man and rolled him over with a foot. The man's pockets had been pulled out. Bills and loose change and a rifled wallet lay on the floor near him.

Donahue sloped into the studio, snapped dark eyes around, stood spread-legged in baffled chagrin, swinging a clenched fist at his side. Canvases on plain wooden frames were strewn about. Everything was in disorder-but in this studio it might have been put down to the artist Crosby's recent homecoming.

Cruising the living-room and the bathroom, Donahue finally came to the corridor door, glared at it, then yanked it open and went running down four stair cases. He did not know where the houseman lived, so he opened the front door, pressed the button.

A minute later the man who had first opened the door appeared, and Donahue said, “Come upstairs with me.”

The little man followed, complaining that he was getting old, that it was a hard climb to the top floor. Donahue did not argue, but led the way up and then on into Crosby's apartment. When he piloted the little old man to the bedroom he did not have to point out the dead man lying on the floor.

The little man gasped, “Mr. Crosby!” in a horrified voice.

“Just wanted to make sure,” Donahue said; then asked, “What's your name?”

“It's-Adler.”

“Okey. Now come into the living-room with me.” He took the little old man by the arm and marched him out of the bedroom, across the studio, and into the living-room. “Sit down,” he said briskly, and pointed to a straight-backed chair. When the man seemed not to have heard, Donahue put a hand on either shoulder and pressed the man down into the chair with firm, gentle persistence.

“Mr. Crosby!” the little man moaned. His face twisted up and a tear fell from each eye.

Donahue was crouched over him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Adler-snap out of that.”

“Uh-Mr. Crosby...”

“I know, I know all about that, but snap out of it. He was probably a good guy, lived here a long time, and you liked him a lot. Okey. But don't slop all over the place now. You can do that later. But brace up.... Listen. My name's Donahue. You hear? It's Donahue. I'm a private cop. You hear me? I said I'm a private cop. Mr. Crosby called up the Interstate this afternoon and asked them to send a cop down. They sent me down. You get all that?”

Adler sat straight in the chair now blinking through his small spectacles. He sniffled. He gulped, “You're-a private detective?”

Donahue slapped the man's shoulder. “There! You've got it now! All right. Now pay-attention. You remember when you let me in?”

“It was eight-thirty.”

“Okey. There was a man in this room when I came up. He said he roomed with Crosby.”

“No-nobody roamed with Mr. Crosby.”

“I know that-now-but I didn't then. Now what time did you let that man in?”

“About seven-thirty.”

“He didn't give a name, did he?”

“No. He just snapped, 'Mr. Crosby.' Like that. He was a big hard-looking man-”

“What? I mean, you say he was a big man?”

“Well, big as you... six feet... heavier than you, though.”

Donahue's dark eyes glittered. “All right. He came in at seven-thirty. Now the man in here was a small man, no taller than you. What time did he come in?”

“I didn't let anybody in but the big man.”

Donahue stood up and jammed fists against hips. He looked at the door and said, “This ain't even funny,” and his upper teeth chewed on his lower lip. Then he looked down at Adler.

“Mr. Crosby came home from Europe-when?”

“Monday-three days ago.”

“Did you ever see or let in a small young man-say about twenty-eight-with hair black as mine only smoother. He has very white even teeth and a pleasant agreeable face. ; His voice is high but nice on the ear, and it's a lively voice.”

“No, I don't remember. I'm sure I didn't.”

“All right. Now how about a woman a little smaller than you, say about twenty-six, with a small face, neat pointed chin, small teeth, and large brown eyes?”

“Well, I didn't let a woman like that in. But I came in with mail for Mr. Crosby yesterday and a woman like that was sitting in that leather chair by the fireplace. I think she came over on the boat with Mr. Crosby or met him in Europe or something. He was over there four months, you know.”

“How old was Crosby?”

