Get A Load Of This
by Frederick Nebel

THE HOCKSHOP was on Fourteenth Street, east of Union Square. It was about the width of a railway coach, and half the length. The window was littered with cheap novelties. The interior was dark and gloomy. Behind the showcase a man sat at a high desk and regarded the insides of a wristwatch beneath a bright green-visored light whose concentrated radiance did not extend beyond the desk.

Donahue kicked the screen door open, walked in casually, and the screen door banged behind him. He drifted down the length of a beam of spring sunlight that came in through the door. He wore a neat pepper-colored suit, a gray soft hat, and he smoked a straight-stemmed shell briar.

He leaned indolently on the counter and said, “Hello, Mr. Friedman.”

The man got down from the high stool and approached the back of the counter. He was small, slim, with a young-old sallow face, horn-rimmed glasses, black curly hair. ' “What can I do for you?”

Irony was in Donahue's crooked slow smile. “Remember me?”

Friedman did not look Donahue in the eye, but he said, “No, I'm afraid I don't.”

“Well, don't be afraid.” Donahue drew his hand from his pocket and laid a large diamond on the showcase. “Then maybe you remember this.”

Friedman's eyes riveted on the stone. Lines appeared on his forehead. “I can't say I do.”

“Ah, cut out the horseplay, Friedman. Sure you remember it. And you remember me. A guy named Bonalino hocked it here a month ago. I came in with him when he took it out. You said at the time that you would give him eight hundred for it any time he wanted to sell it.”

“I said that?”

“You said that.”

Friedman shrugged. “Maybe I did. I can't remember everybody comes in here. A lot of people hock things here.”

“That diamond,” Donahue said incisively, “isn't worth eight hundred. Not seven. Not six. At best it's worth four hundred, which means that your top price would be two. Now when Bonalino hocked it you gave him two hundred and fifty bucks--”

“Say, who are you?”

“I'm a private dick. You remember me now?”

“Sure I remember you now.”

“Okey. How's to come across?”

Friedman frowned. “But I don't get what you're driving at.”

“Your brain's not as lame as that. I'll tell you what I'm driving at. The diamond that Bonalino hocked here was worth ninety thousand bucks. You duplicated it with this hunk of cheap ice. Bonalino doesn't know a diamond from a good hunk of crystal. You knew that much. When he came back here with me to get his ice, you gave him this.”

Friedman laughed. “Ah, be yourself, guy!”

“I'm being myself, sweetheart. We've got a letter from the Anglo-Continental Indemnity Company, of London and Geneva. They're looking for that hunk of ice, and this is not it.”

“I don't get you at all.”

Donahue wagged his finger. “Listen. A guy name Alfred Poore and a jane named Irene Saffarrans brought the diamond over here from France. Poore lifted it from a dowager duchess in Cannes this winter past. Coming over, the jane planted it on an artist named Crosby. They were afraid of the Customs. Crosby got knifed to death by a guy named Babe Delaney, who made Poore and the Saffarrans jane let him in on the racket. He'd found things out. Poore gunned for Delaney and I got Poore and they sent him to the Big House. Nobody concerned got the ice. “It turned out that the ice had been planted in one of Crosby's hats, and when he got home Crosby gave his janitor, a guy named Adler, some old clothes--among them the hat. The Saffarrans jane got clear after Poore went up, and she hooked up with a guy named Bruhard. Bruhard bumped off Adler in Grove Street, got the hat but not the diamond. Adler had got the hat cleaned. Bonalino worked in the hat-cleaning store, and when he took the lining out he found the ice. He hocked it here. Bruhard got gunned out in Forty-second Street, the jane got ten years. Nobody concerned got the real ice. Do you get me now?”

“No, I don't. I loaned Bonalino two-fifty on this diamond. He paid me two-fifty and got the diamond back. That's all I know, and you can believe it or lump it.”

Donahue's voice rose-- “I don't believe it and I'm not going to lump it!”

“Listen, master-mind.” Friedman leaned on the counter and laid narrowed eyes on Donahue. “I don't know what your game is, but it's not on the up and up. I don't know what the hell you're talking about, and I don't have to carry on a conversation with you. Why don't you get a brainwave and take the air?”

Donahue got interested. “So you've decided to get tough, eh? Trying to brazen it out, eh? Well, pipe this, sweetheart: It won't work. That diamond was worth ninety thousand bucks till it reached here. Do you want to play house with me or do you want me to go to Headquarters and tell what I know? They don't know that Bonalino hocked it. They think he had it in his possession from the beginning. I kept back the news to clear Bonalino.”

