SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames (15 page)

The cylindrical brass reading lamp, clipped to the head of the bed, sprayed light on his neck, past his ears, picked out rumpled twists of black hair and left his face mostly in shadow.

Half a minute passed without a recurrence of sound. The tenth story room was intimately quiet.

Donahue looked at the clock on the little bed-table. It was twelve-thirty. He shrugged, pyramided the coverlet with his knees, took a drag at his briar and resumed reading.

Then another sound reached his ears: a scraping, like cat's claws on wood. Then a definite thump. Donahue sat up slowly, laid aside the magazine, reached over and placed his pipe on the bed-table. He shoved big, strong feet out of bed and stood up in gray silk pajamas. He scowled at the door, a little annoyed, a little curious.

He took a flat black automatic pistol from the bed-table drawer and released the safety. He held the gun negligently, like one accustomed to guns, and moved slowly on bare feet towards the door. Silently he threw the catch. His left hand closed over the knob, he turned it as far as it would go, then yanked the door inward and stepped back.

A man fell flat on his face across the threshold. He had been kneeling by the door. He went down so fast that Donahue did not see his face. Donahue stood motionless, covering the man.

“Well, get up,” he said.

The man did not move. A muffled phlegmatic groan reached Donahue's ears. He took a step across the man and looked up and down the hall; saw no one. He stepped back in, bent down, gripped the man's shoulder and turned him over on his back. He couldn't see the face clearly, so he switched on the ceiling light.

There was a thread of blood lying from one corner of the stranger's mouth down across his jaw. The lips were pursed tightly, the face muscles taut; in the glazed eyes was a fierce white look, blind and-unseeing but awesome in its fixed intensity on space.

Donahue closed the automatic's safety, knelt down, unbuttoned the blue topcoat, unbuttoned the vest. There was a wet splotch of crimson on a white shirt. Hoarse, spasmodic breathing pumped through the nostrils and the lips twitched but remained resolutely pursed.

Donahue said nothing. He somehow knew-because of the look in the eyes-that it would be futile to say anything. He stood up, ran his hand through his hair, took three long steps and picked up the telephone.

“A doctor-quick. A man's dying.... Now, now, sweetheart, never mind. Get a doctor up.”

He hung up and slipped the receiver quietly into the hook. He went quickly into the bathroom, drew a glass of water and came back. He knelt down, looking at the eyes. He shrugged. He tried to get the man to drink. The man wouldn't. He wouldn't budge those lips.

Donahue set the glass down, remained kneeling on one knee, leaning with his elbow on the other. He reached down and patted the man's shoulder. But he didn't say anything. His face was somber, his brown eyes troubled.

The elevator door banged open and quick footsteps came down the hall. Donahue looked up and saw Mason, the chief night clerk-Mason, white-faced and breathless, eyes popping.

“The operator said-”

“Did she get a doctor?”

“He'll be up-he'll be right up. I called Monahan too. Good grief! What happened-what happened?”

“Ask me another,” Donahue muttered, still looking at the tortured face on the floor. “Did you do anything? Did you-is he?...”

“Keep your pants on, Mason. What can I do? He's been shot in the belly. He was lying against my door. I guess he couldn't make his own. Know him?”

“He's-why, he's Mr
.
Larrimore! My-! he's Mr. Larrimore!”

“Who's Larrimore?”

“You know-you know. That-that column in the
Press-Examiner: The Awful Truth.”

“Oh,” said Donahue dully; but his brown eyes brightened. He said, “Get that doctor, Mason. He doesn't have to comb his hair. Tell him he doesn't have to comb his hair.”

“Yes-yes.”

Mason ran down the hall.

Donahue leaned close to the tortured face, tried to lock his glance with the roan's.

“Larrimore. Larrimore, who got you? Why? I'm Donahue, Larrimore-Donahue of the Interstate Detective Agency. If you can talk, Larrimore, spill it. Listen, Larrimore-Donahue, you must have heard of Donahue. Who shot you, Larrimore?”

