Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask (6 page)

He slipped the receiver quietly into the hook, put his hands on his knees, and grinned broadly at the girl.

He said, “Little Eva, you might have gotten out of this by telling me that Tony was a stoolie of Luke Cross’s. Hocheimer of Headquarters is going down to see Brennan, that big bum of a friend of yours. Primp up, chicken, while I put on a shirt.”

She had not moved since Donahue finished talking with Hocheimer. Her eyes were round as saucers, her lower lips drawn in between her teeth. A pallor was creeping through the flush on her face, and her hands were fists, white-knuckled. Her eyes followed Donahue as he crossed the room whistling and pulled open a dresser drawer.

Then she spat, “You—!”

Donahue, still whistling, looked around at her as he lifted a shirt from the drawer. He shoved long brown arms into crisp clean sleeves, began singing in a low voice the chorus of the song he had just whistled.

She sat up and cried, “I hope they kill you, cut your dirty heart out!”

Donahue buttoned his shirt, bowed gently, and switched back to whistling as he put on a tie.

She rasped, “You dirty Irish—”

Donahue wagged a finger at her. “Naughty—naughty! Papa spank!”

In blind fury she swept the heavy glass water pitcher from the table beside the bed and hurled it at Donahue. He caught it neatly with both hands, set it down on the dresser, crossed swiftly to the bed, grabbed her by both arms and swung her to her feet on the floor. Then he rushed her towards the bathroom.

“Wash your neck for a change,” he growled, “and behind your ears, and don’t use my comb.”

Eva sat disconsolately in an arm-chair in a room at Police Headquarters. Donahue sat on a desk, dangling his legs. From time to time he looked at his strap-watch, and he smoked many cigarettes. The hot dark night hung outside the open window, and a greasy, corroded electric fan hummed on the desk.

Eva had gone on a diet of absolute silence. Donahue had nothing more to say to her, wherefore he said nothing. There was a bad squeak somewhere in the electric fan. He turned the fan off. Then because the motionless air became too hot, he turned the fan on again.

When a sudden scuffle of feet and a rumble of voices sounded outside the door, he slipped from the desk and stood behind Eva, looking at the door over her head. The door banged open, and a knot of men came lunging in. Blood and bruises were visible.

Hocheimer’s straw hat had a broken crown. He slammed Brennan, the frowzy-haired man, into a chair and slapped his fat palms together. A couple of policemen rough-housed two other men into chairs. Hocheimer took off his broken hat, looked at it, looked daggers at Brennan, threw the hat on the desk, and looked at Donahue.

“Well, there y’ are, Donahue—there y’ are.”

Donahue smiled, bowed and spread his hands. “You seem to have had a hot time.”

Brennan was glaring at Eva and cursing silently with his lips.

Hocheimer said, “When we got down there the joint was closed, so we knocked and knocked and got no tumble. Then we went around in the back and crashed through a window. Before we knew it there was a free-for-all in the dark. You should have seen it! One of my men found the lights, and when the lights went on some bum pulled a gun. I let him have it. It was all so sudden. I wasn’t looking for fight, I just wanted to ask some questions. But them bums had other ideas. We had to kill two of them, and one of my men had to be took to the hospital, and here’s the rest. Hell, Donahue!” He mopped his fat face.

Brennan snarled at Eva, “What a fine broad you turned out to be!”

“I didn’t—”

“You didn’t! Hell! You double-crossing tramp!” He looked up at Hocheimer. “Take it from me, fat boy, that frail is going to get hers! This squeal cooks her. Get this: She came from Peoria a year ago. She was married to a guy she didn’t like. His name was Joe Corson. He worked on the railroads. One night he was found dead in a crashed flivver outside of Peoria. He was drunk. This frail was driving the car. She gave the car the gas and jumped. Her husband was sound asleep beside her, and the flivver was doing fifty when it socked a stone wall. When the wreck was found she was beside it, with scratched knees and a couple of cuts. There was no case at all.”

Hocheimer opened his eyes wide. The girl had gone dead white. Her hands crept to her cheeks and the fingernails clawed at her cheeks. Suddenly she screamed.

Brennan laughed. “That for you. You would double-cross me, eh? You would pull a fade-out with this dick and send Headquarters down on me? Ah, I should have broken your neck long ago!”

She stared at him with terror-stricken eyes, shaking her head, mumbling. Then she cried:

“I didn’t tell him anything!” She flung at Donahue, “Did I?”