“Go to Headquarters.”

“Yeah? You keep books, you know. You're supposed to enter every article pawned here. You know that, don't you?”

“Sure.” Friedman swung a ledger on to the counter, flipped the pages, stopped, turned the ledger around so that Donahue could read it, and laid a finger on an entry.

“There it is. I valued it wholesale at eight hundred. I loaned two-fifty on it. My books are okey. Go to Headquarters.”

Donahue looked up at him, smiled without humor. “Your brain's not lame, Friedman--not at all.”

“There it is--in black and white.”

“Okey. But I don't believe everything I read. Be seeing you some more, baby.”

Donahue went out wearing a sultry look that was not without chagrin.

Asa Hinkle, the Interstate in person, looked up from his flat-topped desk when Donahue entered and said:

“You look down-hearted, Donny, my boy.”

Donahue paced the floor a turn or two, scowling. He was baffled, and now that he was away from unfriendly eyes, his manner showed it. “That guy Friedman wasn't born yesterday.”

“Oh, that's it!”

“I felt like caving in his mug.”

“Only a city dick can do that--and get away with it. What did he say?”

“Nothing worth a damn. He made the entry in his book okey. The guy's solid and he knows it. He valued it at eight hundred. If anybody argues he can say that was what he valued it at. There's no proof he had the real diamond. No proof at all. It's changed hands so much that anyone might have fluked it.”

He dropped the bogus stone on the desk. “I guess you cab let the Police Commissioner have it back. It didn't work.”

Hinkle took off his diplomatic pince-nez. “That diamond must be in America, Donny. Poore and the Saffarrans woman know stones. They wouldn't have tried to bring in a fluke.”

Donahue squinted. “What do you want me to do--go down and see Friedman again, get him in the back room and punch him around until the yellow runs? I'll do it! By God, I'll do it!”

His dark eyes glittered, his fists were rocks at his sides.

Hinkle smiled, shook his head. “Donny, don't be so thoroughly Irish.”

Donahue turned away, growled, “That's an old one of yours!”
II

DONAHUE WAS EATING ravioli in an Italian speak in West Tenth Street at noon the next day when Libbey, a city press association reporter fell in through the door, picked himself up and headed for the bar in the rear.

“Some day you'll knock your brains out,” Donahue called.

“Oh, hello, Donny.”

Libbey changed his course, came over and flopped down in a chair facing Donahue. Drink had sapped the color in his cheeks. Drink had given him that young-old face. The crown of his hat was dented in, and his tie was crooked against his collar. He reached for the bottle of red wine beside Donahue, poured a water-glass full, swallowed it without a pause. He smacked his lips.

“How's the ravioli?”

“How's the wine?”

“I don't like wine. . . . Hey, Skinny, bring me a Bacardi cocktail, and I don't mean rosewater. . . . Well, wine is all right, Donny, if there is nothing else but water around. I feel depressed. That louse Sweeney is God's most ungrateful man. I telephone him immediately after the murder happens and what does he do but wisecrack and accuse me of being drunk. I'm going to throw the job and get down to writing a novel.

“Who got gunned out?”

“A fellow gave pennies and baubles to little kiddies. It's a shame, Donny.”

“Around here?”

“Fourteenth Street.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. A hockshop man, Friedman.”

Donahue looked up. “How'd it happen?”

“Nobody knows. Some guy just came in, apparently, and blew him apart and went away, taking with him some loot --possibly. At any rate, there was a chamois gem bag on the floor near the pool of blood.”

“What time?”

“About eleven, I guess. ... If you could see the pool of blood--”

“What's the cop on the job think?”

“Who . . . Roper?”

“Roper on it?”

“Yeah. Great mind, that Roper . . . for a moron. Well, what the hell could he think? What do I think? What does anybody think? Look now: Murder and robbery, of course. But of an odd nature. There is the chamois bag lying beside the pool of blood. But it appears that the safe was not rifled and nothing stolen from it. Then what? Well, either the chamois bag was flung down in disgust by the murderer-thief, or it was discarded after he had taken something out of it. In the latter case, it's plausible to assume--to assume that Friedman had something shady in his possession. What was it? Who knows? Ah, my son, that is the mystery. . . . Well, it's about time, Skinny!”

Libbey tipped the Bacardi cocktail against his lips and drained it at two swallows. “Encore, Skinny. . . . How's to, Donny?”