He gave it up. He heard the elevator door open. Mason and the house doctor appeared, followed by Monahan, the house officer.

“Get him inside,” Monahan said. “We don't want to wake the hotel up.... Hello, Donahue.”

They dragged Larrimore in and Mason came last, closing the door. The doctor changed spectacles and knelt down. He felt the pulse, shook his head; unbuttoned the shirt, pulled up the undershirt. He looked quickly at the man's face. He remained thus-looking at the face. Then he looked at his watch.

“Twelve-thirty-seven,” he said; rose, adding: “He's dead-quite dead.”

“Good grief!” choked Mason. “And we've never had a scandal-”

Donahue rasped, “That's all you're thinking about!”

The three men looked at him. He shrugged and went across and picked up his pipe, tamped it down. Monahan, a short, round-bodied man with a bald head, went to the telephone.

“Get Police Headquarters, Miss McGillicuddy. Detective-Sergeant Kelly McPard. Tell him to come right over. Mention my name.... Yes-yes, he died. And don't forget to mention my name.”

He hung up and looked importantly at Donahue. “You don't happen to know anything about this, do you?”

“Not a thing.”

Monahan picked up Donahue's gun, smelled the muzzle, drew out the clip. The gun was fully loaded-six in the magazine, one in the chamber. Monahan shoved back the magazine and laid the gun down.

Donahue, sitting on the bed, said: “You opened the safety, Monahan. When you monkey around with my gun leave it the way you found it.”

Kelly McPard was a big fat man with a neat, sandy mustache and rosy cheeks. His eyes were bright blue, whimsical, and he smiled easily, though a man with any sense at all could see the wiliness behind his good humor. He dressed in the height of fashion, and he drifted in through the door smoking a cork-tipped cigarette and looking like a million dollars. “Hello, Monahan. Why, hello there, Donahue. Hello, Dr. Stress.... Well, well, this is not so nice. Did you shoot him, Donahue?”

“Yeah. Twice in the belly.”

McPard chuckled and laid down his hat. His hair fell back in silken, shiny waves, without a part. “Who is he?”

“He's-Mr. Larrimore,” Mason said. “He lives down the hall in 1010. You know him-I mean, that column in the
Press-Examiner.”

“A. B. Larrimore,” nodded McPard. “H'm.”

“Shot twice in the stomach,” Dr. Stress said. “He died a moment after I arrived here. There was nothing I could do.”

Mason said: “The elevator boy said he thought Mr. Larrimore was-well, you know, a little drunk-the way he walked, I mean. He sort of staggered into the elevator, with his coat collar up. He didn't say anything. The elevator boy knew the floor.”

“He never made his room,” Donahue said. “He fell against my door, sank there. I heard the thump. I was reading in bed.”

Mason yammered: “He wasn't shot in the hotel. I saw him come in the front, kind of staggering, his chin in his collar. He was like that a lot. But if he was shot like that, why did he come here to die?”

“He was out on his feet,” Donahue said. “A man gets like that and he steers for home. Or maybe he didn't think he was hurt so bad. Some guys don't like to slobber all over in public.”

“Might call that dying manners,” McPard said. “You were the guy told Scotch jokes at an Irish wake one night, weren't you?” Donahue said.

McPard had a velvet chuckle. He pulled up his trouser-legs by the knees before kneeling down. He wore sheer silk socks, starched cuffs with gold links. He pawed Larrimore's pockets casually, whistling absent-mindedly in a whisper. “H'm-right in the guts-side by side.... See it, Donny? Tsk, tsk!... No powder burns on the coat. No handshake kill. I think I'll have a look at the bullets anyhow. So you might call the morgue, Monahan? Thanks.... H'm, thirty-three dollars, sixty cents. And-isn't this a good-looking cigarette case?” He wrapped it carefully in a silk handkerchief.

“You never know,” he sighed.

There was a furious pounding on the door. Monahan swore, stuck out his jaw and yanked it open. Libbey, of the
City Press,
reeled in, turned around once and flopped down in a chair.

