The Red-Hots
by Frederick Nebel

THE TAXI slopped and skidded through brittle 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-curtained glass door, and then the door opened and a small, plain-looking man of middle years said, “Yes, sir?” inquiringly.

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 staircases. 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, tawny-brown and his eyes were nut-brown beneath wiry black brows. He threw his hat on a wide divan and opened his raglan coat.

The small neat young man closed the door, and still wearing his agreeable smile, said cheerfully, “Have a seat. Crosby ought to be back if you say you have a date with him. ... I didn't get the name?”

“I'm Donahue. My boss sent me down here. Crosby called up late this afternoon and asked to send a man down. ... You a friend of Crosby's?”

“We room together.”

Donahue dropped into a huge leather easy chair beside a fireplace in which red embers glowed. He snapped a match on his thumb-nail- and lit a cigarette. Throwing the match into the fireplace, he said offhand, “What's worrying Crosby?”

The neat young man was standing with his back to the door eying Donahue quizzically. “Was something worrying him?”

Donahue looked up sharply. “Enough to want a private dick.”.

“Oh ... I see.” The neat young man put his hands on his hips. “He just came back from Paris, you know. We haven't seen much of each other. But he looked worried. I didn't know. Didn't he say anything over the telephone?”

“No. He just said send a dick down.”

“Then he must be worried!” The neat young man left the door, crossed to the bathroom, came out a minute later and said, “He should be back any minute. He went out to get a bite to eat. I've a date. Hope you don't mind waiting alone.”

“Not at all.”

The neat' young man put on a blue ulster and a derby and pulled on yellow gloves. “Make yourself at home. Cigs in the box there, and some cigars, I think. Tell Crosby I'll be back late.”

“Okey.”

The man said,' “Well, good-night, Mr. Donahue,” smiled agreeably,. opened the door and went out.

Donahue swung the chair around to face the fire and stuck his feet on a split log. When he finished the cigarette he opened the humidor on the low brass Moorish coffee table and helped himself to a cigar. He lighted it complacently.

The bronze clock on the mantel said nine-thirty when he tossed the cigar butt into the grate and stood up with an impatient grunt.

A soft knock on the door made him turn abruptly and look at it. Then he crossed to the door, opened it and stood looking down at the face of an incredibly beautiful girl. She was smiling, but a glimmer of surprise showed through her smile.

When she said nothing, Donahue said, “Yes? Do you want to see Mr. Crosby?”

She nodded. “Ye-es.”

“He's not in but I'm waiting, too, so you may as well join me. . . though”--as she walked in--“I was just on the point of leaving.”

His eyes slanted down at her, appraised her with satisfaction, and he was closing the door when she turned around and stood with her back to the fireplace. She wore a mole coat and a dark snug cloche hat. She was very small, with small white teeth, brown big eyes and olive satin skin, and there was a distinct odor of liquid-heavy Shalimar perfume.

Donahue smiled, showing long narrow teeth. His dark eyes glittered, and he bowed, saying, “You might as well sit down.”

“I'll get warm first,” she said, and shivered, adding, “Miserable weather!”

He said brightly, “Yes, rotten out. It's been comfortable by the fire. Crosby should have been in long ago. We had a date. Guy lives with him asked me to wait and then breezed ... he had a date.”

She said, “Oh, yes?” in a far-away voice, and threw a series of veiled looks around the room.

“You know Crosby well?” Donahue asked bluntly.

“Rather well. He telephoned me he was back from Europe. I just dropped in ... wasn't certain of finding him. Since you have a date with him perhaps I'd better go.”

“Nonsense! Hang around.”

She sighed. “Mine is not important . . . merely a hello call. Did his friend say when Mr. Crosby'd come back?”

“No. No, he didn't. He just said he figured he'd be back if we had a date. He was a nice agreeable little 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 irritably. 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 lying 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.
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, undershirts, 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 spread-legged 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 Crosby'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 stair cases.-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 bedroom 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,” Donahue said; then asked, “What's your name?”

“It's--Adler.”

“Okey. Now come into the living-room with me.” He took the little old man by the arm and marched him out of the bedroom, across the studio, and into the living-room. “Sit down,” he said briskly, and pointed to a straight-backed chair. When the man seemed not to have heard, Donahue put a hand on either shoulder and pressed the man down into the chair with firm, gentle persistence.

“Mr. Crosby!” the little man moaned. His face twisted up and a tear fell from each eye.

Donahue was crouched over him, shaking his shoulder. “Come on, Mr. Adler--snap out of that.”

“Uh--Mr. Crosby ...”

“I know, I know all about that, but snap out of it. He was probably a good guy, lived here a long time, and you liked him a lot. Okey. But don't slop all over the place now. You can do that later. But brace up. . . . Listen. My name's Donahue. You hear? It's Donahue. I'm a private cop. You hear me? I said I'm a private cop. Mr. Crosby called up the Interstate this afternoon and asked them to send a cop down. They sent me down. You get all that?”

Adler sat straight in the chair now blinking through his small spectacles. He sniffled. He gulped, “You're--a private detective?”

Donahue slapped the man's shoulder. “There! You've got it now! All right. Now pay-attention. You remember when you let me in?”

“It was eight-thirty.”

“Okey. There was a man in this room when I came up. He said he roomed with Crosby.”

“No--nobody roamed with Mr. Crosby.”

“I know that--now--but I didn't then. Now what time did you let that man in?”

“About seven-thirty.”

“He didn't give a name, did he?”

“No. He just snapped, 'Mr. Crosby.' Like that. He was a big hard-looking man--”

“What? I mean, you say he was a big man?”

“Well, big as you . . . six feet . . . heavier than you, though.”

Donahue's dark eyes glittered. “All right. He came in at seven-thirty. Now the man in here was a small man, no taller than you. What time did he come in?”

“I didn't let anybody in but the big man.”

Donahue stood up and jammed fists against hips. He looked at the door and said, “This ain't even funny,” and his upper teeth chewed on his lower lip. Then he looked down at Adler.

“Mr. Crosby came home from Europe--when?”

“Monday--three days ago.”

“Did you ever see or let in a small young man--say about twenty-eight--with hair black as mine only smoother. He has very white even teeth and a pleasant agreeable face. ; His voice is high but nice on the ear, and it's a lively voice.”

“No, I don't remember. I'm sure I didn't.”

“All right. Now how about a woman a little smaller than you, say about twenty-six, with a small face, neat pointed chin, small teeth, and large brown eyes?”

“Well, I didn't let a woman like that in. But I came in with mail for Mr. Crosby yesterday and a woman like that was sitting in that leather chair by the fireplace. I think she came over on the boat with Mr. Crosby or met him in Europe or something. He was over there four months, you know.”

“How old was Crosby?”

“Maybe thirty he was, and very successful, he was. He made covers for magazines. And he was so cheerful and seemed much younger than he was. . . like a boy, Mr. Donahue. And he was good to me. He's lived here for six years, and I've been here ten. He used to give me clothes o' his--lots of them that was almost new. And hats. And I could wear his socks. Sure, it was just yesterday morning he gave me a suit and a couple of hats with London labels and some socks. Ah, poor young feller!” Adler wiped an eye. “Somebody'll be having to notify his uncle up in Westchester--Mr. Amos Crosby, a fine upstanding old man that loved young Mr. Crosby.”

Donahue's voice was low and husky saying, “It was rank murder, Mr. Adler--and somebody was looking for something Crosby had--something he probably brought from Europe.” He shrugged, slammed fist into palm. “Well, now the police.”