Donahue grinned. It was a strange, insinuative grin, and he kept shifting it from Eva to Brennan. But he said nothing.

Brennan snapped, “You think I’m a goof? With the whole police force busting into my place! All right, all right! But by tomorrow, kiddo, the Peoria cops will come down here, and I hope to hell they burn you!”

The girl jumped up, making fists of her hands. Color flooded her face. Her voice grated harshly:

“You dope, you! I didn’t say a word, but now I will. And you’ll hang. Officer, this man killed Cross. Brennan killed Cross. The gun he used is buried in his cellar beneath an old ice-box. Him killing Cross was a mistake. He meant to kill Tony Nesella because he thought Tony was stooling to Cross about the liquor they were running on the river. It was a dark night and pretty misty. Brennan followed Tony to that corner in Commercial Alley, and he saw Tony alongside a pole. He fired and missed and Tony jumped. He thought it was Tony jumped into the open again, but it was Cross, who was leaning behind the pole waiting for Tony. And Cross got his and Tony ran. Brennan ran after Tony and got him down by the river. He crushed his skull, tied a rock around his neck and pitched him in the river. He came back to the joint shaking like a leaf and he said to me, ‘My God, I killed Luke Cross!’ That’s what he said. Mike, you made me do this! Till now I didn’t say a word.”

Brennan fell back in his chair, horror widening his eyes. Eva put her hand to her eyes, staggered, collapsed on the floor. Brennan looked down at her, dazed, speechless.

Donahue chuckled and said, “Hell, Hocheimer, this has been some merry-go-round!”

Hocheimer swallowed hard. “I never expected this.”

“Neither did I.”

“Yeah, but you sure stirred up a pot of trouble.”

“It’s your name gets in the papers, Hocheimer. You’ve got no kick. Hell, you should thank me!”

“Yeah. Yeah, I s’pose I should.”

Donahue said, “Look,” and counted on his fingers. “You get credit for nabbing the killer of Cross. For nabbing the killer of Tony Nesella. For nabbing a hubby-killer from dear old Peoria. Hocheimer, old boy, I shouldn’t be surprised if they made you a sergeant or whatever they make good detectives in this burg.”

Hocheimer actually grinned—a sort of shy, embarrassed grin that made his fat face ludicrous. But he promptly banished that and assumed an air of heavy dignity. He said to the policemen:

“Lock these birds up for a while.” He looked down at Eva, who was stirring on the floor. “Give her a drink.”

When he and Donahue were alone, Hocheimer sighed into a chair and opened his shirt.

“You’re a good egg, Donahue,” he said. “You must be one of those amateur detectives a guy reads about in books. You go after things for the love of the game.”

Donahue, sitting on the desk and dangling his legs, broke into uproarious laughter. “Don’t be that way, Hocheimer! And where the hell do you get the amateur stuff? Say, if you think I’m a Good Samaritan you’re off your trolley. So far you’ve got everything out of this show. I haven’t got a thing except a lot of trouble.”

“Well, you were wrong on Shane. He didn’t even know this gang.”

“Sure I was wrong. How was Shane picked up?”

“Kelly picked him up on a hunch, that’s all. And he was packing a gun.”

“He can get a bondsman easily enough for that.”

“Sure. He’ll be out tomorrow.”

Donahue stood up. “I’ll be around here. I want to know just when he goes out.”

“Listen, Donahue,” complained Hocheimer. “For God’s sake, don’t start any more trouble!”

“Cross my heart,” grinned Donahue.

But Hocheimer looked worried.

At noon Micky Shane walked out of Headquarters into bright hot sunlight. He needed a shave. He stood on the curb for less than a minute, then started east on Clark. A moment later Donahue came out, spotted him, crossed the street but followed in the same direction. Micky turned south into Tenth Street, then east into Spruce, passed Ninth and Eighth and turned south into Seventh. He continued south and was held up by a string of truck traffic that had come over the Free Bridge and was rumbling west on Chouteau. After a minute he crossed Chouteau, walked west on the other side of the street and then swung south.

Donahue, stopping on the corner behind a pole, saw Micky enter a three-story dirty red brick house. Two minutes later Donahue moved towards that house, drifted past, got the number, crossed the street and entered a rundown cigar store. He bought a couple of cigars and a newspaper and hung around inside the store reading the paper, though he was able to see the red brick house through the window. The proprietor sympathized with him about the weather, and Donahue bought a bottle of soda pop.

