Read Online Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask by Frederick Nebel - Free Book Online
Authors: Frederick Nebel
Ads: Link
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?”
Micky Shane stared bleakly at the ring. “Okey, Donahue.”
“You should have got rid of it in New York.”
“I couldn’t. The only fence I knew was a friend of them palookas that was my buddies. I was looking for a fence here I knew about, but he’s been in stir for three months.”
“And Stein said he’d find one for you, eh?”
Micky groaned, “Oh-o,” again and held his head.
Donahue walked to the door, opened it, said, “Good-bye, little boy. And stay out of big time. And tell Stein for me when he comes around that I enjoyed my visit in St. Louis. Thank him for the way he went out of his way to make my visit interesting.”
“Oh-o,” groaned Micky, and lay down on the floor holding his head.
Donahue took a cab to his hotel and sent a wire that said: “Got it. Leaving tonight.”
Then he spent half an hour in a cold tub reading all about how Detective Rudolph Hocheimer of Police Headquarters had tracked down and apprehended the murderer of Detective Lucas Cross and Antonio Nesella. There was also the story about Eva. Hocheimer got a big hand all around, with his picture on the front page.
Donahue got a big laugh.
The Red-Hots
An unsuspecting artist, a girl on the make, two rodmen and—tough dick Donahue.
Chapter I
The taxi slopped and skidded through brit-tle slush and its right front wheel grated against the curb as squealing four-wheel brakes dragged it to a stop. Grimy water splashed the sidewalk.
Donahue, lurching in the darkened back, said, “Never mind the trimmings, brother,” and then pushed open the door.
The driver said, “These lousy streets,” with a grievance, while reaching out a hand to take a dollar bill Donahue thrust through the connecting window. When the driver returned fifty cents Donahue gave him a dime, stepped out into the freezing slush and banged the door.
Donahue climbed the narrow stone steps of the gray-faced house in Waverly Place. The glass vestibule door was open, but the door behind it was locked. Beside this door was a white button which Donahue pressed.
Presently a figure materialized behind the white-cur-tained glass door, and then the door opened and a small, plain-looking man of middle years said, “Yes, sir?” inquir-ingly.
Donahue said, “I’d like to see Mr. Crosby.”
The man opened the door wide and said, “He’s on the top floor in the studio apartment—number fifty-two.”
“Thanks,” said Donahue.
He went halfway down the hall and climbed three stair-cases. Number fifty-two was at the back of the hall, and there was a streak of light between door and threshold.
He knocked and heard some movement inside. But it was fully a minute before the key turned in the lock. Then the door opened and a small youngish thin man, neatly dressed in blue serge, looked at him.
Donahue asked, “Mr. Crosby?”
The man smiled with white agreeable teeth and said, “No, he’s not in.”
Donahue looked at his strap-watch. “He was to be. It’s eight-thirty. We had a date for eight-thirty. I’ll park.”
He walked in without waiting to be asked, took off his brown Borsalino. His black hair was thick and had many shining undulations. His face was long, lean,
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?”
Micky Shane stared bleakly at the ring. “Okey, Donahue.”
“You should have got rid of it in New York.”
“I couldn’t. The only fence I knew was a friend of them palookas that was my buddies. I was looking for a fence here I knew about, but he’s been in stir for three months.”
“And Stein said he’d find one for you, eh?”
Micky groaned, “Oh-o,” again and held his head.
Donahue walked to the door, opened it, said, “Good-bye, little boy. And stay out of big time. And tell Stein for me when he comes around that I enjoyed my visit in St. Louis. Thank him for the way he went out of his way to make my visit interesting.”
“Oh-o,” groaned Micky, and lay down on the floor holding his head.
Donahue took a cab to his hotel and sent a wire that said: “Got it. Leaving tonight.”
Then he spent half an hour in a cold tub reading all about how Detective Rudolph Hocheimer of Police Headquarters had tracked down and apprehended the murderer of Detective Lucas Cross and Antonio Nesella. There was also the story about Eva. Hocheimer got a big hand all around, with his picture on the front page.
Donahue got a big laugh.
The Red-Hots
An unsuspecting artist, a girl on the make, two rodmen and—tough dick Donahue.
Chapter I
The taxi slopped and skidded through brit-tle slush and its right front wheel grated against the curb as squealing four-wheel brakes dragged it to a stop. Grimy water splashed the sidewalk.
Donahue, lurching in the darkened back, said, “Never mind the trimmings, brother,” and then pushed open the door.
The driver said, “These lousy streets,” with a grievance, while reaching out a hand to take a dollar bill Donahue thrust through the connecting window. When the driver returned fifty cents Donahue gave him a dime, stepped out into the freezing slush and banged the door.
Donahue climbed the narrow stone steps of the gray-faced house in Waverly Place. The glass vestibule door was open, but the door behind it was locked. Beside this door was a white button which Donahue pressed.
Presently a figure materialized behind the white-cur-tained glass door, and then the door opened and a small, plain-looking man of middle years said, “Yes, sir?” inquir-ingly.
Donahue said, “I’d like to see Mr. Crosby.”
The man opened the door wide and said, “He’s on the top floor in the studio apartment—number fifty-two.”
“Thanks,” said Donahue.
He went halfway down the hall and climbed three stair-cases. Number fifty-two was at the back of the hall, and there was a streak of light between door and threshold.
He knocked and heard some movement inside. But it was fully a minute before the key turned in the lock. Then the door opened and a small youngish thin man, neatly dressed in blue serge, looked at him.
Donahue asked, “Mr. Crosby?”
The man smiled with white agreeable teeth and said, “No, he’s not in.”
Donahue looked at his strap-watch. “He was to be. It’s eight-thirty. We had a date for eight-thirty. I’ll park.”
He walked in without waiting to be asked, took off his brown Borsalino. His black hair was thick and had many shining undulations. His face was long, lean,
Similar Books