He strode through the studio, into the bedroom, paused to stare moodily at the bloodied body, then went on to the little table and picked up the telephone. He called the district station-house, and when the connection had been made he said:

“Hello, is this you, Riley? . . . This is Donahue. Say, a guy's been rubbed off down in Waverly Place. Real butcher's job. . . . Number 14. Guy name of Crosby--artist. . . . No, I don't think it's a crime of passion. . . . How did I? Well, Crosby called up Hinkle this afternoon and told him to send a man tonight. I came down. . . . No, we didn't know why he wanted us. He's just come back from Europe. So I came down, and when I got here Crosby was cold. . . . Yeah, I'll hang around till you send the plain-clothes over.”

He hung up, rose, went over and stood beside the dead man on the floor. Among the articles that had been emptied from the wallet, was a small pin seal book with gold edges. Donahue knelt down, picked it up, flipped the pages. It was an address book with alphabetical indentations. He turned to C. He found Amos Crosby, Westchester 0040. He turned to T. He found L. T. scrawled in pencil, beneath it, Avalon-Plaza, and a Schuyler telephone number. He returned to the telephone and called that number.

When a voice said, “Hotel Avalon-Plaza,” Donahue said, “Will you connect me with Miss Tenquist?” There was a long pause, then the voice saying, “Sorry, sir. Miss Tenquist does not answer.” Donahue said, “Thanks,” and hung up.

He dialed the Agency next and said, “Burt. Hello, Burt. This is Donahue. Crosby's been croaked. . . . Yeah. It's a long story and the plain-clothes '11 be in any minute. All the time I was waiting for him he was dead in another room. . . . Absolute. A guy I've seen, a broad, and another guy I haven't seen, are mixed up in it. Crosby has an uncle in Westchester. Money, I guess. We may get a job if you call him up and notify him of his nephew's death. Spread it thick. Tell him the boy had engaged us. Number's West-Chester 0040. . . . Okey, Burt. Be seeing you later.”

When he got back to the living-room, Adler was still sitting on the chair, head in hands. A bell rang loudly somewhere distant, and Adler started, got up.

“The front door,” he said, and hurried out sniffling.

Donahue was standing before the fireplace lighting a cigarette when the door opened. A man in plain-clothes came in followed by two uniformed policemen. The man in plain-clothes was tall, lank, lantern-jawed. He wore a faded gray overcoat and a soft hat that had been made shapeless by many rains.

“Hello, Donahue,” he said glumly.

“Hello, Roper.”

“Where's he?”

“Across the studio.”

Roper had his hands in his pockets and his shoulders huddled up to his ears, as though he were chilly. The two cops were young, in bright uniforms. They followed Roper.

Adler came in rubbing his hands slowly together against his meagre chest. He looked helplessly at Donahue. Donahue smiled reassuringly but said nothing.

Roper's heavy slow footfalls came back across the bare studio floor, and then he came into the living-room.

“That's nice,” he said. He looked at Adler. “Who's this?”

“Houseman,” Donahue said.

Roper said, “Yeah?” and then moved towards the fireplace, pulled a chair up close to it and sat down with his back to the fire huddling his big bony shoulders. He looked mournful and detached.

“Now,” he said, “let's go over it.”

Donahue, holding the little black address book in a clenched hand in his pocket, smiled with long narrow teeth and said, “Sure, Roper,” amicably.
III

WHEN DONAHUE LEFT the house in Waverly Place, it was ten-twenty, and the Morgue bus was drawing up to the curb. There was no crowd, since no commotion had attended the quiet murder of Crosby; and crowds in Waverly Place are rare anyhow.

Donahue crunched stout shoes on freezing slush as he headed west, turned into Sheridan Square. He crossed the Square and went down into dark windy Grove Street. Where a dim yellow light glowed from a door submerged five feet beneath the level of the sidewalk. Donahue turned down the flight of stone steps, passed through the open doorway, turned right against a closed door, opened it, walked ten feet down a narrow corridor, opened another door, and entered a long bar at which stood eight scattered men.

The slack-faced barman, who was idly picking his teeth, said, “'Lo, Donny.”

“Bunt,” Donahue said. “Scotch and soda.”

“How's the racket?”

“On the up and up.”

While the barman was uncorking the Scotch, Donahue walked the length of the bar, entered a telephone booth. The sound of the nickel dropping in the slot was audible outside the booth. Donahue talked for a minute, hung up. Then another nickel made a noise. He talked again, hung up, came out and picked up a pickle from the lunch counter on his way to the bar. He downed the Scotch straight, chased it with soda, rang a half dollar on the bar.

He said, “Be seeing you, Bunt,” and walked out.

Returning to Sheridan Square, he went down a West Side Subway kiosk, took a northbound local to Fourteenth Street, left the local and caught a northbound express. Ten minutes later he left the express at Seventy-second Street, took a local to Seventy-ninth, got off and climbed the stairway to Broadway. He walked one block west and turned south into West End Avenue.

The Avalon-Plaza was a small apartment-hotel better than middle class, just short of swank. Donahue passed a braided doorman, pushed a revolving door around, climbed three marble steps, turned right and climbed three more, and then walked down a narrow quiet foyer. To the corpulent complacent man at the desk he said, “Will you tell Miss Tenquist that Mr. Donahue is calling?”

The man said, “Certainly,” and repeated the names to the switchboard operator. When he turned back to Donahue saying, “Yes,” Donahue asked, “What number?” And the man said, “A-455.”

A small silent elevator whisked Donahue to the fourth floor, and the elevator boy leaned out to point and say, “Down that way, sir, around the bend.”

There was a brass knocker shaped like a harp on the door marked A-455. Donahue raised it and let it fall back to its brass base.

The latch clicked and Miss Tenquist looked quizzically at Donahue. She had loose brown hair and wore a blue peignoir casually and becomingly.

He eyed her steadily with round hard brown eyes and showed his long narrow teeth in a fixed smile.

Without saying anything, the woman stepped aside and looked around the room vaguely, and while she was doing that Donahue walked into a small but not inexpensive living-room. To the left were two doors. One led to a bathroom; the other to a bedroom.

When she had closed the door, Donahue, hat in hand, said, “I called you from downtown.”

“Yes?” She was eying him strangely, uncertainly, and color was creeping into her cheeks.

He was smiling at her fixedly. “I didn't tell you over the phone that Crosby'd been murdered.”

Her small white fingers flew to her mouth but did not succeed in stopping an explosive, “Oh!” that burst from spread lips. Her brown eyes dilated wide with sudden horror. Then the lids wavered, the eyes rolled a bit. Donahue took a step toward her, arms outthrust. She backed away, putting the back of her hand against her forehead. She sank to a divan and said breathlessly, “Oh . . . murdered!” tragically.

“Yes,” Donahue clipped. He went on rapidly in a blunt incisive voice, “He'd been murdered when you got there. He'd been murdered before I got there. He was lying in his bedroom all the time and I didn't know it.”

She said, “Oh, oh,” behind teeth that tried to close hard: and a harried look battled in her eyes.

“Listen,” Donahue said, sitting down beside her. “You were worried when you came there tonight. Who are you? How long have you known Crosby?”

“I've known him--quite a while.”

“Not so long. I happen to know you came over on the boat with him.”

She caught her breath, trained her eyes on the carpet. “Yes, I did. I knew him in Europe. We met in Europe.”

“Listen. When you came in tonight, how did you get in?”

She had her handkerchief pressed against her mouth now. She looked squarely at Donahue with her wide-open eyes. “Why, what do you mean?”

“I mean, ordinarily you ring the front door-bell to get in that house. You didn't. You came right in. You must have had a key.”

She swallowed. “Who are you?”

“I told you my name. That's not answering my question. Did you have a key?”