He killed an hour in the store and began to weary of it, having drunk in the meantime four bottles of soda pop that did not set well on his stomach because the aftermath of his bout with a quart of bath-tub gin still remained with him.

He was on the point of going out and trying to walk off the gin when he saw a yellow taxi draw up before the red brick house. He saw Stein get out, very dapper in a tan suit and Panama hat.

As the taxi moved off Stein entered the red brick house.

Donahue remained motionless chewing thoughtfully on the stub of his cigar. He remained that way for fully three minutes, then pushed open the screen door, flung away his butt and crossed the street. He loafed up to the hall door, looked up the front of the building, then walked into a dark hall that was cool and damp in comparison with the street. He stopped and blinked, trying to accustom his eyes to the darkness.

At the back of the hall a door was open and a baby was crying. Donahue moved towards the open door, stopped outside and knocked. Presently a fat negress appeared wiping her hands on a greasy blue-checked apron.

“There’s a man named Shane living here, isn’t there?”

“Shane? Nossuh, Ah don’ know dat name.”

“Maybe it’s O’Shane, or Shannon, or Hannon—something like that.”

“Well, dere’s a Mistuh Hannon, but I reckon he ain’t home. He done gone away, Ah reckon, but he’ll be back, ’cause his bag is still dere.”

“I think he came back today. I’m a friend of his.”

“Well, suh, then he’s on de top flo’, de back o’ de hall, way back.”

Donahue said, “Thanks,” and left her and climbed to the top floor.

He walked softly towards the rear of the musty hall and stopped before a door that barred his way. He put his ear to the door. There were voices beyond the door, and he recognized the tone of Stein’s voice, but not the words. When Stein’s voice stopped he heard Micky Shane’s. Then Stein’s again. Stein talked most. There was an insistent strain in the tone of it.

This kept up for ten minutes while Donahue crouched outside the door. Then there was silence, then moving feet. Presently a key turned in the lock. Donahue stepped to one side, in the deeper shadows, and his hand went around his hip, came around front again holding his gun.

The door opened and light rushed into the hall. Stein stepped out putting on his hat. Micky Shane came behind him and turned to insert the key in the outside of the door.

Donahue said, “Let’s go back in a minute.”

Stein stiffened. Micky whirled and bumped into Stein. Donahue stepped out of the shadows and looked at both of them. They looked at him. Stein’s face was shadowed down to his mouth by the broad brim of his Panama. Micky Shane had not yet put on his hat. His eyes popped.

“In,” said Donahue.

Stein said, “I am leaving, Donahue. I came here to confer with my client.”

“You are not leaving, Stein,” smiled Donahue.

“I tell you—”

“Get in!”

He straight-armed Stein into the room so fast that Stein almost lost his balance. He jammed his gun into Micky Shane’s stomach and backed him step by step into the room. He reached back with his left hand and quietly closed the door. He leaned indolently against the door, a crooked little droll smile on his lips.

Stein was a cool bird. Having regained his balance, he drew out a silk handkerchief, patted his lips, coughed gently into the handkerchief, then tucked it carefully back into his pocket.

Micky Shane was rattled. He kept licking his red soft lips and rubbing his hands against hips. His eyes burned feverishly on Donahue.

“Donahue,” said Stein in a platform voice, “you know you are more than overstepping your province.”

“Who the hell ever said I cared whether I did or not?”

“Donahue, I demand that you get away from that door and permit me to go about my business.”

“Honest, Stein, I get a great kick out of you.”

“And I don’t care for your cheap repartee!”

“Oh, that’s what you call it?” Donahue chuckled with genuine good humor. “Ah, Stein, you’re a trick—you sure are a trick. I’d like to let you go. In fact, I don’t care a damn whether you go or stay… after I get what I came for.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“That’s a worn-out answer, Stein.”

“Donahue, step aside so that I may—”

“Lay off!” Donahue darkened suddenly. He took a step from the door and stopped. “You punk kike, you can’t hand me a line like that! I got this kid in jail and I got him out. And I didn’t get him out because I like him or to pass the time away. I got him out to get what he’s got. I want it, Stein! By God, I want it! I’ve pulled some bones in this burg since I came here, but now I’ve got him and you in a jam and I don’t want to hear a lot of hot air!”