“My-! he's shot too!' Mason cried.

“Plastered,” Libbey said. “Bacardi cocktails again. Hello, Donny, you big tramp. Hello, Sarge.... So Larrimore got it. Where? When? Come on, Sarge, whom do you suspect? There has got to be a suspect. Come on. I got the tip from H. Q. and I gave three other news-hawks a phony address, I think it was a lying-in hospital or a hotel for Lithuanian immigrant girls. Hello, Monahan, how's the keyhole business these nights?”

“Should I put this bum out?” Monahan said.

“You and what other two Swedes?” Libbey laughed.

“Leave him be,” McPard said, still pawing Larrimore's pockets. “Only shut up, Libbey.”

Donahue brought Libbey a drink and that shut him up.

McPard said: “Well, he has nothing on him worthwhile. If he walked here, he couldn't have been shot far away. Else he came in a cab. I'll find if he came in a cab. Was he drinking, Doc?”

“There was a faint smell of liquor. Not very distinct, however.”

“I thought he'd get it some day,” Libbey said. “That column of his was rich. He should have named it 'Private Lives-and How.' You know, my dear friends-as among gentlemen-this will create a furor. Inside of twenty-four hours the
Press-Examiner
will offer a reward. And other sheets, conscience-stricken because they have underpaid us newspapermen for so long-”

Donahue growled: “Pipe down, you fat-head.”

“-other newspapers will supplement the reward and, attend-you, you and you, three enterprising master minds: here you are, the three of you, in the presence of one foully murdered-”

“Jeeze, Sarge,” Monahan grumbled, “can't I throw this Stink out?”

“-Kelly McPard, Donny, and Monahan. Three of you, by a planetary coincidence, will each go his secret way with one eye on justice and one eye on the shekels. “Monahan looked guilty. McPard put a cork-tipped cigarette between his lips. His face beamed, but back of the laugh in his eyes burned a wily, speculative spark.

“But, Libbey,” he said expansively, “we're all friends.”

“Of course,” said Donahue. He bent down, picked up a cardboard packet of matches, struck one and held it to McPard's cigarette. They smiled into each other's eyes. “Aren't we all?” McPard said.

“Sure,” Donahue said. “We're all big-hearted guys, Kelly. “The phone rang. Monahan picked it up, listened, said above it: “The morgue wagon, Sarge.”

When the body had been removed from the room, when McPard and Monahan had gone and Libbey had taken the stairway down to dodge three irate reporters, Donahue locked his door. Then he opened his hand and looked at the blue packet of paper matches. He opened the flap. Printed on the inside of the flap was:
The Venetian Cellar West Tenth Street.
Two matches were missing. One of them he had used to light McPard's cigarette. The other was missing when McPard, pawing Larrimore's coat pocket, had tossed the packet away as something inconsequential.

“Good old Kelly McPard,” Donahue chortled.

He started dressing.

Monahan went into a huddle with Miss McGillicuddy, whom he had awed from time to time with imaginary yarns of man-hunts. Monahan, you understand, figuring as the master mind exclusively.

“That 1005 now, Miss McGillicuddy,” he said impressively under his hand. “Keep an ear open on any telephoning; does.”

“You-you think he's-guilty?”

“Sh! No, not that. But he's a smart Aleck and if the hotel solves the death-the brutal death, Miss McGillicuddy-if one of its guests.... You get me? So keep an ear open. You know, there may even be a reward and”-he leaned closer, winked-“I'm not a hog, young lady.”

“Gee!” She coughed and blew her nose. “Got an awful cough, Mr. Monahan.”

“A-uh-little pin money, you see, might fix it so you could get two weeks off and take a fling at Palm Beach.”