She got up and started walking around the room. Donahue got up and trailed her around the room, asking, “Now did you, did you?” She whirled and cried, half in tears, “What if I did have a key?”

He stopped and spread his hands palmwise, saying, “That's what I wanted to know. Then you had a key. You must have been a very good friend of Crosby's.” He smiled crookedly. “Very intimate, eh?”

She looked confused. “If you want to put it that way.”

“That's all right by me,” he grinned. “We'll forget all about that. But here's something else. That guy I said was Crosby's room-mate wasn't. Why didn't you tell me nobody lived with Crosby when I made that crack?”

“I still don't know what right you have to ask all these questions?”

“When I mentioned that guy, I remember you kind of tightened up--as if you knew who I meant.” He lowered his voice, hardened it. “Listen to me, little girl, it's all right if you were playing house with Crosby--that was his privilege and yours. But when a guy gets his throat carved and you act dumb when I shoot questions at you--” He shook his head. “That doesn't go at all--not with this baby.”

She was trembling, but she put fire hi her voice when she cried, “Who--who are you?”

“Just a private cop earning his salary. . . . You knew Crosby well. All right. He sent for a private cop. Now you ought to know why. We don't know. He called up and said he'd explain when we sent a man down. So I went down. This smooth-faced guy let me in, saying he was Crosby's room-mate. Then you drift in. Say, who was after Crosby--and why?”

She blew her nose and shook her head and said beneath her handkerchief in a panicky voice, “I don't know! He didn't tell me anything!”

Fury leaped in Donahue's dark eyes. His hand shot out, caught the girl's wrist and he heaved her close up against him.

He snarled, “I hope to tell you you're a damned little liar!”

“Ow . . . you're hurting!”

He released her abruptly and she fled backwards across the room. He chopped off an oath that did not quite get to his lips and scowled darkly at the girl.

“Don't pull a song and dance on me!” he rapped out. “We can get along fine as long as you don't play me for a jackass. Come on now, break clean. What kind of a racket are you in on?”

“I--I don't know what you're talking about.”

“I said don't song-and-dance!”

“I tell you--”

A knock on the corridor door stopped her. She flung a look at the door. She flung a look at Donahue. Donahue made a motion for her to open the door while his right hand went around to his hip-pocket and drew out a Colt's .38 revolver with an abbreviated two-inch barrel. He took six backward steps into the bath-room, left the door open.

The girl had her hand on the knob of the corridor door and all color had drained from her face.
IV

SHE OPENED the door. Her body stiffened and her hands started towards her breast. She backed up as the small neat young man came in slowly and smiled with his agree- able white teeth. His right hand was significantly in the pocket of his ulster. He reached around back with his left hand, closed the door, stood with his back against it and turned the key in the lock.

He said in his pleasant lively voice, “Hello, Irene.”

The girl had backed up against one arm of the divan, and she sat tensely against it, hunched forward, in an awkward position that had about it something of breathless-ness. Her brown eyes were fixed wide on the small neat young man. His rather dark luminous eyes twinkled.

He said, casually, “Babe didn't get it.”

She scraped the side of the divan with clawing fingers. Fear began to distort her face, and she kept twisting her head from side to side. Her lips opened, her teeth opened, and she began to breathe hoarsely.

The small neat young man came forward, taking his time, smiling pleasantly. He said, “And I didn't get it.”

She cringed, held her arms out, palms towards the man. She crouched behind the palms.

She choked, “Babe ... you didn't--”

“No, Irene. I didn't. Not that. I just slugged him. . . . Aren't you the two-timing little--”

“For God's sake, Alfred ... go out!”

“Don't try to kid me. Babe's not here. Babe's still in the land of nod, as the poets say. . . . And will it be poetic justice if I break your nice sweet jaw?”

“Alfred! . . .”

“I'm talking, Irene. What a jack I've been. I always knew you used to be sweet on Babe, nuts on him, but I thought that was all over--”

“I swear it is, Alfred!”

“Bah!” You two-timed on me, but Babe didn't get it. Maybe he did get it. But he didn't have it. He passed it on to someone ... to you.”

“No--no!”

Alfred drew out a very small but business-like automatic and leveled it at the girl's breast.

He said quietly, “One of us has it. Babe hasn't. I haven't. You have!”

“Please ... I swear! ...”

He raised his left hand slowly and placed the fingers around the girl's throat. He pressed the muzzle of the gun against her breast. He smiled at her.

“For two-timing, Irene, you ought to get a belly full of this. I may yet. But first, I want to know who has it.”

“I--don't know, Alfred! That's God's truth! Go out ... come back later!”

He laughed leisurely, tightened his fingers on her throat until she gagged and raised her hands to grip the arm that held her. She teetered on the arm of the divan, lost her balance, fell backward on the divan kicking up white smooth legs.

Alfred took two steps and looked down at her where she lay panting and rubbing her throat. He leaned over a bit and slapped her face. She cried, “Ow!” and she meant it.

Alfred slammed the pistol against her ribs and she screeched. He stood up, took two more steps, turned on a radio. A jazz band boomed into the room. He returned to the divan and struck the girl again--with the gun. He planted a knee on her stomach and went on striking her. He did not look mad, merely interested in his work.

Donahue stepped from the bath-room, walked across the carpet, stopped behind, Alfred, and when Alfred's gun hand rose, Donahue gripped it, twisted sharply and spun Alfred around to face him. Alfred's gun was in Donahue's left hand, and Donahue's, gun was in his own right hand. Donahue struck Alfred playfully on the head with Alfred's gun, and when Alfred fell back grunting, Donahue grinned and said:

“Does hurt, doesn't it?”

Alfred regained his poise, smiled and said, “Yes, a bit.”

The girl sat up, sobbing. She rose and burst out crying and stumbled to the bath-room.

Donahue eyed Alfred and said, “Turn off the radio.”

Alfred turned off the radio. He smoothed his collar, pushed back his black smooth hair and kept looking at Donahue with mild and polite interest.

“You're a smooth--” Donahue said drily.

Alfred smiled, said, “Association,” brightly.

Donahue said, “Well, I'm not smooth. And I don't like smooth guys.”--.

“Do you mind if I light a cigarette?”

“Yes I mind.”

Alfred shrugged. “You're uncommonly hard to get on with.”

“I'm damned hard to get on with.”

Alfred sighed. Then his face brightened. “Irene is a very temperamental soul.”

“We'll discuss you right now. Never mind about Irene. . . . Listen, you--what the hell was the idea of handing me a line in Crosby's apartment?”

“Must we go into that?”

“Oh, I think we ought to--since it's very likely you carved the poor slob's throat.”

Alfred laughed lightly. “Now, now, Mr. Holmes!”

Donahue took three hard steps and jammed his own gun so hard against Alfred's chest that Alfred exploded, “Ugh!” and almost fell down.

Donahue clipped, “You're not funny at all, bozo!”

Alfred got his breath back, laughed in confusion, shoved back his hair and said, “My, you're like a regular New York cop.”

Donahue struck Alfred on the head and Alfred fell down on the floor, sat with his head in his hands and rocked back and forth groaning.--j

Donahue said, “I don't like wisenheimers.”

He got down on one knee. He put Alfred's gun in his pocket and used the hand that had held the gun to pull Alfred's hands from his face. Alfred's eyes were wet and he looked peeved.

“You don't have to be so rough,” he said.

“You don't have to make those musical comedy wisecracks. . . . Listen to me, brother. You're in a tough spot. Crosby was carved, and you were in his apartment when I got there. Crosby was murdered because he had something that you guys wanted. You're a red-hot--so is the jane . . . but you're hotter than she is because she came there after the murder. She came in while I was there. We notified Crosby's uncle that his nephew had got a dose, and the old boy's coming into town like a bat out of hell--and he told us to carry on with the investigation. I'm carrying on--and you're going to talk before I walk you into a pinch.”

