Donahue twisted his lips in a sneer. “This won't get you anywhere, you-!”
“Language, Mr. Donahue!”
Donahue shoved his hip against the telephone and deliberately knocked it to the floor.
“Pick that up,” the fat man said.
“Pick it up yourself.”
“Pick that up. You knocked it down.”
“Horsefeathers,” Donahue chided. “If you want it picked up, then pick it up. I knocked it down because I wanted it knocked down. You want it picked up. Okey. Pick it up. You better hurry up. Operator may think there's a murder going on up here.”
“It's wedged between the table and the wall. You will have to bend way over to get it.”
“You mean,” Donahue said, “you will.”
“I am no longer fooling, Mr. Donahue!”
Donahue shrugged. “Neither am I. You're not going to get anywhere with me, mister. You're not going to threaten me. Oh, no you're not. You're not going to shoot me and make a lot of noise with the telephone disconnected. You're not going to be a jackass like that.”
“Mr. Donahue, pick up that telephone.”
Donahue lowered his hands, chafed them together, smiling with utmost self-assurance. He turned and walked to the door, his back to the man and the gun. He unlocked the door.
“Mr. Donahue!”
Donahue palmed the knob, about faced, bowed with mock courtesy. “I'll be waiting for you. And I'd advise you, mister-spare the rod. You're in bad enough as it is. Besides, I promised the house dick there'd be no rough stuff.”
The fat man stood like a man petrified, staring wide-eyed through his horn-rimmed glasses. For a brief moment he looked oafish, stripped of guile; looked like a man trying hard to believe what his eyes and ears transmitted to his brain; and believing it, in spite of himself, and still incredulous of his own intelligence.
Donahue, eyeing him levelly, turned the knob, opened the door behind him.
The glaze left the fat man's eyes; it was like windows thrown suddenly upward.
“Remember: spare the rod,” Donahue said.
The fat man emitted a groan. His gun drooped. The actor had disintegrated; the man was present now, humble, flushing, fearful, prey to encroaching terror.
“Will you step to one side, Donahue?”
Donahue ducked, half-whirled.
Sergeant Uhl stood in the doorway, placid and sad, holding a big gun in his hand. Back of him stood the house officer.
“It was funny about that phone,” Uhl said, smiling.
Donahue growled: “How the hell did you get here?”
“Oh, I've been behind you since the time you left St. _ Louis. I thought you might get in trouble. Is that Mr. Edgecomb?”
“That,” said Donahue, “is liable to be anybody.”
Uhl sighed. “Yes, Silkhat Willems always was known for inventing swell aliases.”
“Is that his name?”
“It was the name he started with.”
“Hell,” Donahue said, “this isn't even funny any more.”
“No. I never found anything humorous about murder.”
Donahue looked at him. “Who's been murdered now?”
“Stanley Edgecomb was murdered,” Uhl said, drawing out manacles. “Quite a few days ago.”
VII
POLICE HEADQUARTERS, St. Louis....
Donahue sat on a desk, dangling one leg, when Uhl opened the door and came in wearily. It was after midnight, and the Sergeant, not a young man, looked pale and haggard-but still placid.
“It's all over now-practically,” he said.
He let himself slowly down into a swivel-chair, drew out an old briar, began stuffing it. His gentle eyes had a faraway look.
“So he came through,” Donahue muttered.
Uhl nodded. “Yes, he came through. He murdered Edge-comb.”
Donahue got off the desk, paced up and down with long angry strides; stopped, flung up a fist. “And I was working for that guy!” He brought the fist swishing down. “I knew it, Uhl. By-I sensed everything was not on the up and up! But I had to go along with him. He was smooth, Uhl-he was smooth. I was a gofor. He pulled the wool all over my eyes.”
“Silkhat Willems has always been a smooth crook. It was his first murder. But the stakes were big. He must have thought it was worth the chance. But think of it: almost a hundred thousand dollars.”
Donahue laughed mirthlessly. “And he had me believing they were important legal papers, notes; data.”