“No, thanks. And what does Roper think exactly? Did he figure things out that way?”

“No. God, no! Roper? Pardon me if I seem to chortle. . . . How's the ravioli?”

“Fine.”

“Think I'll have some spaghetti. By the way, I kidded our friend Roper a bit. I said to him, quite offhand, 'If you find it hard, Roper, look up Donahue.' You should have seen him! And do you know what he said? He said, 'When-; ever I look that palooka up, it'll be to put bracelets on him.' I said bracelets were kind of effeminate; you might object. He spit on the floor, showing how he was brought--or dragged--up. . . . Gripes, Skinny, you take long! A guy would think this belly-wash was custom made.” Donahue paid his check and got up.

“So soon?” Libbey asked.

“I've got places to go.” Before he left the speak, however, he made a telephone call. “Hello, Ames? . . . Listen, Billy. This is Donahue. . . . I'm jake. Say, can you meet me in Fritz's in fifteen minutes? . . . Oh, something. I'll tell you then. . . . Great, Billy!”

When Donahue stepped from the booth there was a hard smile on his face. He walked briskly to' a subway station and walked impatiently for a northbound train. His manner was eager and alert. He was smiling when he went down into a basement speak on Thirty-sixth street.

Ames was standing at the bar. He was a medium-sized man, blond, casual, smiling. “Hello, Donny.” He was lazy-voiced.

“Listen, Billy. D'you hear about that kill in Fourteenth Street?”

“Yeah. We got it over the precinct. Mob job, eh?”

“I wouldn't know. There's a possibility it wasn't. Want to do something for me?”

“Any time.”

“Find out who was released from Sing Sing recently, and if any of the guys was a cell-mate of Alfred Poore.”

“That all, Donny?”

“That's all.”

“Have a drink?”
III

DONAHUE HAD BATHED and was on his way out for dinner that night when the telephone rang. He went back to answer it.

“Yeah, this is Donahue. . . . Oh, hello, Roper. What's on your mind? . . . Oh, you do? Well, I'm going out to eat. ... It can wait, can't it? Okey. I'll drop in.”

He hung up, stood for a long moment with the telephone in his hand. Then he put it down, looked a little puzzled, and went out.--'

Roper was sitting in the back room of the station-house.

Madden, his partner, and another dick named Crowley, were with him, and none of them smiled. Crowley closed the door, and Roper creaked his swivel chair. He drew a letter from his pocket, held it out.

“Read it, Donahue.”

Donahue took the letter, spread it and found it to be a note written on I. Friedman's business stationery. It said:

Dear Benny:

Business is not so good, but that seems to be the case all around. I can lend you a hundred till the first, but I've got to have it back then.

My back is a little better, and I guess I'll be all right soon.
Nothing has happened, except a visit yesterday by a fly cop named Donahue. He threatened me, but I laughed that off.

Don't forget I've got to have that century back by the first.

--.--Ike.

Donahue said, “H'm,” handed the letter back and added, “What do you make of it, Roper?”

Roper wore a dull, inimical look. “I'll turn that question right around at you.”

“And we still don't get an answer,” Donahue said. “Don't we?”

Donahue looked at him with wide-open brown eyes. “What's this--another indication of your sense of humor?” Roper's gaunt jaw shifted. “Why did you threaten Friedman?”

“Did I threaten Friedman?”

Roper stood up, a bony man with wide, stooped shoulders, hard wrists and big-knuckled hands. “You read this letter, didn't you? This guy Friedman wrote to his brother, and he wrote you threatened him.”

“It doesn't say I threatened his life, does it?”

“It says you threatened him.”

“All right. I threatened to bust him in the face. What about it, copper?”

“Why did you threaten to bust him in the face?”

“It was personal. I lost my temper.” Madden came up behind Donahue and gripped his arms. Roper said, “Come on, Donahue. Why did you threaten him?”

Red color began to creep into Donahue's face. “You guys going to get rough?”

“I'm waiting for an answer,” Roper said.

“Then tell this mutt to take his hands off me!”

“Let him go, Madden.”

Madden stepped back.

Roper said, “Okey, Donahue. Now tell me.”

“I've told you. It's my business, and if you're dumb enough to think I'm mixed up in this job, arrest me!”

Madden grabbed him again, twisting his arms behind his back. Donahue's brown eyes got humid, and his lip curled, a dark shadow swept down across his forehead, across his face, making the red there dull and malignant.