Alfred became thoughtful. He said sadly, “Say, I am in a tough spot, ain't I?”

“I wouldn't fool you!”

The girl came back into the room sniffling and saying, “You dirty little rat, trying to link me with your dirty little schemes! I told you to stay away from me--to leave me alone. I want nothing to do with you. I'm sick and tired of being drawn into your schemes, and I'm sick and tired of seeing you.”

She picked up a heavy bronze book-end and hefted it. Hot scarlet overran her cheeks and her brown eyes blazed.

Alfred raised his hand. “Now don't throw that, Irene.”

Donahue put in, “I thought it was Leone.”

She came over and stood quivering, the book-end in an upraised arm. “You're a very small rat!” she cried.

Alfred said, “Now don't, Irene--”

Donahue looked at Alfred and said, “Just for fun I ought to encourage her.”

The girl's hand came down swiftly.

Donahue felt the book-end strike his head. He knew he was reeling. He knew blackness cascaded down upon him. There was another blow, a laugh--Alfred's quiet laugh-- and then there wasn't anything.
V

COMING TO AT MIDNIGHT, Donahue lay in the darkness for a few minutes feeling his head. When he touched a bump near the crown he said, “Ugh!” and then cursed. Then he sat up. He could see two windows, the night sky beyond them, some tattered star fragments. He fumbled in his pockets for a match, found one, struck a light and then moved towards the electric switch. He snapped on the lights.

He was still in the same apartment. He said, “Hell and damn,” earnestly, and prowled around, wearing a brown predatory look. The bedroom was empty. Bureau drawers were open--empty; clothes closet was open --empty. He went around into the bath-room. It had been cleaned out except for a bottle with a little Listerine in it. Donahue poured it into a glass, added water, slushed his mouth out, spat noisily.

Alfred and the girl Irene had pulled a fade-away. Donahue wet his hair, brushed it back with his fingers, washed face and hands and dried them. Returning to the living-room, he saw his gun lying on the divan. He picked it up, saw it was still loaded and replaced it in his overcoat pocket. His brown face was hard, sullen; he muttered diatribes in his throat behind his narrow clenched teeth. He went into the bedroom again, looked beneath twin beds, dumped out the contents of a waste basket.

He threw aside crumpled empty cigarette packets, a . tooth-paste box, a copy of the Evening Sun, a theatre program of the Lyric showing Fifty Million Frenchmen, a Bascom ticket envelope, a passenger list of the S. S. Driatic, a dry cleaner's bill, a colored cardboard box that had contained hairpins, an empty vanishing-cream jar, an empty rose-colored bottle-that had contained fingernail polish.

Donahue reclaimed the passenger list of the S. S. Driatic. Under the C's he found Robert C. Crosby. Under the T's he found Alfred P. Tenquist; beneath this, Miss Leone Tenquist. He folded the booklet and thrust it into his pocket. His dark eyes glittered as he bent to throw the other articles back into the waste-basket.

He returned to the living-room, picked up his Borsalino, slapped it carelessly on his head and cringed, exploding, “Damn!” It was the bump on his head. He drew in a breath and went towards the door, making a sour face. He passed into the corridor, buzzed for an elevator. When one stopped he got in. When the doors slid open on the main floor, a man squeezed in as Donahue was going out, and as Donahue walked away he heard a bass voice say:

“I want A-455.”

Donahue stopped in his tracks, stood rooted but did not look around. Then he went on walking through the lobby, passed out into the street and turned south. Half a block away three taxis stood in a row at the curb. Donahue passed the first and walked up to the second. He handed the driver a dollar.

“This guy ahead of you may get a call any minute,” he said. “Maybe I'll want you to follow him.”

The driver reached back an arm and opened the door. “Okey, chief.”

Donahue climbed in the back, lit a butt and watched the entrance of the Avalon-Plaza. About five minutes later a man came out. The doorman blew a whistle and the first taxi got into gear and drove up to the hotel entrance.

“Follow that guy,” Donahue said.

The driver started his motor, meshed gears but held the clutch out. When the first taxi pulled away from the curb the second did likewise.

The first taxi turned east on Seventy-ninth Street, south into Riverside Drive. Donahue's man stayed half a block behind, but sped up when a Packard sport and a checkered cab got in between him and the green cab he was trailing. He passed the Packard and the checkered job and followed the green taxi around the blinker into Seventy-second Street, then south on West End Avenue. At Fifty-ninth Street, West End Avenue becomes Eleventh and shoots south past railroad yards and switching engines; becomes a rough, shoddy and dark street without traffic stops, where trucks and taxis slam recklessly on their way. The tail turned east into Fortieth Street, crossed Tenth Avenue, roared beneath the Ninth Avenue Elevated and started to slow down just west of Eighth Avenue. The green taxi was pulling into the curb; Donahue's was a hundred yards behind, drifting leisurely. The green cab was stopped when Donahue's rolled past, and the big man was getting out in front of a lighted doorway that was flush with the street.

Donahue leaned forward and said, “I'll get out at Eighth.” When he alighted he gave the driver another dollar, then walked west on Fortieth until he came to the lighted doorway. He walked into the open lobby, looked around for a button, saw none. He got on his toes and ran his fingers along the top of the door frame. He found a button there, pressed it. A minute later the door opened and Donahue walked in saying, “Hello, buddy.”

He walked on down a narrow low-ceiled corridor, passed a kitchen, entered a small bar beyond which was a dining-room where a slot gramophone was raising a lot. of noise and dancing feet were shuffling.

The man who had come out of the Avalon-Plaza was standing at the far end of the short bar watching the spectacled bartender mix a whiskey-sour. Donahue put a foot on the rail a dozen feet from the man and watched him in the mirror. When the bartender came down the line mop ping the bar Donahue said:

“Scotch and soda.”

“Punk night out, eh?”

“Pretty lousy.”

Donahue was trying his drink when the big man ordered another whiskey-sour. The big man wore a voluminous tan polo coat, a brown silk muffler, and a rakish large-brimmed brown hat. His face was big, bronzed and bulged at the eyebrows. His gimlet eyes were hidden in tight folds of flesh, and his mouth was wide and drooped at the corners. When he had drunk half of the second whiskey-sour he turned and rolled to a telephone-booth, closed himself in, talked on the telephone briefly, came out again and finished the drink. He threw a bill on the bar, said “Night,” gruffly and stamped down the narrow corridor, wearing a scowl. Donahue had finished the Scotch and soda. The bartender took sixty cents out of a dollar and Donahue left the bar, pocketing the change.

When he came out into Fortieth Street he saw the big man half a block away heading east. Donahue tailed him to Broadway, where the man climbed into a yellow cab. Donahue boarded a black-and-white, said, “Follow that yellow,” and sat on the edge of the back seat watching. The yellow cab turned east into Thirty-fourth Street, crossed Fifth, Madison and Park; turned north on Lexington and west into Thirty-seventh Street and crawled into the curb on the upgrade. Donahue told his driver to keep going, spotted the three story graystone in front of which the yellow had stopped and told the driver to pull up at the taxi stand at Thirty-seventh and Lexington.

He walked down Thirty-seventh on the left side of the street, watched the right. He was opposite the graystone walk-up when he saw lights appear on the third floor behind windows that had shades drawn all the way down. All other windows were dark--had been dark when the taxi drew up. Donahue walked a little farther down, crossed the street, came back up and climbed six stone steps to an open vestibule door. Stepping into the vestibule, he saw a brass plate with four buttons running vertically beside four niches for name. The top niche was the only one that had no name.