He walked away with a pious look on his face and his palms against his round thighs. He stopped as he saw a tall man in a brown ulster and a tan, rakish hat striding across the lobby for the doors. Donahue went out into a raw, full wind that blustered down the street. He turned south into University Place, west into Tenth Street. He crossed Fifth Avenue, reached Sixth, walked beneath the Elevated, cut across Greenwich and went down Tenth Street past Waverly Place. He crossed the street diagonally towards two blue globes that burned above a blue door in an areaway sunk four stone steps below the pavement. He elbowed the door open and entered a low-ceiled restaurant that had canals and gondolas painted on the walls. The blue lighting gave the faces of people a ghostly look.

Near the door was a cigarette showcase with a cash register alongside it and a man behind the cash register. The man had a mask-like face and a receding hair line. Donahue bought a package of cigarettes. Asked for a match. The man threw him a packet. The packet was blue.

Donahue went to a table, threw his hat and ulster on one chair, sat down in another. “Scotch and seltzer.”

He leaned back, put a cigarette between his lips, opened the blue packet. On the inside of the flap it said:
The Venetian Cellar-West Tenth Street.

Nobody was eating now, but the menu was a large one specializing in Italian dishes. The waiter brought the drink.

“Where's the head waiter?” Donahue said.

The waiter looked at him blankly for half a moment, then turned and went off. He came back with a short fat man who had black marcelled hair, who carried a cigar horizontally at right angles to his uppermost vest button.

“Yes?”

“Will you sit down?”

“I'm sorry-”

“Only for a minute.”

The fat man sat down.

Donahue leaned on his elbows and looked straight into the dark pool-like eyes.

Donahue said: “Do you know Larrimore?”

“Who?”

“A. B. Larrimore.”

The fat man looked down at his fat white hands, turned a diamond ring round and round; looked up and moved his shoulders in the semblance of a shrug.

“No,” he said. “No, I don't.”

“He was here tonight,” Donahue said. “He's a little shorter than I am, slim and well-built. Clean-shaven. Derby, blue overcoat, blue serge suit. He's about forty, I'd say. Black hair, but”-he touched the side of his head-“gray along here, quite gray. Distinguished looking man.”

“He was in here?”

“Yeah. In here.”

“Well, sure, he might have been. There was a lot of people here tonight. I wouldn't know. I'm not out here much, only if somebody asks for me. Like you. Who's Larrimore?”

“What I want to know is, what time did he leave here, and was he with anybody?”

The fat man sat back. “How do I know?”

“Was he with a man or a woman?”

The fat man made an impatient gesture. “I tell you, how do I know?”

“I tell you, he was here. Was he alone or-”

“Listen,” broke in the fat man irritably. “I don't know who you're talking about. All right, he was here. Maybe he was. If you say he was here, all right, then he was here. But I don't remember. I can't remember every guy comes in here. Or every woman-”

“Or every woman,” said Donahue.

“What?”

“Or every woman. You can't remember the woman he was with.”

The fat man looked surprised. “What the hell are you talking about?” He scowled suddenly, heaved up. “Go on, you're crazy.” He laughed and walked off.

Donahue got up and followed him. Tables were in the way. He had to weave among them. He followed the fat man to the other side of the restaurant and the latter was not aware of this until he was thrusting aside the rose-colored curtains leading to another room. He turned and his cigar, that had been jutting out straight from his mouth, drooped; his jaw drooped; his eyelids drooped. He looked suddenly sinister with his fat white face and his black pool-like eyes.

“This is a private room,” he said. “The door to the street is over that way.”

“Oh, that's all right,” Donahue said cheerfully. “I just want to find out what time that man left here. Be a good egg. I'm a good egg and strictly on the up and up. I'm not trying to crash this scatter and if you knew me better you'd know what a swell guy I really am.”

“Are you trying to sell anything?”

“An idea. I'm trying to sell you the idea that it would be nice for you to play ring around the rosy with me.”

The fat man started a leer. “You mean-nice for
you.”

“No. I mean”-Donahue flicked a thumb-nail against the man's uppermost vest button-“for you.”

The fat man's face drooped more; he had jowls now, sagging like wet dough in the ghostly bluish light. His lower lip sagged, revealing the lower part of his lower teeth.

