Read Online Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask by Frederick Nebel - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Frederick Nebel
Ads: Link
guy.”
Her eyes clouded and her lips tightened for the briefest of moments. Then she said, “Well… I’ll be going. I have an appointment uptown at ten.”
He said in a disappointed voice, “Well, if you must…” and moved with her to the door. “I’ll tell him you called?”
“If you will. He’ll know me… Leone Tenquist’s the name.”
Donahue said he would tell Crosby, and the woman went out leaving a faint smile and a breath of Shalimar perfume.
When the room was quiet again, the ticking of the bronze clock audible, Donahue muttered, “Don’t know what’s keeping that guy,” and started pacing up and down irri-tably. Ten minutes of this and he began looking around for a telephone. There was none in the living-room. He lit a match and prowled into the adjoining room. It was large and bare, with a skylight, and a dais and the paraphernalia of an artist. He found a button, switched on lights. He saw no telephone, but there was a room beyond. He entered this, couldn’t find the switch, struck another match and fumbled towards a small table beside a bed. He dialed a number in the Beekman exchange, waited, then said:
“Hello, Burt…. This is Donahue. Say, what time was I to call on this Crosby job?… I see. Well, it’s damned near ten now and nobody’s here…. Sure I’m in the place. His pal let me in…. Well, I’ll hang around till ten and then I’m breezing. Okey. ’By, Burt.”
The match had gone out. Donahue grumbled, swore, struck another and carried it towards the door. Before he reached the door he saw part of a man’s trousered leg ly-ing on the floor. He swung towards it, and the match’s dim light began to include thighs, waist, chest, head.
Bending down he saw that neck and shirt-collar were soaked with blood.
Glazed eyes stared at the match.
The match went out.
Donahue said, “Hell!” furiously in the darkness.
Chapter II
He rose and lit another match, found the light-switch, turned on the lights. He took another look at the dead man, had to step over him to get to the farther side of the room. There was a hooked rug lying twisted on the floor as though it had been mixed up in a scuffle.
A closet door was open, and clothes lay on the floor. A yellow suitcase was open, its lining slashed apart in several places. A Gladstone had undergone similar treatment. Drawers of a highboy were open; shirts, collars, under-shirts, pajamas, handkerchiefs were jumbled on the floor. A steamer trunk, open, had its insides hacked up after the manner of the suitcase and the Gladstone. Four hats lay on the floor, their sweatbands turned inside out. Red leather bedroom slippers had been slashed.
Donahue prowled around with a keen predatory look in his eyes. He touched nothing. He came back to the dead man and rolled him over with a foot. The man’s pockets had been pulled out. Bills and loose change and a rifled wallet lay on the floor near him.
Donahue sloped into the studio, snapped dark eyes around, stood spreadlegged in baffled chagrin, swinging a clenched fist at his side. Canvases on plain wooden frames were strewn about. Everything was in disorder—but in this studio it might have been put down to the artist Cros-by’s recent homecoming.
Cruising the living-room and the bathroom, Donahue finally came to the corridor door, glared at it, then yanked it open and went running down four staircases. He did not know where the houseman lived, so he opened the front door, pressed the button.
A minute later the man who had first opened the door appeared, and Donahue said, “Come upstairs with me.”
The little man followed, complaining that he was getting old, that it was a hard climb to the top floor. Donahue did not argue, but led the way up and then on into Crosby’s apartment. When he piloted the little old man to the bed-room he did not have to point out the dead man lying on the floor.
The little man gasped, “Mr. Crosby!” in a horrified voice.
“Just wanted to make sure,”
Her eyes clouded and her lips tightened for the briefest of moments. Then she said, “Well… I’ll be going. I have an appointment uptown at ten.”
He said in a disappointed voice, “Well, if you must…” and moved with her to the door. “I’ll tell him you called?”
“If you will. He’ll know me… Leone Tenquist’s the name.”
Donahue said he would tell Crosby, and the woman went out leaving a faint smile and a breath of Shalimar perfume.
When the room was quiet again, the ticking of the bronze clock audible, Donahue muttered, “Don’t know what’s keeping that guy,” and started pacing up and down irri-tably. Ten minutes of this and he began looking around for a telephone. There was none in the living-room. He lit a match and prowled into the adjoining room. It was large and bare, with a skylight, and a dais and the paraphernalia of an artist. He found a button, switched on lights. He saw no telephone, but there was a room beyond. He entered this, couldn’t find the switch, struck another match and fumbled towards a small table beside a bed. He dialed a number in the Beekman exchange, waited, then said:
“Hello, Burt…. This is Donahue. Say, what time was I to call on this Crosby job?… I see. Well, it’s damned near ten now and nobody’s here…. Sure I’m in the place. His pal let me in…. Well, I’ll hang around till ten and then I’m breezing. Okey. ’By, Burt.”
The match had gone out. Donahue grumbled, swore, struck another and carried it towards the door. Before he reached the door he saw part of a man’s trousered leg ly-ing on the floor. He swung towards it, and the match’s dim light began to include thighs, waist, chest, head.
Bending down he saw that neck and shirt-collar were soaked with blood.
Glazed eyes stared at the match.
The match went out.
Donahue said, “Hell!” furiously in the darkness.
Chapter II
He rose and lit another match, found the light-switch, turned on the lights. He took another look at the dead man, had to step over him to get to the farther side of the room. There was a hooked rug lying twisted on the floor as though it had been mixed up in a scuffle.
A closet door was open, and clothes lay on the floor. A yellow suitcase was open, its lining slashed apart in several places. A Gladstone had undergone similar treatment. Drawers of a highboy were open; shirts, collars, under-shirts, pajamas, handkerchiefs were jumbled on the floor. A steamer trunk, open, had its insides hacked up after the manner of the suitcase and the Gladstone. Four hats lay on the floor, their sweatbands turned inside out. Red leather bedroom slippers had been slashed.
Donahue prowled around with a keen predatory look in his eyes. He touched nothing. He came back to the dead man and rolled him over with a foot. The man’s pockets had been pulled out. Bills and loose change and a rifled wallet lay on the floor near him.
Donahue sloped into the studio, snapped dark eyes around, stood spreadlegged in baffled chagrin, swinging a clenched fist at his side. Canvases on plain wooden frames were strewn about. Everything was in disorder—but in this studio it might have been put down to the artist Cros-by’s recent homecoming.
Cruising the living-room and the bathroom, Donahue finally came to the corridor door, glared at it, then yanked it open and went running down four staircases. He did not know where the houseman lived, so he opened the front door, pressed the button.
A minute later the man who had first opened the door appeared, and Donahue said, “Come upstairs with me.”
The little man followed, complaining that he was getting old, that it was a hard climb to the top floor. Donahue did not argue, but led the way up and then on into Crosby’s apartment. When he piloted the little old man to the bed-room he did not have to point out the dead man lying on the floor.
The little man gasped, “Mr. Crosby!” in a horrified voice.
“Just wanted to make sure,”
Similar Books