He pressed the top button. A minute later the door clicked and Donahue opened it, looked into a dimly lighted corridor. He stood there, reached out and pressed the button again. He listened, looking at the latch. It began clicking again. When it stopped Donahue waited another minute, pressed it again, still holding the door open. The lock began clicking. Donahue smiled to himself, his eyes narrowed shrewdly. While the lock was clicking Donahue pressed his finger against the button, held it there for half a minute. The lock stopped clicking. Donahue gave the button another short push, then shoved his head into the hall and listened. He heard footfalls somewhere above.

He stepped into the hall, closed the door, went quickly and silently to the rear of the lower hall. He turned and waited in the shadows. The footfalls came down, walked the length of the corridor above, then came down the staircase to the lower hall.

Donahue saw the big man striding towards the hall door. The big man reached the door, drew the curtains aside, peered through the glass. He listened. His actions indicated that he was becoming suspicious.

Meanwhile Donahue was sliding through the shadows, hugging the shadowy base of the staircase. His right hand came out of his pocket holding the Colt's revolver. He held the gun in front of him and was ten feet behind the big man when he said:

“Suppose you raise 'em, Babe.”

The big man whirled hugely, sucking in a breath, and his right hand tightened on something in the pocket of his coat.
VI

DONAHUE'S VOICE was low, clipped--“You heard me, Babe! Get that hand out of your pocket! And get your hands up.”

“What the hell is this?--”

“Those hands, Babe!”

The big man snarled and thrust his big hands upward.

Donahue said, “Get over here . . . kneel on this lower step.”

“Say you--”

“Get over here!”

The big man lunged, fell to his knees on the lower step.

“Now lie down on the steps.”

“
I'll be--

“Get down and keep your hands out straight beyond your head. That's the way.” Donahue went through the man's pockets, took out an automatic pistol. “Now bring the hands down behind your back--and be nice.”

“You're sure a careful guy, ain't you?”

“Pretty careful, Babe.” Donahue clipped manacles deftly on the man's wrists, then stepped back and said, “Now get up and we'll go up to your flat.”

“I don't get this at all, guy.”

“I don't myself. Maybe we can figure things out. Up you go, Babe.” Donahue prodded him in the small of the back with his revolver, and the man started upward, and Donahue kept the gun against his back as they climbed more stairs and then walked into a room whose door had been left open. It was the front room, the living-room that looked out on Thirty-seventh Street. It was a big room, well furnished, and behind it was an equally large bedroom.

Donahue locked the corridor door, left the key in the lock. The big man had turned and was backing sullenly across the room, big head hunched between massive shoulders. His eyes could not be seen for the puffy rolls of flesh that drew together over them, yet at times there was a faint glint.

Open French doors connected living-room and bedroom, and Donahue went into the bedroom sidewise, keeping an-eye on the big man. He pulled open a clothes closet, closed it. He looked into the bath-room. Coming back towards the living-room, he paused in front of a bureau, sniffed. He looked at the things on the bureau. He picked up a crumpled lace handkerchief, put it down, proceeded into the living-room wearing a droll smile.

“Irene wears a nice perfume, Babe.”

The big man growled, “Say, who the hell are you?”

“Who do you think?”

“I don't think. I don't know. The bracelets say a dick, but dicks don't bust into houses alone.”

Donahue said, “I had a talk with Irene and I had a talk with Alfred. They haven't got it. You must have it.”

“Got what?”

“The bulls are kind of worked up over the Crosby kill, Babe. The guy who killed Crosby got it. I got there late. You were there before me, and Alfred was there after you. I didn't get it. Alfred didn't get it. Irene was there, too, but she didn't get it. You--must have got it.”

The big man knit his brows, chewed on a thick nether lip. His big nose wrinkled. He looked baffled. Donahue was a dark lean man eyeing him narrowly.

The big man growled, “Come on, guy, lay your cards on the table. Cut out the sparring.”

Donahue smiled bleakly. “I don't have to lay any cards on any table, Babe. I'm top-dog. You do the laying.”

“Suppose I don't lay?”

“Suppose you do.”

“I said--suppose I don't?”

Donahue dropped his voice ominously. “A dick named Roper's on the job. He's a hard guy, Babe. I can always reach him by telephone.”

The big man snarled, “You're a--stoolie trying to

step into big time!”

“Okey . . . then I'm a stoolie. But that's got nothing to do with what you are, or what I want from you. Every stoolie has his price. You know mine.”

“What do you want?”

“You know what I want. I want the same thing Irene wants, the same thing Alfred wants. They know you carved Crosby trying to get it. I know it too.”

The big man's face was getting red. His breath rushed hoarsely through wide nostrils and his hands strained at the manacles.

“Did Irene? . . .” he choked.

“She did after I beat her a while. She said you must have got it when you carved Crosby.”

The big man lunged towards Donahue, brought up against Donahue's gun. His eyes were shining dagger points in the slits of flesh.

“How the hell did you muscle in on this?”

Donahue smiled. “Open season, Babe. . . . Don't shove-your belly too hard against this rod.”

The big man, sucked in a huge breath, held it, then let it gush out boisterously. “Damn it, I didn't carve Crosby! Irene's a liar!”

“Punk, Babe. You called on Crosby, turned the joint inside out and carved him. That's open and shut. You were seen going in. ... Now where is it?”

“I don't know! I haven't got it! Irene or Alfred's got it. And she's a liar if she said I carved Crosby. I was down; there. All right, I was down there. What the hell of it? I was Crosby's bootlegger. I was before he went to Paris. He called me up when he came back. I brought him around three bottles of Scotch because my runner was out. I never run around with the stuff ordinary. But Crosby was a good buyer.”

Donahue wrinkled his brown forehead. “You might have been his bootlegger, Babe, but you got in on something bigger. You had something to do with this racket the woman and Alfred 're in on. You're Irene's boy friend. You and Irene double-crossed Alfred.”

“Say, fella, you know a hell of a lot about this.”

“I get around, Babe.”

The big man tied his face up in puzzled wrinkles. “I'm damned if you're a stoolie! You're getting more like plain-clothes every minute!”

“Do you come across, big boy, or do I put through a telephone call? If you didn't slice Crosby you know who did.”

“So you're a dick, eh? So you're a dick?” The big man scowled darkly, snarled, “You can go to hell! If you think I'm a red-hot, you're all wet.”

The telephone bell jangled. Donahue started towards it, then motioned the big man over.

He said, “Sit down and answer it.”

“Me with manacles?”

“I'll hold the receiver for you.”

The big man sat down at the library table. Donahue took off the receiver, placed it near the big man's ear, put his own ear near it.

Irene's voice said, “Babe!”

Babe said, “Yeah.”

“I'm coming over! I've got to see you! I'll be over in twenty minutes!”

Donahue whispered, “Tell her sure, Babe.”

Babe grumbled, “Sure, come on.”

“Oh, Babe, I've had one hell of a time! I'm all in! But I'll be over--in twenty minutes.”

“Sure, Irene.”

Donahue hung up saying, “This is sure a break, Babe. Now be a strong silent man. ... So you and the broad have been two-timing on Alfred all along, eh?”

“--for you.”

“And you think I'm a dick, eh?”

“I don't know what you are. I'm beginning to think again you're a stoolie doublecrossing the cops.”

Donahue chuckled drily. “We'll wait and see what Irene thinks about it.” He took out a key-ring. “I'm going to plant you in that easy chair facing the door. Your hands are going to be manacled in front, and there'll be a newspaper over them. You stay in the chair, taking it easy: the prosperous bootlegger at home. I'll be in the bedroom watching you. One step out of turn and you get the works.”