“Whereas,” Uhl smiled, “they were emeralds. Edgecomb picked them up for a song a year ago, in Siam. Willems has been an international card sharp and con man for years. He was in Siam at the time and made a note of the sale. He came here to get the emeralds. He laid pretty careful plans. He struck up an acquaintanceship with Shadd in the Lido, a gambling house in the country, and got Shadd to throw in with him. He then called on Edgecomb. He had a lot of front, you know, and it was easy for him to pose as a globe trotter. He said he was on his way to California. He remarked about the sale in Siam, and Edgecomb was fool enough to show him the emeralds. Conditions being what they are and have been for a year, Edgecomb was holding the emeralds till better times would warrant a better price. He wasn't feeling well, and spoke of going to Hot Springs. Willems so planned their meetings that nobody ever saw them together.
“Shadd was to get the emeralds, and there was to be a fifty-fifty split. Remember, Willems had never killed a man before. But then Shadd and Willems got into an argument. Willems wanted to break. He was finding Shadd a hard man to boss. But Shadd wouldn't have anything of it.
“Willems got desperate. He worked himself into getting a ride from Edgecomb as far as Hot Springs. Edgecomb picked him up in the car. Willems wanted those emeralds. He knew they were in the house. He attacked Edgecomb in the car, choked him senseless, threw his body in the river, weighted with stones, came back in the car himself, put it in a garage, became Mr. Herron at the Apollo.
“The killing hit him hard. He had the keys to the house, he had the combination, but he was afraid it would mean another killing. Besides, Shadd was looking for him. So Willems got the idea of getting you.
“You ran into trouble. You got the box, planted it in the garden. While you were sleeping, Willems went out and got the box himself, just before dawn. He made that call on me. He also called Shadd's house in the country and said that the police were going out there on a hot tip. Shadd and his men beat it, for they'd killed Jansen, the caretaker. Willems figured that we'd spend all our time hunting Shadd. He knew someone would find the Lincoln he drove out in. Willems, of course, drove it off the road and put the shots in it. That would make us believe that Shadd had overtaken Edgecomb. As a matter of fact, it did. Up until the time I called Headquarters here when I arrived in Kansas City, I thought Edgecomb was still alive and knew nothing about Willems. And I knew nothing of Willems until I looked at him while you were standing in the door of his hotel room in Kansas City.”
Donahue put his head in his hands, made a sour face. “It's sure going to take me a long while to get back my self-respect.”
“Nonsense, Donahue. You really caught Willems, didn't you?”
“Where did they find Edgecomb's body?”
Uhl winked. “They didn't find it. A man in a boat picked up a toupee. It took them an hour to find the place that made it. The place identified it as belonging to Edgecomb. That was enough to make Willems confess.”
Donahue reached for his hat. “Come on back to the hotel and sock a bottle of Scotch with me.”
“I'd like to, but my liver can't stand it.”
“Okey. Then it means looking-glass drinking for me. I'm going to get plastered and then I'm going to call my boss on long distance.”
“What, a new case?”
Donahue laughed. “Hell, no. By the time I get through telling him what I think of him, young Donahue will probably be out of a job.”
“I wouldn't do that.”
“I wouldn't e
ither,” Donahue said, “if I stayed sober. That's why I want to get plastered!... Well, toodle-oo, Uhl.”
Pearls Are Tears
DONAHUE came in with his ulster open, the collar negligently turned up. A snap-brim tan felt leaned over one ear. He elbowed the door shut and stood for a moment leaning against it, a droll half-smile hovering on his wide, good-humored mouth.
“Your humble servant, Mike,” he said.
Mueck moved forward in the carved mahogany chair and laid smooth white hands on the green desk blotter, palms down, fingers splayed. He bowed with his blond leonine head; his gray eyes twinkled; he lifted one side of his mouth in a sly, jovial leer.
“Same old Donny.”
“Same old Mike, only”-Donahue looked around-“considerably more prosperous.” He dropped into a chair facing Mueck, lit a cigarette, blew smoke towards the ceiling. “Well, counselor?”
Mueck was a striking figure of a man, even while sitting. With his fingers clasped, he rubbed the heels of his hands slowly together, regarded Donahue with a bland look.
