Going down, Donahue felt the weight of the driver slam against him, heard a strangled moan. Donahue landed on his back and the driver was on top of him, still gripping, but fiercely now. Blood slapped Donahue in the face, and he turned his face, gripped with a heel on the sidewalk and turned himself and the driver over. But the man held on grimly, and Donahue, grunting, panting, struggled to free himself. He could hear the vanishing sounds of the sedan, and he could hear, too, vanishing heels—the clicking sound of Token Moore’s running heels. Suddenly the driver let go, sighed, fell back—and as his head hit the sidewalk his eyes rolled open like a doll’s, and remained open.
On his feet, Donahue saw no sign of the sedan. Far westward, he saw the dim shape of Token Moore; but in an instant she disappeared around a corner. The driver, Donahue saw, was dead. He heard somewhere distant the sound of a police whistle—eastward, he thought. And then his gaze swung west again, and he broke into a run. He reached the corner where Token had turned; he turned also, beat his heels up a narrow street. He stopped short as he saw, down another street, two blocks distant, a woman climbing into a taxi. He heard the sound of the taxi getting off.
He looked in all directions for another cab, but saw none. A block away, he saw a uniformed policeman pass, running, beneath a street light, disappear. Far away, a police whistle shrilled again.
Donahue stood for several minutes in the windy street. His breath pumped from his lungs, and presently the cold wind began to chill the sweat that had come out on his face. He started walking. He walked away from the scene of the shooting.
Chapter II
Arnholt strode up and down his office in the Suwanee Club. His office was on the ground floor, in the rear of the bar. The club itself was part of the great Arena. It had been Giles Consadine’s idea; he had built first the fight arena, then built into it the nightclub which Arnholt, following Consadine’s death, had taken on his own shoulders.
The headwaiter was having a drink. Donahue had thrown him hard, and the headwaiter had sustained a cut cheek which he now patted delicately with a handkerchief.
Arnholt had in his shiny eyes small nervous ghosts. He was essentially a nervous, flabby man; and as he paced back and forth he also patted his cheeks with a handkerchief, but it was sweat he patted, not blood.
“That fellow—that fellow’ll be the ruination of me!”
The headwaiter sneered. “He’s a bum—just a big Irish bum.”
Arnholt stopped, spun. “Whether he’s a bum or not, he’s dangerous! He gets to know things, and if he finds out that—” Arnholt blew through his teeth, held his palms to his temples and began pacing again. He stopped short, drew a watch from his vest, stared at its face. His voice jittered: “I wish—I wish—” He broke off, sighed, bent harried eyes on the floor and went up and down the room like a man going through a drill.
When the door opened, he stopped so short that he almost lost his balance. The headwaiter gulped and pressed his bloody handkerchief harder against his cheek.
Donahue came in, kicked the door shut and stood breathing heavily. Every muscle in his lean brown face was taut, his brows were bent till they met above his nose, and beneath them his dark eyes were dead-level, hard with a hard brilliance. He gave the effect of steel drawn. And as he stood getting his breath, saying nothing, the room became very quiet. The first sound was made by the knocking together of Arnholt’s knees. The second sound was also made by Arnholt.
“Don—Donahue—”
Donahue’s “Yes?” had a sandpaper rasp, but it was evident that he was not interested in Arnholt’s preliminaries, for he said: “You’re a swell example of a Greenwich Village bartender that got big ideas and moved north.”
The headwaiter rose and said idiotically: “I—I think I’d better g-go and wuh-wash my face.” But he did not move, though he ached to. Donahue standing in the line of the door intimidated him.
But Donahue said: “Get out. I don’t talk to the help.”
The headwaiter scooted out like a whipped cur.
Arnholt made a few silly gestures with his hands and began: “You see, Donny. You—ah—uh—see—well—”
“Oh, shut up!”
Arnholt shut up and landed in a chair. He landed so hard that the chair moved a few inches, and then he gripped its sides till his knuckles grew white. He writhed under the look of dark disgust that Donahue had fixed upon him.