“I'd give a thousand bucks to know just what you are, guy.”

Donahue laughed good-naturedly. “Hell, what a piker you turned out to be!”

The big man growled petulantly, “Jeeze, you're an aggravating kinda guy!”
VII

WHEN THE door-bell rang the man called Babe was sitting in an easy-chair with a newspaper lying across his lap.

Donahue said, “When she knocks, just say come in to her. Don't get up.”

“You're boss just now, fella.”

“Okey.” Donahue walked to the corridor door, pressed a brass button on a brass plate beside it. Then he unlocked the door. The entrance to the bedroom was to the left of the corridor door as one came in, and one entering would be unable to look into the bedroom until he had reached about the center of the living-room. The big man sat across the room from the corridor door but faced it squarely. One of the two front windows was directly behind him.

When Donahue entered the bedroom he turned its lights out and took up a position behind a highboy, around whose front corner he could peer into the living-room and see the big man but not the corridor door.

He called quietly, “For the time being, Babe, you're on the spot. Play ball.”

The big man droned sullenly, “Okey, fella.”

A moment later a light knock sounded on the door.

The big man said, “Come in.”

There was a pause. Then the door hanged open.

Donahue saw the big man heave in the chair, throw off the newspaper, open his mouth, start to get up.

A silenced gun popped.

The big man slammed-back into the chair snapping out his legs. He toppled with the chair. Donahue leaped across the bedroom.

Footfalls were hammering down the stairs. Donahue streaked out into the hallway, looked over the balustrade. The feet were hurrying down the staircase below. Donahue forked the balustrade, shot down backwards, landed on his feet, raced down the next staircase. He heard someone stirring in one of the apartments. He rapped the door as he sped past and yelled, “Man shot on-top floor!” He boomed down into the lower hall, burst out into Thirty-seventh Street.

There was a man racing towards Lexington Avenue, hugging the buildings. Donahue started long legs flying, swung south on Lexington. The man was half a block ahead of him. He was a small man, swift as the wind. He was Alfred.

He shot down Thirty-sixth Street, turned south on Third Avenue. The avenue was deserted. Store fronts were dark. An Elevated train threshed by overhead, southbound.

Alfred reached the Thirty-fourth Street station, bolted up the stairway. Donahue hammered up behind him.-When he reached the platform the train had pulled out. Alfred had crossed the tracks, was rushing through the turnstile on the northbound platform.

Donahue turned and went down the steps he had climbed, crossed Third Avenue and saw Alfred running north, now a block distant. At Thirty-eighth Street Alfred leaped aboard a cruising taxi, disappeared in the back. Donahue yelled, ran out into the street, flagged a southbound taxi.

“Tail that blue cab, bud!” he clipped as he jumped in the back and slammed the door.

The taxi wheeled about in the middle of the block, shifted into high, roared north beneath the Elevated structure. The blue cab made a left turn into Thirty-ninth Street, turned north on Lexington. It went through a red traffic light. Donahue's cab went through a red traffic light. The blue cab swung left at Forty-second Street, skidded on street-car rails. Alfred jumped off at Grand Central, Donahue handed the driver fifty cents, dropped off before the cab stopped, galloped on the sidewalk and shoved in through heavy swing-doors.

When he reached the rotunda of the upper level Alfred was at the other end heading into a passageway at a fast walk. When he saw Donahue he broke into a run, took the underground entrance to the Commodore, came out into Forty-second Street and headed east at a fast walk. Donahue made him break into a run again, and they raced east past the News Building.

Alfred winged a taxi at Second Avenue. Donahue stopped on the corner and watched the taxi speed south. A minute passed before he hailed one swinging out of Forty-second Street, and when they were under way the other cab was three blocks beyond. An Elevated train was crashing southbound overhead. The taxi that Alfred had taken slewed into the curb at the Thirty-fourth Street Elevated station, and Alfred leaped out, darted up the stairway as the train was pulling in alongside the platform.

Donahue leaned forward and said, “Shoot down to Twenty-third Street.”

“Listen, boss--”

“No fireworks--honest, buddy,” Donahue said.

Taxi sped southward between steel Elevated pillars. Train sped southward overhead. At Twenty-third Street the Elevated swings east for a block, then south again on First Avenue. Between Second and First Avenues is the Twenty- third Street station. Donahue's taxi reached it four blocks ahead of the train. Donahue got out, paid up, climbed the staircase and stood behind a partition at the platform exit.

The train pulled in slowly after having made the turn. It was pretty empty. Train gates opened--closed. Quick footsteps sounded on the platform. Alfred appeared, strode past the partition behind which Donahue crouched. Donahue took a fast step after him and said:

“All right, Alfred--quiet, now!”

Alfred stopped short when Donahue poked a gun muzzle against Alfred's back.

“Hands out of pockets,” Donahue said.

Alfred took his hands from his pockets. Donahue frisked with his left hand, said, “Turn around.” Alfred turned around, his small face white and breathless. Donahue reached inside Alfred's ulster, drew a pistol from the ulster's inside pocket. There was a silencer attached. Donahue shoved gun and silencer into his own inside pocket. His mouth was tight, a windy look was in his eyes.

“Now, you--we'll go places,” he said.

“Listen, Donahue--”

“Down those steps, sweet man--and a wisecrack out of you and I'll break your jaw. Get!”

He grabbed Alfred's arm, walked him rapidly down the staircase. Alfred was like a man in a daze. He kept on trying to say things but somehow he seemed unable to utter a word.

But finally he said, “Where--are we going?”

“Ever hear of a dick named Roper?”

Alfred winced. “You mean--Bat Roper?”

“They tell me he bats hell out of guys.”

Alfred dragged to a stop. “Gripes, Donahue--”

“You're such a red-hot, though, that maybe he won't have to bat you. Quit stalling! Come on!”

Alfred hung back, setting his small mouth firmly. Three men were coming up Second Avenue.

Donahue rough-housed Alfred. “Damn you--”

Alfred leaped at Donahue yelling, “Help! Help!”

“You--!” Donahue snapped.

Alfred clawed at him, yelling for help, struggling frantically. The three men broke into a run, shouting. They were big men--East Siders. Donahue clouted Alfred on the head with his gun. Alfred screamed. The three men came up yelling.

Donahue shouted, “Stay off, you guys!”

Alfred buried his teeth in Donahue's arm. Donahue kicked Alfred's shins. The three men landed on Donahue and whaled him with hard fists. Alfred broke away, raced down Second Avenue.

Donahue shouted, “You fools, that's a killer! I'm a cop!”

“Yeah, you're a cop!”

“Damn your souls, clear out!” Donahue roared. He whipped his gun back and forth, laying open a cheek; : plunged through the men, streaked off after Alfred. Alfred swung west into Twenty-first Street. Donahue took the corner wide, saw Alfred speeding towards Gramercy Park.

He yelled, “Stop, you! I tell you, stop!”

Alfred did not stop. He was swift for a small man. But Donahue stopped, clicking his teeth together. He raised his gun, looked down it, pulled the trigger. Flame and smoke burst from the muzzle. The street boomed. Alfred reeled sidewise, fell, slid on his side into the gutter.

When Donahue came running up Alfred was crawling on his side, moaning hysterically. He was dragging his left leg.

When Donahue reached down Alfred screamed like a maniac. Windows were grating open. Lights were springing to life. Alfred screamed till his voice broke--and then he coughed, choked--but kept on crawling, leaving a thin trail of blood. Donahue reached down again, grabbed Alfred's shoulder.

