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

by Frederick Nebel

  “He described you, too.”

  Donahue pointed. “All right. But he hasn’t yet identified me.”

  “He can’t see yet. It’ll be a few days—”

  Donahue still pointed. “When he can see, then come after me and maybe I’ll come down.”

  “It was a frame,” the little dark man snapped. “She got me in her room and the guy slammed me and robbed me.”

  Donahue said nothing.

  McPard said: “And this sounds like him, huhn?”

  “It sure does.”

  McPard looked at Donahue. “And you’re wearing a yellow coat.”

  “Come out and take a walk up Broadway with me and I’ll point out a dozen like it in half an hour.” He slapped his knees. “No, sir, Kelly; you can’t make me get hot over this comedy. I’ll be on my way.”

  “Hold on.”

  Donahue was at the door. “If you want me, get a warrant. And try getting a warrant on this half-baked charge.”

  “I’m going to prove, Donny, that you were in that room when this man got taken for his dough. It’s going to link up a long line of shenanigans ever since Cherry Bliss was bumped off. Some day soon I’ll get you in a spot where you’ll have to talk.”

  Donahue said: “Maybe.” He opened the door and passed into the corridor. Walking away, he wore a worried frown between his dark eyes.

  Chapter V

  At two that afternoon he walked into Big Bertha’s apartment. The maid vanished. Bertha was on the sofa with the three Poms. She wore an old rose dressing-gown and had a wet towel around her head.

  “What’s the matter with you?” Donahue said.

  “An old friend I knew in St. Paul blew in last night and we drank fifteen bottles of beer between us. She drank four. I’ve tried five kinds of pick-me-ups but they don’t work. Sit down. You woke me up this morning with that phone call. I felt fine. It’s when you get on your feet that the stuff knocks you. You in any more trouble?”

  “I’m in enough. If that guy identifies me, it’s going to be too bad. I must have been nuts to crack him the way I did. You should see his face.”

  One of the Poms hopped on to Donahue’s knees. He picked it up and bounced it back to the divan.

  Bertha said: “She ought to be here any minute.”

  “How far can you trust her?”

  “I told you yesterday. Mabel can’t afford to two-time on me.”

  The buzzer sounded and in a moment a thin, plain woman of forty-odd came into the room. She was dressed in black and looked spinsterish. She looked at Donahue with small, shrewd eyes.

  “Well?” said Bertha. She added: “Go ahead. He’s my pal.”

  Mabel said: “As far as I know, he has no police record. He comes from Los Angeles. Came here two years ago. He works mostly alone. He can usually tell the girls he can do business with. I made one of them come across. He never tries to make love to the kind he can do business with. This one gave me his address. She’s a customer of his—or was. Heroin. He sells heroin. I had to buy her with heroin—to make her come across. I gave her an address where she could get more. She told me that that is his real name. She said he might be dangerous—that he might do anything for revenge.”

  “Where’s his address?” The woman in black gave Bertha a slip of paper.

  “All right,” Bertha said. “You can breeze now.”

  When the woman had gone Big Bertha passed the slip of paper to Donahue. “Yes, his real name’s Manuel Christovão. He’s a dope peddler. There’s his address.”

  Donahue entered his hotel room at three-thirty, carried a newspaper to the desk, sat down and marked off an item in the Personals. He was mixing a drink ten minutes later when the phone rang.

  “Oh, you’re interested?” he said into the mouthpiece. “How long will it take you to get here?… That’s fine.” He gave his address and hung up.

  Half an hour later he answered a knock on his door. He saw a young man, tall but not quite as tall as himself—and of an age around about twenty-five. The man was slim, sandy-haired. He had a good face, a good mouth and level eyes that were now a little quizzical.

  “Come in,” Donahue said.

  The young man entered and said: “I saw the item in the paper and called right away. It was yours, wasn’t it?”

  “Smoke?”

  “Thanks.”

  They lit cigarettes, took seats and regarded each other. Donahue’s stare was one that weighed, gauged, measured—frankly, candidly. The other’s stare was a little puzzled.