“Maybe thirty he was, and very successful, he was. He made covers for magazines. And he was so cheerful and seemed much younger than he was... like a boy, Mr. Donahue. And he was good to me. He's lived here for six years, and I've been here ten. He used to give me clothes o' his-lots of them that was almost new. And hats. And I could wear his socks. Sure, it was just yesterday morning he gave me a suit and a couple of hats with London labels and some socks. Ah, poor young feller!” Adler wiped an eye. “Somebody'll be having to notify his uncle up in Westchester-Mr. Amos Crosby, a fine upstanding old man that loved young Mr. Crosby.”

Donahue's voice was low and husky saying, “It was rank murder, Mr. Adler-and somebody was looking for something Crosby had-something he probably brought from Europe.” He shrugged, slammed fist into palm. “Well, now the police.”

He strode through the studio, into the bedroom, paused to stare moodily at the bloodied body, then went on to the little table and picked up the telephone. He called the district station-house, and when the connection had been made he said:

“Hello, is this you, Riley?... This is Donahue. Say, a guy's been rubbed off down in Waverly Place. Real butcher's job.... Number 14. Guy name of Crosby-artist.... No, I don't think it's a crime of passion.... How did I? Well, Crosby called up Hinkle this afternoon and told him to send a man tonight. I came down.... No, we didn't know why he wanted us. He's just come back from Europe. So I came down, and when I got here Crosby was cold.... Yeah, I'll hang around till you send the plain-clothes over.”

He hung up, rose, went over and stood beside the dead man on the floor. Among the articles that had been emptied from the wallet, was a small pin seal book with gold edges. Donahue knelt down, picked it up, flipped the pages. It was an address book with alphabetical indentations. He turned to C. He found Amos Crosby, Westchester 0040. He turned to T. He found L. T. scrawled in pencil, beneath it, Avalon-Plaza, and a Schuyler telephone number. He returned to the telephone and called that number.

When a voice said, “Hotel Avalon-Plaza,” Donahue said, “Will you connect me with Miss Tenquist?” There was a long pause, then the voice saying, “Sorry, sir. Miss Tenquist does not answer.” Donahue said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

He dialed the Agency next and said, “Burt. Hello, Burt. This is Donahue. Crosby's been croaked.... Yeah. It's a long story and the plain-clothes '11 be in any minute. All the time I was waiting for him he was dead in another room.... Absolute. A guy I've seen, a broad, and another guy I haven't seen, are mixed up in it. Crosby has an uncle in Westchester. Money, I guess. We may get a job if you call him up and notify him of his nephew's death. Spread it thick. Tell him the boy had engaged us. Number's West-Chester 0040.... Okey, Burt. Be seeing you later.”

When he got back to the living-room, Adler was still sitting on the chair, head in hands. A bell rang loudly somewhere distant, and Adler started, got up.

“The front door,” he said, and hurried out sniffling.

Donahue was standing before the fireplace lighting a cigarette when the door opened. A man in plain-clothes came in followed by two uniformed policemen. The man in plain-clothes was tall, lank, lantern-jawed. He wore a faded gray overcoat and a soft hat that had been made shapeless by many rains.

“Hello, Donahue,” he said glumly.

“Hello, Roper.”

“Where's he?”

“Across the studio.”

Roper had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders huddled up to his ears, as though he were chilly. The two cops were young, in bright uniforms. They followed Roper.

Adler came in rubbing his hands slowly together against his meagre chest. He looked helplessly at Donahue. Donahue smiled reassuringly but said nothing.

Roper's heavy slow footfalls came back across the bare studio floor, and then he came into the living-room.

“That's nice,” he said. He looked at Adler. “Who's this?”

“Houseman,” Donahue said.

Roper said, “Yeah?” and then moved towards the fireplace, pulled a chair up close to it and sat down with his back to the fire huddling his big bony shoulders. He looked mournful and detached.

“Now,” he said, “let's go over it.”

Donahue, holding the little black address book in a clenched hand in his pocket, smiled with long narrow teeth and said, “Sure, Roper,” amicably.