“A guy would think you had places to go,” he said. “Snap out of it, dumb bell.”

Alfred stopped crawling but screamed again-, until his voice broke, banged his head on the pavement and swept the air with his hands.

Donahue knelt down and grabbed him by the throat. “And you're not going to bang your brains out!”

Running footsteps came down the street. Metal buttons and a shield gleamed, and a gun shone dully as a policeman passed beneath a street light.

A bull voice yelled, “Hey, you!”

Donahue looked up saying, “Come on, copper. There's a red-hot here.”

The policeman slowed to a heavy-soled walk. He was broad, stocky, young, with his cap raked over one ear. “What the hell's this?” he growled.

“This guy smoked out a bird up in Thirty-seventh Street. I've been tailing him. I nailed him on the Twenty-third Street L station, but he got wise and tried a break.”

“Yeah? and who the hell are you?”

“Don't get tough, coppy. I'm an Interstate boy. This gun's mixed up in the Crosby kill.”

“That job down in Waverly Place tonight?”

“Yeah. . . . Better phone an ambulance. I potted him in the left leg.”

“Where's his rod?”

“I've got it here--in my pocket.”

“How'd you happen to get it?”

Donahue stood up. “For crying out loud, don't be a rookie, copper. I asked him if he'd mind giving it to me. He said he'd be tickled.”

“You're a wise” guy, ain't you?”

“Nah, I'm not a wise guy. I hate wise guys. . . . Do you telephone or do you want me to?”

“I'll telephone. Just don't get wise--don't get wise.” Half a dozen persons had come out of doorways and were edging nearer. The policeman strode towards them saying, “I want a phone.” Somebody said, “Right here, officer. What happened?” The policeman didn't say what happened, and hurried through an open doorway.

Alfred was gibbering now. He began to bang his head against the pavement again screaming, “Mother o' God!” in a frenzied voice.

A woman's voice quavered, “Oh . . . the poor man.”

Donahue dropped to his knees and held Alfred's head locked in his arm.

He said, “No, you don't, Alfred. No, you don't.”

Alfred groaned, “Why didn't you finish me--why the hell didn't you finish me?”

“I should do favors for you!” Donahue said; chuckled, added, “Yes, I should!” He was running his right hand through Alfred's pockets. Something clinked in his fingers.
VIII

WHEN DONAHUE WAS striding past the hospital desk Roper came in huddled in his threadbare coat and stepped side wise so that he blocked Donahue. Donahue stopped, smiled amiably and said:

“Hello, Roper.”

The dour-faced precinct bull said, “Hello,” dully. He spoke very slowly, way down in his throat. His big lazy eyes were expressionless. His lantern-jawed, muddy brown face was inanimate--and because of that, somehow threatening.

Donahue said, “They're upstairs swabbing out the little guy's wound. They tell me Babe Delaney got it in the belly. It's funny . . . he's in a room next to Alfred Poore.”

Roper never changed the expression on his face, but after a pendant interval he said monotonously, “You been going places and doing things tonight, ain't you?”

“I've been getting around.”

“And seeing people.”

Donahue thinned his eyes. “Well, what's eating you, master mind?”

“There's a jane in the show. You know so much. Where's the jane?”

“I wouldn't know. Alfred's a secretive little guy. He got tougher too when he heard Babe wasn't dead.”

Roper's lips opened slowly. “Secretive like you, eh? You knew a hell of a lot more than you told me.”

“I gave you a straight story, Roper. Adler, the houseman, was there to check up. . . . Hell, do you suppose I'm going to let you in on a brainstorm I get?”

“Remember, Irish, it don't pay to crack bright with the precinct boys.”

Donahue placed a forefinger against Roper's chest. “Remember, Roper, it doesn't pay to get tough on a guy was in on the ground floor. Alfred and this Babe guy are tight-mouthed.”

“There's always the rubber-hose short-cut.”

Donahue grinned. “Be seeing you, Roper.”

Roper gripped Donahue's arm. “Suppose we sit down and you tell me the story from beginning to end.”

Donahue reached around his right hand and closed it on Roper's wrist. “Suppose,” he said, “you go over to the Twenty-first Precinct and read the blotter.” He threw down Roper's hand.

Roper's face remained inanimate, but he said, “Someday you'll be sorry, Irish.”

Donahue walked past him saying, “That sounds like the words to a song I once heard.” He kept on walking, went out through the hospital door.

He walked a block west on Twenty-sixth Street and hailed a taxi that was drifting north on Second Avenue. He said, “Run me over to Broadway and Thirty-second Street.” When he settled in the seat he yawned, stretched arms and legs, looked at the illuminated dial of his strap watch. It was three a.m.

Broadway was a deserted canyon when he alighted. Herald Square, by day a seething whirlpool of traffic, was empty and silent now. Donahue walked south, his footfalls clear-cut on the pavement. Dirty snow lay in the gutters.

He turned into the lobby of the Hotel Breton Arms. His heels rang on the tiled floor. A small bald man leaned on the ornate desk reading a paper. Donahue walked to the elevators. A sleepy Negro in a red uniform got up and walked into the elevator behind Donahue. When the elevator started Donahue said, “Ten.” The Negro snapped gum with tongue and teeth. Donahue got out at the tenth floor, turned left, looked at numbers on doors. He drew a key with a brass tag from his pocket. It clinked in his hand. The oval-shaped tag said:

THE

HOTEL

BRETON ARMS

He walked on smooth green carpets, turned left, walked a matter of ten yards and stopped before a door on which the number 1046 was printed in dull gold. He stepped back and looked up at a wooden-transom that was open about six inches. No light issued.

Donahue inserted the key quietly, turned it quietly, then gripped the knob and turned it slowly to the right. Presently the door gave inward. He opened it wide, so that the light from the corridor spread into the room, revealed the corner of a green carpet and the legs of a chair. He found a button on the wall inside the door frame. He pressed it and the room lit up.

Irene lay on the bed in canary yellow pajamas. Her legs were spread, each foot tied to a corner of the bed by means of narrow but strong luggage straps. Her arms were tied similarly to the posts at the head of the bed, and a towel was fastened around her mouth.

Donahue said, “Well!” jocularly, closed the door, unbuttoned his raglan and came over to sit on the side of the bed.

Irene's eyes were wide, frightened. She moved her head from side to side. Wrinkles appeared and disappeared on her forehead.

Donahue chuckled, reached around to the back of her neck and unfastened the towel. When he took that off there was a rag stuffed in Irene's mouth. He drew that out and threw it on the floor.

Irene exhaled, “Whew!”

Donahue said, “Nice pajamas you wear, Irene.”

“Oh, God!” she moaned, straining at the luggage straps. “Get these things off! They hurt.”

“They won't hurt if you lie still. Besides, I remember that clout on the head.: . . Irene, you and I are going to have a very short conversation. First, let me tell you that Babe Delaney is in the hospital with a bullet in his guts. Alfred, that nice-faced little doggie, is in the same hospital with a bullet in his leg. Alfred got Babe. I got Alfred.”

She grimaced, showing her white small teeth.

Donahue went on, “The bulls have Alfred for the Delaney shoot and it won't be long before they pin the Crosby kill on one of them. ... It wasn't very nice, Irene, the way you helped put Babe on the spot.”

“I didn't--”

“Ah--ah!” Donahue held up his forefinger, shook it. “I happened to be listening in when you telephoned him.” She cried, “I was made to do it! Alfred stood right there with a razor held under my throat. I had to, Donahue--I swear to God I had to!”

“You little double-crosser, you were playing both ends against the middle! You were jockeying both Alfred and Babe!”