  “I can’t quite make it out,” he said.

  “Bob what?”

  “Roundsville. Robert Roundsville.”

  “Mine’s Donahue.”

  The boy moved forward on his chair. “What—what do you know about her? Where is she? What’s happened to her?”

  Donahue’s eyes were keened. “How much do you want to know?”

  “More than I’ve ever wanted to know about anybody. I love her. I want her to marry me.”

  “How does she feel about it?”

  “She said she would—and then she vanished.”

  “You’re young,” Donahue said. “You look neat and clean and like a swell guy. But you’re young. If she got in a jam—or if the both of you got in a jam—how could you take it? Family rich?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s tough.”

  “I was disowned—four years ago.”

  “Why?”

  “I wanted to paint. They wanted me to go into business. So I went and painted. Had some luck, too—mostly in the past year. I’ve a swell little place in Passy, near Paris, that was just made for Helen.”

  “That’s better.”

  “But what about her? You must know.”

  Donahue said: “I like you. I think you’ve got guts. Helen’s all right—safe—for the time being.”

  Roundsville was on his feet. “What’s the matter?”

  “Take it easy.” Donahue got up and faced him. “She vanished because she’s sensitive, I guess—because she was a little ashamed. I’m telling you this so she won’t have to. She’s a little lady. She was brought up that way. A little while ago she learned that her mother was notorious. Her mother was Cherry Bliss, a big shot in the vice racket. I knew her. She never told her daughter and she gave her daughter the best of everything.”

  “Cherry Bliss,” echoed the boy.

  Donahue’s fists were clenched. “Hurts, huhn?”

  Blue eyes flashed. “Who said it hurts?” Roundsville snapped.

  “There it is, then,” Donahue said. “You’ve read the papers. You know about the Cherry Bliss case. Nobody knows about her daughter but me—and a friend of Cherry’s—and a man. I’ll take care of the man. I told you this to save the kid a lot of heartache. You can turn, walk out and forget about her. You’re under no obligations.”

  Roundsville’s voice got low: “You heard me say I wanted to marry her, didn’t you? Where is she? I’ve got to see her. I’ve got to get her away from here!”

  “Leave me your phone number,” Donahue said.

  “But—”

  “And sit by the phone.”

  “Tell her,” Roundsville said, “I love her.”

  “I’ll tell her.”

  At four o’clock Donahue entered the hospital and spoke with the nurse at the desk. He took an elevator to the fourth floor, asked a floor nurse questions and was given directions. On a glassed-in sunporch he found Manuel Christovão sitting in a wheel chair. Donahue carried another chair over, sat down beside Christovão and studied his bandaged face.

  Presently the dark man said: “Who is it?”

  “Donahue.”

  Christovão’s hands tightened and he drew in his lower lip. “You can’t touch me here!”

  “That gives you a big break, louse.”

  “Go away!”

  “Not until I’ve had a talk with you.”

  “Yeah? I don’t want to talk to you. Get out!”

  “Pipe down. And listen
. Listen close. I just came from your room. Get that.”

  The little man sucked in his breath. “What right you got bustin’ in my room?”

  “I’ll tell you what I found there. A list of addresses of girls and enough heroin to knock a couple of hundred goofy for hours.”

  “You didn’t!”

  “In your room, wise guy. Right in your room.”

  The little man’s breath came rapidly. “You turned it over to the police—”

  “No. I left it there. I locked the door. Now I’m waiting for you to identify me when they take those bandages off. And when you do identify me, I’ll suggest that the cops go to your room before you do.”

  The small dark hands opened and closed fitfully.

  Donahue leaned forward. “But I’ll tell you what you will do. When I stand there, when they take the bandages off, you’ll say to the cops, ‘No; he’s not the guy.’”

  Donahue stood up and waited but the little man said nothing.

  Donahue said: “Get that?”

  “Yes,” Christovão whispered, hoarsely.

  Chapter VI

  Donahue entered the hotel in Ninth Street by way of a discreet door and chose the emergency staircase rather than an elevator. He came out on the seventh floor, walked around an L in the corridor and knocked on a door marked 718.