“I didn't want to speak too much with Hinkle over the phone,” he said. “It's a delicate matter. For me.”
“How much is in it?”
“Five hundred.”
“For you and us?”
Mueck shook his head. “I get nothing, Donny.”
Donahue scoffed with his brown eyes.
“Honest,” Mueck insisted quietly.
The two men eyed each Other steadily. Then Donahue shrugged and gushed smoke through his nostrils.
“All right, Mike.”
“You've got to believe me in that, Donny. You know, or ought to know, that I've always been on the level with you. I asked Hinkle to send you over because I believe I can depend on you-implicitly.”
“What's troubling you, Mike?”
“Do you remember the Jennifer jewel theft-six months ago?”
“That old eccentric dame who lost her fifty-thousand-dollar necklace?”
“Yes. But stolen. Not just lost. Well, Mrs. Jennifer happens to be a client of mine. She had me come over last night. She was, well, all of a-twitter.” Mueck picked up a pencil. “She has a chance of recovering that necklace-for twenty thousand dollars. She's a paralytic, you know; never goes out of the house. A man called her up last night, offered to return the necklace for the sum I mentioned-and no questions asked.”
“Why don't you throw it to the cops, Mike?”
“Damn it, I wanted to, Donny! I talked myself blue in the face trying to dissuade her. But, no. The necklace has a great sentimental value. She is willing to pay the twenty thousand. The man who telephoned her wanted to make a rendezvous with her. Of course, she can't go out. She told him to come to the house. He wouldn't hear of it. Then she said that she would appoint an agent to carry out the deal, explaining to the man why she could not meet him. He agreed to this. She told him to call back this afternoon at five.”
Donahue said: “Well, why don't you act as her agent?”
“Please.” Mueck held up his hands. “You know damned well, Donny, that I wouldn't dare. I have my legal reputation to think of. If something happened during the course of the procedure, if the police got wind of it, I would stand a fine chance of being accused of compounding a felony. Besides, it is out of my line. But at the same time I feel a should try to humor my client. Hence you. She wants that pearl necklace and wants it bad. The cops disgusted her just after the robbery by running around a lot, drinking her liquor, and finding out nothing. She doesn't want it to happen again.”
“And I'm supposed to take the twenty thousand, meet the crook, turn over the money and receive the necklace.”
“Yes-if you want to take the job.”
“It sounds like a soft snap.”
“I won't say whether it is or not. I've put my cards on the table, and it's up to you. You can call on Mrs. Jennifer this afternoon, get the money and receive the instructions the man will give over the telephone.”
“I sure hate to turn over twenty thousand to a crook, Mike. It kind of runs against the grain.”
“The same with me. But you couldn't tell Mrs. Jennifer that. She wants the necklace, she's willing to pay for it.”
Donahue crushed out his butt. “It sounds so simple that I'll bet there will be a hitch somewhere. That necklace should have been fenced long ago.”
“The crook might be a first-timer. Maybe he couldn't find a fence. The necklace is well known, you know.”
Donahue said abruptly: “I'll take you on.”
“Good. But remember, Donny, I am not your client. I have nothing to do with this. Your client is Mrs. Jennifer. When you go around there she'll settle the bill.”
Donahue stood up, grinned. “Mike, I've never spoken to you about it.”
“I know I can depend on that, Donny.”
“You know little old me, counselor!”
II
HINKLE, the agency head, said: “How well do you know this Mueck?”
“We used to play duck on the rock together.” Donahue sat at the desk opposite Hinkle in the Interstate office and counted crisp new bills. Hinkle eyed the bills reflectively.
“That's a lot of money, Donny. I hope this chap Mueck is strictly on the up and up.”
“I know, Asa. If I had any doubts-hell, do you think I'd take this job?”
He shuffled the bills together, snapped a rubber band around them and slipped the lot into a heavy manila envelope. He put the packet in his inside pocket and buttoned his coat. He looked at his strap-watch. It was twenty to six.