She closed her eyes, bit her lip, whimpered, “Oh . . God!”

Donahue leaned across the bed, braced on two rigid arms, one on either side of Irene's waist. His brown eyes smoldered.

“You don't have to act around me, Irene,” he said. “You'll get on better by coming across. The bulls have Babe and Alfred, and they're both red-hots. The houseman down in Waverly Place saw Babe come in. I saw Alfred there and I saw you' there. I'm the only one knows where you are. I want the whole story from you.”

“What good would that do?”

He said quietly, “It will help you a lot. You've got looks. I've got a pull in the city, and the tabloids can run you up on the sob stuff. If you don't play ball with me, I'll land on you like a ton of brick.”

“Oh, I've been a fool!”

“If you only wouldn't pull those stock lines, Irene!”

Her voice throbbed when she cried, “I mean it!”

“Bah! You laid the trap for Crosby--”

“That's a lie!” she shouted.

Donahue rose, crossed to the door and closed the transom. He came back to the bed eying her whimsically. “Then are you going to tell me why it's a lie?”

Her eyes narrowed. “How do I know you can give me a break?”

“You can find out by not telling me things.”

“Why--why do you want to know?”

“I'm a private cop. I work for a salary. I get a bonus on big jobs I turn. Crosby's uncle offered to pay the Agency ten thousand dollars. I get the bonus by getting to the core of things before the cops do. That's the whole shebang in a nut-shell.”

She considered him for a moment. Then she said, “The trouble is, you don't believe I loved Crosby.”

“All right. . . . I'll believe you loved him.”

“You say that easily.”

“Maybe I'll be able to say it easier after you've told me things.”

She sighed brokenly, moistened her lips. She looked at the ceiling and said, “I did love him. He loved me. I met him on the boat train from Paris to Cherbourg. Alfred and I were traveling as brother and sister. We were only two days out when Robert told me he loved me. Alfred never loved me. We weren't like that to each other. We just-- traveled together, for reasons.

“Alfred was bringing home a diamond he'd lifted from a woman- at Cannes. It was worth about seventy thousand dollars. It was set in a platinum medallion, a pendant sort of thing. We got to Paris with it. We got the stone out of the platinum medallion, threw everything away but the I stone.

“When we were three days out of Cherbourg, Alfred began to get one of his hunches. He was sure the Customs would pick it up. He browbeat me into planting it on Robert. I did. I didn't want to, though. I told Alfred how I felt about Robert, and he scoffed--just as you've been scoffing. He threatened to expose me if I didn't do as he said. I was afraid of the inevitable. I planted it on Robert. I worked it into one of his paint tubes, one that had been half used, with the bottom rolled up like you roll up a tube of toothpaste. I unrolled it, slit it, worked the diamond up into the paint and then re-rolled it.”

“Where does Babe Delaney come in?”

“Oh . . . Babe.” She sighed. “He was Robert's bootlegger. The first day Robert was home he called Babe up, and Babe went down to see him. He saw a photograph of me lying on the table there--one Robert had taken on board ship. Robert remarked it was a picture of Leone Tenquist. Babe said nothing to him. He came to me and asked what my racket was. I told him it wasn't anything. He said maybe I'd tell him or he'd tell Robert how things stood. Alfred and I had to let Babe in. We promised him ten thousand on sale of the diamond.

“Robert gave me a key to his flat. He said he'd be busy for a few days but that I could drop in any old time. I went down and looked for the tube of paint. I couldn't find it. I told Alfred I couldn't find it. He accused me of a double-cross. I swore I was telling the truth. Then Babe came, and when he heard the story he accused both of us. I told both of them the exact description of the tube of paint.”

“Babe went down last night to look himself. He was: tearing the place apart when Robert came in. Babe must have picked the lock. He did a two year stretch ten years ' ago for picking locks. He turned out the lights, but Robert went after him in the dark. Robert was pretty strong. Babe had to use a claspknife.--”

“Alfred stole the key I had to Robert's flat. He went down. He was there when you arrived. I went down when I'd discovered my key was gone. It's the truth, the God's honest truth! I couldn't get out of the racket. I tried to. I meant to after I'd gotten the diamond. I was going to let Alfred and Babe split. I was crazy about Robert.”

“And what happened to the diamond?”

“Gone. Robert had cleaned up, thrown out a lot of rubbish. The diamond went that way. Nobody got it.”

Donahue began untying the straps that held Irene's feet. “You have nice little feet,” he said.

“Please--don't ridicule me!”

He said, “Irene, that's a swell story and it rings true. I'll repeat it word for word to the bulls. You were a girl trying to go straight, but they had you in the toils of sin. Great? . . . Sure! I'll boost your story fifty per cent by saying that it was you put me on the trail of Babe Delaney.”

She gasped, “Oh ... not that!”

“Irene,” he said, untying her hands, “you want to save your skin. Babe Delaney muscled in. He was a punk. You want a fresh start in life--”

“You're ridiculing me!”

“I promise you the sweetest sob story ever told, Irene. You may even get a run in vaudeville . . . but you've got to tell the cops that Babe Delaney carved Crosby. That's your big and only way--out into God's country. . . . But why did Alfred smoke the Babe?”

“He was sure that if he didn't Babe would get him.”

Donahue stood up, smiled down at Irene. “Crosby knew a looker when he saw one, honey.”

Irene started to cry into her hands.

Donahue went towards the telephone saying, “Well, it's the least I can do for Roper.”
IX

WHEN THE DOOR OPENED Roper stood there with his dour face and his lazy big eyes. Donahue said, grinning, “You must come in.” Roper walked in hunching his shoulders in his threadbare coat. He looked at Irene. She was standing with her back to the bureau. She looked very small and very lovely in a black dress that clung snugly to neat hips. Donahue closed the door and Roper stared at Irene with his big dispassionate eyes.

He said dully, “So you're the moll in the case.”

“I wouldn't call her a moll,” Donahue said.

Roper did not look around at Donahue but he said, “Keep your oar out of it, Donahue.”

Then he walked heavily to the bureau, gripped Irene's arm.

“You look like the kind,” he said. “You look like the kind I like to get nasty with.”

Donahue put in, “Why, Roper, because a good-looking jane would never give you a tumble?”

Roper turned somberly. “You looking for a punch in the jaw?”

Donahue snarled, “Ah, grow up, copper. Keep that stuff for the coked wops you're used to slapping. I gave you a break. This little pinch is yours but you've got to handle it right. This girl steered me onto Babe Delaney for the Crosby kill. You've got the guy killed him. Why pick on the ladies?”--.;

Roper looked at Irene. “You say Babe killed Crosby?”

She faltered, “Ye-es.” He shook her arm brutally. “Why the hell didn't you come to the police?”

Donahue said, “She thought I was a real copper, Roper. When I told her dick--I didn't say private. She and Crosby were in love. She's sidestepped a bit, but she was trying for a straight and these bums got in her way. You can see she's a good woman.”

“Don't kid me, Donahue.”

“I wouldn't kid you, Roper.”

Roper dropped Irene's arm. His eyes hung somberly on Donahue. He said, after a minute. “Okey, Irish. You're a fast worker. If I was a younger cop, and ambitious, I might get God-awful sore. But I'm retiring soon. I'm used to routine.” He turned to Irene. “Get your things on, sister.”

Irene put on her mole coat and the dark cloche hat. Roper opened the door and waited in the hall. Irene went out. Donahue went out, snapped off the lights, closed and locked the door. He gave the key to Irene.

They were silent going down in the elevator. When they passed out into Broadway Roper said:--:

“We'll take a cab down if you'll pay the fare, Donahue.”

THE END