  “Who is there?”

  “Donahue, Helen.”

  She let him in and he closed the door quickly. She looked more rested than she had looked on the night before.

  “You’re going out of here tonight,” he said.

  “But—”

  “That’s finished, Helen. Tonight. You’re going out of here. I’ve got it all arranged. It’ll be late, near midnight. There’ll be a car up the street and you’ll get in it. A man will be at the wheel. The destination will be Boston, and from there you’ll sail for Europe as soon as everything is settled.”

  “But I don’t want—”

  “You heard me. This town is getting hotter and hotter and if you stay around any longer there’ll be trouble. I don’t want any arguments. I’ve seen a friend of yours and he rates.”

  “Who?”

  “Bob Roundsville.”

  The name was like a blow. It sent her halfway across the room, backwards, with the back of one hand against her mouth.

  She cried: “But how…?”

  “I’m a great little old finder-outer.”

  She shook her head. “I can’t do it! I can’t do it!”

  “You can because it’s all been arranged. The guy is crazy about you. He’s all steamed up.”

  “But he doesn’t know—”

  “I told him. I told him everything.”

  She flared: “What right had you to tell him?”

  “The right,” he clipped, steady-eyed, “of using my own judgment and hoping to God it was good. It was good. I saw no way of fixing it so that you’d get clear and free of this mess. If I sent you on your own, far away some place, there’d always be the chance of some guy nailing you. Now it’s different. This guy Roundsville you’re in love with is the real goods. No pretty boy. No mama’s darling. He’s seen something of life and he knows what he’s doing. He loves you. He told me to tell you that.”

  Her hands dropped. “How do you do these things? How do you find these things out?”

  He said: “You’ll go with Roundsville. Tonight.”

  “It’s unfair,” she cried.

  “For you?”

  “No. For him. Why, Donahue—why don’t you let me come out and tell everybody who I am? Why—”

  He grabbed her and his voice was low, husky: “What are you doing, losing your nerve?” He gave her a gentle shove. “Sit down and be sensible. You love this fellow, don’t you?”

  “If I didn’t, would I have dropped out of his sight?”

  “I can never follow a woman’s reasoning. But I’ll tell you this: if you love him, you’ll go with him tonight, because he’s hotter than a pancake and if you disappear again he’ll bust wide open and get himself in Dutch.”

  She stared straight ahead and after a long moment she said: “I’ll be ready.”

  “You’ll get a phone call,” he said. “And if you pull a fade-away in the meantime—in fancier words, Helen, if you fail him you fail me and I’ll be all washed up with you.”

  Her voice was hushed: “I’ll be ready, Donahue.”

  He moved to the door and she got up and came over beside him. He opened the door, looking at her. There was a blinding flash, a sound like pouff.

  “Okey, Mike,” Libbey said.

  Donahue whipped into the hall. To the girl he said: “Close it! Lock it!” And slammed the door behind him.

  The man beside Libbey tucked the camera under his arm and Libbey said: “These cops are dumb. I just had to find the taxi driver who brought you and the jane here last night. He said you stayed in the cab and the jane went in. He remembered you’d said: ‘Good night, Helen.’—Oh, this is Mike. Good photographer. Going our way, Donny?”

  Donahue looked up and down the hall. “Yeah,” he said.

  They went down in the elevator and out into Ninth Street.

  Donahue said: “I know a new speakeasy. I guess the drinks are on me. Come on.”

  Mike and Libbey fell in step and both wore bland, innocent expressions. Donahue whistled snatches of a Broadway melody but back in his eyes, way back, there was an unpleasant light. But he kept his eyes turned away from Libbey and Mike.

  “So what do you get out of this?” he said.

  “Well,” Libbey said, after a series of hiccups. “I was sure Cherry Bliss left a grown girl. The boss had a dream one night or something and he came down to the office and said: ‘Libbey, you’ve got to find Cherry Bliss’s girl.’ Why? Damned if I know. Pictures, I suppose. Big story. I went to the bank where Cherry banked, but that was a dead end. She left money, but to her ‘estate.’ It had not been claimed and that scared me. But then I got on your tail. And then—and then, Donny—I got a big break. Hot-cha!”