Then Donahue said: “You broke your neck to get Token Moore out of my way, Arnholt.” He came closer, slowly, his dark eyes growing wider, shining with a harder brilliance. “I want to know who followed us.”
Arnholt’s voice leaped high: “Followed you!”
“I want to know what dumb bunnies followed us and cut loose with their rods.”
Arnholt’s eyes popped. “Cut loose with—”
“Damn it, are you going to repeat everything I say? I asked you a question, you fat slob!”
The courage of stark fear came to Arnholt and he stood up, his face doughy but suddenly grim, his voice hushed in the quiet room. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You know damn’ well I don’t keep a staff of gunmen here.”
“This I know, though, Arnholt.” Donahue leveled a finger towards the floor. “We were followed.” He was silent for a moment, and then he said: “Was there anybody with Token Moore?”
Glassy-eyed, Arnholt shook his head several times before saying: “No—no one.”
“Why did you break your neck to get her out of here?”
“I—I didn’t want any trouble in my place.”
“What made you think there’d be trouble?”
“I knew you were riding her, and when you came in here first, I saw you were after something.”
He was quiet now, deathly quiet—dry-lipped and glassy-eyed, staring straight at Donahue but seeing him through a dazzling haze. Suddenly he saw Donahue come at him, felt his wind choked. He heard the hard beat of Donahue’s voice.
“You lying rat, there was somebody here with her! We were followed. Followed! And if you’d like trying to sleep on something—the guy that drove the cab was bumped off!”
Arnholt’s face purpled, his knees gave way and he slumped to the floor. He did not really faint, but he pretended. He lay on the floor, holding his breath, not moving. Donahue stood over him; he stood well back on his heels, his body relaxed now. He heard the rhythm of the jazz band, muted by the heavy walls. He gazed down at Arnholt with a weary, twisted, half-vacant expression.
He drawled: “You’re good at playing ’possum, Arnholt.”
Arnholt tensed on the floor, pressed his body against it. He would not budge, would not get up. He was afraid—physically afraid—of Donahue, and he was tense, waiting. The sweat fell from his face to the carpet.
Chapter III
Donahue chuckled briefly to himself, turned and made his way slowly to the door. It opened as he reached his hand towards the knob, and he looked up to find Kelly McPard, eyes twinkling, slow smile drawing his mouth engagingly awry.
Kelly said: “Hi, Donny, old kid, old kid. I just dropped in.”
“Swell.”
“What’s Arnholt doing, posing for animal crackers?”
Donahue turned to look at Arnholt, then brought his dark, disturbed stare back to McPard. “I wouldn’t know.”
McPard was genial, conversational. “Yeah, I was on my way up from Engelhoffer’s Brauhaus. I seen Danny Harrigan down there with Margaret—you know Margaret, the little school-time chum from Chillicothe.” He sighed pleasurably. “Yup, Donny—I guess the champ’s going to marry that little girl.”
“I wish somebody’d marry him and talk him into buying a sheep ranch in Australia or something.”
“Tut, tut; you’re too hard on Danny.”
“He’s been nothing but grief to me ever since I took the job of dry-nursing him for the Boxing Commish.”
McPard made a good-natured deprecatory gesture. “You old fault-finder, you!” He chuckled, poked Donahue playfully in the
belly; then he sighed, blinked and said: “Oh, yes—I want to see Arnholt. There was a killing a little while ago over on the East Side. Cab driver. Owners say it was a cab did a regular stand in front of this club.”
Arnholt scrambled to his feet, yammered: “I didn’t have nothing to do with it! I didn’t!”
“Ah, dramatics!” McPard said softly, brightening.
Arnholt was panting out: “I didn’t! She left here. She was here alone. I told her to go because—” He choked, felt his throat with twitching hands.
Donahue was eying him sorrowfully.
McPard said gently: “Who? Who left?”
“I’ll give it to you in a nutshell, Kelly,” Donahue rapped out, his dark eyes still riveted exasperatingly on Arnholt. He told it in two minutes, never once taking his eyes off Arnholt.
McPard wagged his head, clucked: “Tsk, tsk!”
