Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask

by Frederick Nebel

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

  Chapter VIII

  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.

  Chapter IX

  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!”

  Micky Shane snapped, “You big bum, there ain’t nothing here! Stein bailed me out and come down here to talk to me! Of all the wet-blankets I seen in my time—”

  “Enough out of you, hop-head!” cut in Donahue.

  Stein began, “Donahue, in the name of reason—”

  “To hell with reason!” roared Donahue, getting darker. “Shut up, both of you! You, Stein, take your clothes off! Strip!”

  “Why, I—”

  “Strip!”

  Micky Shane said, “Don’t you do it, Stein. This guy’s just a bad smell.”

  “Donahue,” rasped Stein, “I won’t submit to this humiliation!”

  Micky Shane yelped, “Don’t you, Stein!”

  Donahue took one quick step. His gun rose, came down hard against Micky’s head, and Micky hit the floor with glazed eyes. Stein made a leap for the door. Donahue jumped after him, caught him by the collar, yanked him back and sent him spinning across the room. Stein hit a chair, tumbled over it, banged his head against the window sill. He lay panting and gibbering, holding his head.

  “Get up,” said Donahue. “Get up and take your clothes off. If you don’t want to take them off, give me what I came here for. Get up!”

  Stein drew his knees up to his chest, crouched on the floor. Donahue went over, grabbed a handful of Stein’s shirt and heaved him to his feet. He shook him violently.

  “All right, keep your pants on, but raise your hands!”

  “Donahue, stop this. You can’t—”

  Donahue jammed a hand into one of Stein’s coat pockets. It came out empty.

  “Keep ’em up, Stein!”

  Micky Shane was crawling on hands and knees. Donahue heard him and twisted about. Stein drove a fist to Donahue’s ear. Donahue shook his head, swung back on Stein. Micky flung himself at Donahue’s legs. Donahue went down like a felled tree. But in falling he grabbed one of Stein’s legs and Stein went down too.

  Micky planted his teeth in Donahue’s leg, and Donahue yelled, “Damn you!” and twisted violently. Stein had a foot to use and he walloped it against Donahue’s head. Donahue clenched his teeth and wrenched Stein’s leg so hard that Stein cried out in pain. Micky let go of the leg and threw himself farther up on Donahue, striking the back of his head with hard little fists. Stein was kicking Donahue in the face, and Donahue reached back, caught one of Micky’s arms and forced him off his back. He muscled around dragging Stein with him, his gun beneath his stomach. He recovered his gun, suddenly heaved towards Stein and rapped the barrel against Stein’s head as Micky was scrambling to his feet. Stein grunted and lay flat on his back, and Donahue was on one knee when Micky kicked him in the jaw. The blow drove him tumbling back over Stein, but he rose in the midst of Micky’s next attack, blood dripping from his face, and with his left hand caught Micky by the throat. With his right he clubbed the gun twice on Micky’s head, held him for a moment with his left hand, then let him drop limply to the floor.

  He stood for a brief moment breathing heavily, while drops of blood from his face stained the front of his
sweat-soaked shirt. He was a little numb, blinking his eyes and moving his jaw from left to right. He coughed, then sneezed, and rubbed his nose.

  He put his gun in his pocket and got down slowly to his knees beside Stein. He went through Stein’s coat pockets, drew out a leather wallet, dropped it on the floor. He went through Stein’s trousers pockets. He found nothing he wanted. He picked up the thick wallet and opened it, pulled out a lot of cards. Then he pulled out a lot of bills. A ring fell out with the bills and rang lightly on the floor. Donahue snatched it up, rose, stood looking at it. He smiled at it, tossed it into the air, caught it and shoved it into his pocket.

  He went over to a wash basin, poured water from a pitcher, leaned over the basin and with his hands splashed water into his face. He put his face down into the water, holding his breath. He backed away from the basin, shook his head, groped for and found a towel and dried his face. He looked at himself in a cracked mirror. A couple of cuts were bleeding.

  There were black and blue welts on his forehead and jaw. He took out his handkerchief and patted the cuts gingerly, making a face.

  Stein and Micky Shane were still prostrate on the floor. Donahue looked at them without interest. He shrugged. He picked up the basin of water and drenched Micky Shane’s head. He threw what remained in the pitcher into Stein’s face. He lit a cigarette and sat down on a chair.

  Ten minutes later Micky Shane sat up looking like a man in the throes of a hangover. He held his head between his hands and grimaced and said, “Oh, hell.”

  “Hell’s right,” said Donahue.

  “Oh-o,” groaned Micky.

  Donahue stood up. “I’m blowing, little bad boy. Stein’s not so used to getting socked on the dome.” He drew the ring from his pocket and held it up between thumb and forefinger. “See, Micky? See?”