He said slowly, distinctly: “I don't know who you're talking about. I don't know you. Get out.”

“You feel that way about it, eh?”

The fat man said nothing. He put his cigar carefully between his lips, rolled it around with thumb and forefinger and regarded Donahue with his drooping, sinister eyes.

Donahue saw one of the waiters come up and stand beside him. He turned and saw another standing behind him. He saw a third leaning against the wall. He whistled a few bars to himself. He saw a cuspidor, squinted one eye towards it and snapped his butt into it.

“Okey,” he said. He went swiftly back to his table, gathered up his hat and coat, put the hat on but not the coat and went directly out without looking at anyone. He walked long-legged to the next corner, swung left, stopped and put on his coat. He turned and peered around the corner. He saw a man standing on the sidewalk looking at the f twin blue lights. He knew the shape, the build, the round t shoulders. He saw Monahan go down the steps and through j the blue door.

He put his hands on his hips and bit off a sharp, caustic oath.

He heard heavy footsteps and pivoted. A patrolman came across the street, saying: “Why the hell all the hocus pocus?”

Donahue smiled, “Hello, Officer.”

“Now let it go at that. What's the idea?”

“I thought someone was following me.”

The patrolman snapped gum with his teeth and stood on wide-planted feet, his arms akimbo, nightstick dangling.

“On your way. Beat it.”

Donahue said: “Sure,” good-naturedly and strode off. He turned left into Christopher, went around the block and was again on Tenth Street. He slipped down into an area-way across from the twin blue lights. He looked at his strap-watch. It was ten past two. The street was deserted except for an occasional late-wandering drunk or a night-hawk taxicab..

Presently a man and a woman came out of the
Venetian Cellar.
They walked towards Hudson Street, stopping at intervals to embrace. Then a man came out putting on his coat. He staggered towards Sixth Avenue, singing. A man and a woman came out, the man supporting the woman; then two men; then two men and a quarrelsome girl.

A minute later the twin blue lights went out.

Donahue looked at his watch again. It was two-thirty. An Elevated train rumbled down Sixth Avenue. A taxi barged east with someone thumping a banjo. Silence fell again. And Donahue waited on.

At two-forty-five Donahue heard footsteps clicking from the direction of Sixth Avenue: woman's high-heels by the sound of them. He saw a woman wrapped in a dark fur coat pass beneath a street light. She walked rapidly, each heel fall distinct. She turned down into the
Venetian Cellar
areaway and disappeared through the blue door.

Donahue craned his neck. He was about to climb to the pavement when he saw the woman reappear, rising quietly from the areaway, walking only on the soles of her feet.

She looked up and down the-street, walked a matter of ten yards and slipped behind a stone stoop that hid her from sight of anyone entering or leaving the
Venetian Cellar.

Donahue retreated deeper into the well of shadows, his eyes keen and watchful. From time to time he saw the vague blur of the woman's face peering around the corner of the stoop. There was no street light near her. He could not get even a general idea of what she looked like.

His attention was diverted suddenly by the banging open of the blue door across the street. He heard low, angry voices. Then suddenly he saw Monahan being rough-housed up the steps by a couple of men. They shoved him and he fell down, and then the fat man appeared and stood at the brink of the sidewalk.

“Now beat it,” he said. “I've stood plenty of your lousy lip. You've got this place of mine wrong.”

“You'll see, you'll see,” Monahan threatened, rising.

“All right, I'll see. You got no business to come in my place and act wise. So scram.”

Monahan brushed his coat with his hands and reset his hat. He shook his fist.

“Don't think a dago like you can get tough with me. I got friends at Police Headquarters. You can't get tough with me.”

The fat man waved a hand. “Oh, go on and beat it, for cripes sake. You're just a loud noise. You asked for a slide to the pavement and you got it.” He turned to the others. “Come on, boys.”

They went down the stairs and through the blue door, banging it shut.

Monahan buttoned his coat, put a cigar in his mouth and stamped off.

Donahue thumbed his nose at Monahan's back and grinned with genuine satisfaction.