Donahue said: “I saw the guy was dead and I tailed out after Token. I lost her. Maybe I should have gone back to the scene, but you know what I think of the general run of cops. So I sailed over here, and this fathead’s been handing me a song and dance ever since.”
“What did you want Token for?”
“Wanted to straighten her out. A lawyer—Barron Yerkes—dropped in on me today and out of a lot of baloney I discovered that this awful little tomato, Token Moore, was going to start breach of promise against Harrigan. Yerkes wanted to know how I stood—and I told him.”
McPard murmured “M-m-m” and stepped into the office and then said to Arnholt: “Well, what do you know about this? It’s as plain as the nose on your face that some guys tried to bump off Donahue because he snaked off the woman—and got that taxi driver instead. The chase must have started here. Break clean, Arnholt.”
Arnholt was almost in tears. “I tell you, Kelly—I tell you I don’t know. She was sitting here alone. I can prove that. There’s a hundred people out there can prove that for me. Honest to God, Kelly! Ask anybody—ask the whole crowd out there. I—I just liked Token kinda. And I knew Donny was riding her. And I just went over and told her he was here—and she beat it.” At this point Arnholt did break into tears. He slumped into a chair, abject, woebegone, tears streaming down his doughy face.
McPard motioned Donahue out to the corridor. He said: “There is something screwy here, Donny, but I’ve got a hunch Arnholt’s okey.”
“We may as well start disagreeing now as later.”
“What should I do, drag him over to Headquarters?”
“Should I tell you your business?”
“Okey, be funny.”
“Funny, hell! I almost get my guts blown out and I come back here and this yellow tramp song-and-dances me and then you come around spreading peace and good-will!… Listen, Kel. This guy knows something. And I’ll tip you off to something else you don’t know. The other day I saw Token Moore riding alone down Fifth Avenue. I knew she was broke so I checked up on the plates. It was King Padden’s chariot.”
“What! Is he in this burg? Why the hell didn’t you tell me he was here?”
“He’s here, Kelly, and so is his number one man, Albino Will Olsen—and two other boy scouts.”
“But why didn’t you tell me?”
“My——!” Donahue exploded. “Am I supposed to tell the police department what they ought to know?” He stopped short, laid a palm against McPard’s chest. “Wait. If you’re thinking Padden and his boys had a hand in this—and I’m thinking the same—you may as well consider yourself licked. Because nobody saw that gun car. I didn’t. Nobody did. There’s only one chance. No, maybe there’re two. Token Moore or”—he nodded towards the door—“Arnholt.”
“How did you figure Arnholt in it?”
“Three years ago King Padden tried to get his hand in the fight game in St Louis. He flunked. There’s no disposition been made yet of Consadine’s Arena and stables. I’m not off my nut when I say that it’s likely King Padden might be making a bid—and using some other guy as a front.”
Kelly McPard rocked back and forth on his heels. “Donny,” he said, “I think I’ll taxi Arnholt down to Headquarters.”
Donahue said: “I’ll go collect Token Moore.”
“But listen, kid; no rough stuff on the femme.”
“Me rough?” He chuckled and then went past McPard and said under his voice: “I’ll be sweet as the roses in May.”
He went on up the corridor, entered the bar. The music was loud. There were fewer intermissions now. The members of the floor show were doing turns more frequently. The entire staff of the night-club strove to let no note of tension reach the guests. Donahue passed through the bar, reached the foyer as Harrigan, the heavyweight champ, came in with Margaret on his arm. The big boy was sober; he liked the bright lights but not the booze. And Margaret was swallowing in great gulps her first tour of the city’s night life.
“Oh, Mr. Donahue!” she said, smiling brightly.
Donahue did not smile, but he said good-naturedly: “Hello, Margaret.” And to Harrigan, in an aside: “See you in the washroom.”
“Huh? What’s up?”
“Dope! Do you have to go telling—the world? In—” he jerked his thumb—“the washroom.” He pivoted and crossed the foyer, went down three steps, opened a solid swing door.
Harrigan came in a moment later. He was big, young. His shoulders rolled. His face was never free of a not unpleasant scowl, as though at all times there was something going on which he did not quite understand.