“The old dame made me swear to be a nice boy,” he said. “I shouldn't try to flimflam this crook out of his jack. Imagine! Well”-he shrugged, scowled-“it's her dough. Though it gives me a pain to do this.”
“What time do you meet the crook?”
“At ten o'clock.”
Hinkle wagged his head. “I certainly hope you don't get in trouble, Donny.”
“What a swell moral support you turned out to be!”
III
DONAHUE LEANED AGAINST the mail-box on the corner, the belt of his ulster drawn in tightly, the gusty wind tussling with his turned-up collar, snapping at the brim of his hat.
A street-light hung a wan glow over this Greenwich Village intersection, sometimes picking out Donahue's chin when he raised his head to peer searchingly.
It was a dark, dismal crossroad, blockaded by one- and two-storied houses, none of them pretentious; a meeting of the ways flanked by shadows, sapped by alleys, undermined by areaway speakeasies. Far away could be heard the sound of intermittent elevated trains; five minutes by foot, was Sheridan Square.
Donahue drummed his heels oh the pavement. He was impatient as well as cold. It was half-past ten.
Suddenly a man appeared on the opposite side, stood motionless, his hands in his pocket, his face a blur beneath a yanked-down hat-brim. Almost imperceptibly Donahue tensed. Force of habit as well as the urge of precaution made his hand tighten on the gun in his pocket.
Abruptly the man started across towards Donahue, hard heels rapping the street, re-echoing.
“How the hell much longer are you going to hold up that mail-box, buddy?”
Donahue said nothing. He remained leaning against the green metal box, his chin buried in his collar, his eyes peering hard under the brim of his hat. Then suddenly, he chuckled, hove his chin out of the collar, showed his teeth in a crooked grin.
“How the hell long have you been watching me, Kiff?”
The plain-clothesman reared his head, craned his neck, shoved his jaw forward, squinted as he screwed up his compact mustache. Then he put hands on hips, rocked on his heels.
“So it's you, Donahue.”
“How is every little thing, Kiff?”
They let it go at that for a minute, Donahue drumming his heels, wearing an amused smile, Kiff peering at him with hard little shiny eyes.
Then: “What are you waiting for, Donahue?”
“A date.”
<
br /> “In this neighborhood?”
“Sure.”
“What's the matter with a bar? It's warmer.”
“The jane doesn't like bars.”
“Boloney!”
Donahue shrugged. “All right, Kiff. You see that dump over there? Well, a scrubwoman lives there. I'm going to rob her. Going to take her pennies away from her, Kiff. I'm sorry I lied to you about the jane, Kiff.”
“Oh, that's all right.” Kiff poked Donahue in the stomach, leering. “That's all right, kid. Well, hope you have luck with the pennies. I'll tell the copper on the beat to stay away.”
Kiff laughed harshly, left a hard shiny look as he turned and swung off, heavy-heeled.
Donahue listened to the sound of the heels fading away. Then he exhaled a long-held breath, swore briefly. Silence and the wind again. Five minutes later the creaking of a door. A man was in the street, motionless, ten feet from Donahue.
A low mutter: “Hey, you!”
Donahue straightened, kept his hands in his pockets, started slowly towards the man.
“Yeah?” he said.
He noticed the suggestion of a crouch in the small man's attitude, the crook of his arm, the way his hand was rigid in the pocket of a blue jacket.
“Are you the guy?” the little man said.
“What kept you so long?”
“That dick's been snoopin' around. Heard you and him talkin'.”
“Where's the scatter?”
The little man jerked his head. “In here.”
Donahue went gingerly through a doorway one step above the sidewalk. A gas jet supplied mediocre light. The hallway was narrow, beads of damp, cold sweat stood out on yellow walls.
“Door at the” end,” muttered the little man. “Just open it.”
Donahue turned the knob and opened the door. A tall man with a patent-leather haircomb and dull eyes stood behind a table holding a gun. His face had the dry gray look of cigarette ash. He had a long goose-like neck, wore a tight white collar, tight dark clothes, long sideburns.
The small man slipped in behind Donahue and closed the door. He was rabbit-like in his movements.
SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames Page 12
