Read Online SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames by Frederick Nebel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frederick Nebel
Tags: Hard-Boiled
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street car, and saw the rookie climb into a taxi behind. The taxi followed the street car, though it had plenty of opportunity to pass it. Donahue rode as far as Worth Street, alighted and dodged traffic to the west side of Broadway, then strode west on Worth Street. The taxi passed him, and the rookie got off at the corner of Worth and Church. Donahue turned north on Church. The rookie was drifting along behind.
Donahue turned west into Franklin Street, walked one block and went down into the West Side Subway kiosk. A train was standing in the station. Donahue ducked into the toilet. He waited until the train had drawn out, then pushed the door open and stood behind the turnstiles. He saw no one. He dropped a nickel in the slot and a minute later caught a northbound local. He changed to a Bronx Park express at Fourteenth Street, saw no sign of the rookie.
Harlem was sunning itself. The spring afternoon held promise of an early summer. Little kids-three of them-sat half naked in a doorway from which issued the sound of something frying and the smell of that which was being fried. Two doors farther on a couple of tough-looking bucks leaned against a dirty store-window that had the word Pool painted on it.
Donahue passed the smelly doorway, and slowed down as he approached the pool parlor. A hall-door was ajar just beyond the big window. It indicated regions above the pool layout. Donahue pushed the door open, left it open, so that bright sunlight followed him in. He stood inside, body twisted, eyes slanted at the door. After a minute he looked up the wooden staircase.
He climbed it. The soles of his shoes made loose boards creak, and the banister wobbled when he leaned against it. On the first landing a door opened and a girl came out humming. She was high-yellow, had pretty teeth and flashing black eyes. It was the perfume Donahue didn't like. “How yuh, mistuh big boy?”
“Yeah,” said Donahue, and went on up the next staircase.
He paused at the top. The girl's heels were rapping down the stairs below. Donahue climbed a third staircase, stood at the top counting doors. Then he walked past three doors, stopped before the fourth. He knocked. He waited a minute and knocked again.
Then he took a bunch of keys from his pocket. He chose one of three master keys. It worked. He entered swiftly, closed the door and locked it.
The room was small, with one window looking out on a backyard and a panorama of roofs, clothes-lines and garbage cans, rusty fire-escapes and skeins of radio aerials.
The room itself had a cot salvaged from some army and navy store. Two chairs, one with a broken cane bottom. A washstand with speckled stone top, a bowl and a pitcher. An imitation-leather suitcase, new, lay on the floor. A dirty shirt lay on the bed, along with a pair of socks. The drawer of a cheap bureau was open, revealing one clean shirt.
Donahue pulled the two other drawers out. They were empty. He looked under the clean shirt. Nothing. He tackled the suitcase. There were two bottles of High-and-Dry in it, buried among more dirty clothes. He searched the clothes, making a face. Finally he closed the suitcase, stood up and let his eyes roam around. He crossed to the washstand, opened the door beneath the mottled top. Closed it. He drew his lower lip sidewise beneath his upper teeth, scowled reflectively, while his keen eyes stabbed the room in a dozen places. As a matter of form he turned the mattress over and searched the pillows. Nothing, of course. There was a pair of old brown shoes beneath the cot. He pulled them out, ran his hand inside each. He threw them down, disgruntled. One turned over on its side.
The sun, driving one slim rapier of brilliance into the room, made something shine on the sole of the shoe. Donahue knelt down. Gum soles. He held the shoe in his left hand, took a penknife with his right, pried out the shiny little object. He carried it to the window. He smiled-grimly, intimately.
He went to the door,
Donahue turned west into Franklin Street, walked one block and went down into the West Side Subway kiosk. A train was standing in the station. Donahue ducked into the toilet. He waited until the train had drawn out, then pushed the door open and stood behind the turnstiles. He saw no one. He dropped a nickel in the slot and a minute later caught a northbound local. He changed to a Bronx Park express at Fourteenth Street, saw no sign of the rookie.
Harlem was sunning itself. The spring afternoon held promise of an early summer. Little kids-three of them-sat half naked in a doorway from which issued the sound of something frying and the smell of that which was being fried. Two doors farther on a couple of tough-looking bucks leaned against a dirty store-window that had the word Pool painted on it.
Donahue passed the smelly doorway, and slowed down as he approached the pool parlor. A hall-door was ajar just beyond the big window. It indicated regions above the pool layout. Donahue pushed the door open, left it open, so that bright sunlight followed him in. He stood inside, body twisted, eyes slanted at the door. After a minute he looked up the wooden staircase.
He climbed it. The soles of his shoes made loose boards creak, and the banister wobbled when he leaned against it. On the first landing a door opened and a girl came out humming. She was high-yellow, had pretty teeth and flashing black eyes. It was the perfume Donahue didn't like. “How yuh, mistuh big boy?”
“Yeah,” said Donahue, and went on up the next staircase.
He paused at the top. The girl's heels were rapping down the stairs below. Donahue climbed a third staircase, stood at the top counting doors. Then he walked past three doors, stopped before the fourth. He knocked. He waited a minute and knocked again.
Then he took a bunch of keys from his pocket. He chose one of three master keys. It worked. He entered swiftly, closed the door and locked it.
The room was small, with one window looking out on a backyard and a panorama of roofs, clothes-lines and garbage cans, rusty fire-escapes and skeins of radio aerials.
The room itself had a cot salvaged from some army and navy store. Two chairs, one with a broken cane bottom. A washstand with speckled stone top, a bowl and a pitcher. An imitation-leather suitcase, new, lay on the floor. A dirty shirt lay on the bed, along with a pair of socks. The drawer of a cheap bureau was open, revealing one clean shirt.
Donahue pulled the two other drawers out. They were empty. He looked under the clean shirt. Nothing. He tackled the suitcase. There were two bottles of High-and-Dry in it, buried among more dirty clothes. He searched the clothes, making a face. Finally he closed the suitcase, stood up and let his eyes roam around. He crossed to the washstand, opened the door beneath the mottled top. Closed it. He drew his lower lip sidewise beneath his upper teeth, scowled reflectively, while his keen eyes stabbed the room in a dozen places. As a matter of form he turned the mattress over and searched the pillows. Nothing, of course. There was a pair of old brown shoes beneath the cot. He pulled them out, ran his hand inside each. He threw them down, disgruntled. One turned over on its side.
The sun, driving one slim rapier of brilliance into the room, made something shine on the sole of the shoe. Donahue knelt down. Gum soles. He held the shoe in his left hand, took a penknife with his right, pried out the shiny little object. He carried it to the window. He smiled-grimly, intimately.
He went to the door,
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