“Huh? What’s up, Donny?”
“Listen, boy,” Donahue said in a low, quick voice. “Suppose you take Margaret out of here and beat it home.”
“Why? Ain’t we having a swell time?”
“Listen….” Donahue got very close to Harrigan and told him the recent happenings, something of his talk with McPard. He spoke in a low, rapid-fire tone. He concluded: “King Padden and his boys are in town. So watch yourself. Remember, when you neglected to chuck that last fight, you lost Padden three hundred grand.”
The champ spat, curled his lip. “Look here, Donny. I’ll bust that guy in the kisser if he tries—”
“You’ll bust hell in the kisser!” He was silent for an instant, narrowing his eyes shrewdly. “Listen. Have you seen Token lately?”
“Me? Nah.”
Donahue gripped him. “That’s on the up and up?”
Harrigan flushed. “Sure it’s on the up and up.”
“Okey,” Donahue clipped. “Kelly’s here and he’s going to run Arnholt to Headquarters. I’m going out after Token. Take Margaret and get out of here. Take her home. And you go home.”
“Ah, listen, Donny—”
“You listen!” Donahue barked. “There’s something rotten brewing and I want you off the streets till we can get it straight. D’ you hear?” He shoved Harrigan towards the door, clipped: “Go on, now. For once in my life do as I ask you.”
Big Harrigan pouted, “Jeeze, it’s like I was a kid in diapers or something.”
“You’re not so far wrong at that.”
Donahue cut ahead of him and went over to Margaret. “I just talked to your big he-mans,” he said. “See that he gets home, will you?”
“What’s the matter?”
“Enough.” He paused, dropped his voice earnestly: “I wish, Margaret—I do wish you’d marry this kid and take him away somewhere—anywhere, faraway. Only take him off my hands. When I took this case for the Boxing Commish I started a song and dance and my legs are getting tired and I—”
He stopped, turned, saw Kelly McPard and Arnholt on the way to the door. He said in undertone: “Get him out of here, Margaret,” and strode to the check room, got his hat and overcoat. He saw Kelly McPard and Arnholt go out.
The jazzband was playing a rumba.
Chapter IV
At half-past eleven Donahue got out of a taxi in front of the Hotel Eden, off Fifth Avenue. He crossed the sidewalk, opened the heavy glass door and entered the quiet, luxurious lobby. The lights were dim, hidden
in glass-enclosed crevices, and the man on duty at the desk was amusing himself with a small radio which he had tuned very low.
Donahue did not stop at the desk. He made his way to the elevator bank, found one car open. Entering, he said, “Six,” and leaned back against the rear wall. The car rose quietly, stopped gently. Donahue got out and walked down the sixth floor corridor. He stopped before a door marked 606 and knocked. Waiting, he drummed with the toe of his shoe on the carpet. He knocked again, listened; and when no response came he knocked a third time.
Three minutes later he turned and retraced his steps up the corridor. He rang for the elevator, was taken to the lobby. He went across to the desk and said:
“Is Miss Token Moore in?”
The clerk turned from the dial of the radio. “Why, she isn’t staying here any more.”
Donahue frowned. “What do you mean?”
“She left.” The clerk returned to the radio.
“When?”
“About an hour ago?”
“Where’d she go?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know.”
“How about her baggage?”
“I don’t understand.”
“I mean,” Donahue said, “didn’t she leave an address for her baggage?”
“She took it with her, I believe, in a taxi.”
“And left no forwarding address?”
The clerk snapped: “I told you she left no forwarding address, didn’t I?”
Donahue looked at him. “Keep your shirt on. Do they pay you to take care of this desk or fiddle around with that radio?”
The clerk reddened.
“As a class,” Donahue said, “you desk wallopers burn me up.”
He swiveled and strode out of the hotel, stood for a moment in the windy street, letting the wind hammer him, balloon the skirt of his long camel’s hair. He cursed under his breath and headed for Fifth Avenue. Reaching the Avenue, he stood there for several minutes, wasted six matches lighting a cigarette, and then burned the cigarette up the side, cursed and tossed it away.
Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask Page 47