  “If this speak is far,” Mike said, “why don’t we take a cab?”

  “You’re common people,” Donahue said.

  “I,” went on Libbey, “got a break. I found a guy just out of stir named Ragtime Bliss. Just out of Ohio State. Cherry’s husband in the long, long ago. He said Cherry was having a kid when he went up for killing a guy or something. Now here’s a poor, lonesome father looking for his long-lost chee-ild. Drama! Think of it! And you’re coming between father and child. Not fair, Donny!”

  “You’re drunk.”

  “Mildly crocked. So I found him. But I didn’t tell Kelly. Why should I? So I got on your tail hot—me and my shadow here, Mike. Of course, I didn’t know under what name that jane had registered, so I figured it would be best to follow you. I think it was real nice and clever the way we got that picture. Don’t you?”

  They were in a street of shabby brick houses with areaways fenced in by rusty iron.

  “What good will the picture do you?”

  Libbey said: “Front page stuff. Big picture, and underneath: ‘Is This Cherry Bliss’s Daughter?’ We won’t say it is. We’ll wait for you to say that.”

  “Me, huhn?”

  “Yeah. Kelly McPard will want to know, too.”

  Donahue said: “She’s not Cherry Bliss’s daughter.”

  “Who is she?”

  “A client of mine.”

  “Really!”

  “And if you publish that picture, she won’t like it. I’d advise you not to.” He slowed down. “Here’s the new speak.”

  They went down five steps into an areaway and pushed into a dim cubicle beneath the stoop, hidden from the street.

  Donahue turned. His gun was in his hand. “Now I’ll take that camera, Mike.”

  “Don’t you do it, Mike,” Libbey said.

  “You heard me,” Donahue said. “When you guys begin to rat on me because you’re afraid of your lousy jobs, I’ll get dirty. Drop that camera, Mike. Get b
ack, Libbey!”

  Libbey blinked. “Hell, this is rough stuff.”

  “Drop it!”

  Mike did not drop the camera. He laid it down gently. Donahue shoved him back, raised a foot and drove his heel through leather, lenses, plates. He ground them under his foot.

  Mike said: “Listen, that gadget cost a hundred and fifty bucks!”

  “New teeth’ll cost that much and more if you guys don’t take your tails out of here. I’ll smash this rod smack in your mouth.”

  Libbey, drunk, teetered on his heels. “Thanks for the drink.” He threw himself at Donahue and Donahue raised an elbow, stopped him and then struck with the fist. Libbey went down in a bundle.

  “Once,” Donahue said, “you were halfway decent, but that cheap bathtub gin ate more than your guts out.”

  Mike was bending over Libbey. “Hadn’t we better go?”

  Donahue pivoted, climbed out of the areaway and walked away. His face and neck were red and there was sullen red color also in his eyes. He walked three blocks, entered a door flush with the sidewalk and came into a bar.

  “Scotch—straight, Jerry,” he said, and went on down the bar to a telephone booth. He inserted a nickel and asked for a number. In a minute he said: “Helen…. Yes, this is Donahue. Leave right away. Go to the Hotel Alacar and take a room…. Everything’s all right. Remember—the Hotel Alacar, off Washington Square. I’ll phone you there in an hour, so…. No, no; nothing’s wrong, Helen. Register under the name of Ann Brady.”

  He hung up and the bartender slid the drink across the bar as Donahue came toward it. “How’s tricks, Donny?”

  “Tricky.”

  Chapter VII

  He got back to his own hotel at five-thirty and went directly to his room. He thumbed a telephone book and got the number of the Hotel Alacar. He called.

  “No,” said the Alacar operator. “No one by that name has registered.”

  He hung up and let a slow, exasperated breath steam from his nostrils. He yanked off the receiver and called another number.

  “Miss Mary Stone checked out about forty minutes ago.”

  He pronged the receiver more slowly this time and stared quizzically at the wall. The Alacar was only four blocks from the hotel at which she had spent the night….