Roper said, “I want to know what you were doing in that guy's store yesterday. This letter wasn't mailed. We found it in his store. He must have written it this morning. You've got to come across, Donahue.”

“Not on your natural, Roper,” Donahue snapped. “Arrest me. Go ahead. Nothing would tickle me more, because I'd be out in a couple of hours and you'd be the laughing stock of the whole neighborhood. You can't buffalo me, sweetheart. Try it on the kids you slap for pitching pennies in the back alleys.”

Roper took one forward step and laid the flat of his hard hand across Donahue's face. Donahue kicked Roper in the shins and Roper fell down. Madden butted Donahue with his knee. Crowley punched Donahue in the short ribs, and Donahue, cursing, kicked sidewise at Crowley while Madden still held his arms locked behind.

Roper was getting up, his upper lip lifted wolf-like.

Donahue said hotly, “You know damned well you can't arrest me! What you want, you cheap punk, is to find out what I know about Friedman! You're using this letter as a buffer. But it only gives me a laugh. Go ahead--arrest me! Why don't you?”

“Let him go, Madden.” Roper's face was sombre, his voice a low growl.

Madden stepped back. Donahue smoothed down his sleeves, turned and headed for the door. Madden stepped in his way.

Donahue said, “You're another dick needs a bust in the mouth.”

“Why don't you bust it?”

Roper raised his voice--“Get out, Donahue.”

Donahue yanked the door open, threw a contemptuous look at Madden, at Roper, and Crowley; laughed sarcastically and went out with a toss of his chin.

Four nights out of each week Donahue ate dinner at Dominick's, a quiet joint where you got good chili con carne and Spanish sherry that wasn't cut but once. This was one of the four nights. Dominique was the real name, but the neighborhood was more or less Italian, and Dom himself had lived much in Genoa; and besides, the guy who'd painted the sign that hung over the narrow door was a Baxter Street Italian with a one-track mind.

It was near Columbus Park, on the Baxter Streetside. It had a few booths in the rear room--the restaurant comprised two large rooms--and some lattice-work beneath the ceiling entangled with imitation vines.

Donahue found his favorite booth empty and after he'd told the waiter to bring him a Martini, Dom came over all smiling with a lot of big white teeth.

“Lady lookin' for you, Donny.”

“Yeah?” Donahue laughed, broke a bread-stick. “It's happened before.”

Dominick indicated a brunette who sat alone at a table in the opposite corner.

“She doesn't know me,” Donahue said.

“Mebbe not. She justa ask you come here and I say sure, lots.”

Donahue said, “Okey. Let her sit there. I don't want to know her.”

Dominick looked puzzled. The waiter brought the Martini, and Donahue tried it, gave his order. The brunette didn't eat. She was drinking gin rickies, from time to time. Donahue spent an hour over his meal, winding up with black coffee and a tot of brandy. He paid his bill, got up and on the way out stopped to touch Dominick's shoulder.

“Remember, Dom,. I haven't been in.”

“I getcha. Sure.”

Donahue walked out and crossed the street, stopped at the corner and waited. He waited half an hour. Finally the girl came out and walked towards him on the opposite side of the street. She was tall, had a loose-limbed walk that was not ungraceful.

He tailed her until she reached a corner where three cabs stood at the curb. She got in the first and drove off. Donahue got in the second and said:

“Tail that jane, bud.”

The tail led to Julie's in West Tenth Street, and when Donahue entered the bar he could see the girl sitting at a table in the back room. A waiter was taking her order, and when the waiter came into the bar he saw Donahue and started to open his mouth.

Donahue cut in with, “Is that jane looking for me?”

“Yeah, Donny. She just--” . “Tell her you haven't seen me here in weeks.” Donahue had a beer and was finishing it when the girl got up and left. He went out a minute later and saw her walking east. She turned into Gay Street and struck Waverly Place. Familiar neighborhood for Donahue. Here Crosby had met his death at the hands of Babe Delaney. Here he had first seen Irene Saffarrans and Alfred Poore, the nice-faced rat. Here he had seen Adler--who later got smoked out in Grove Street.

The girl entered a four-story graystone near Sixth Avenue. Donahue crossed the street and watched the building. Lights on first and third floors were glowing. Two minutes later Donahue saw two windows on the left light up. He saw the form of the girl in one of the windows for a brief moment, before she pulled the shade down. She lived on the third floor. While she was reaching up to draw down the shade on the other window Donahue saw a man in a bathrobe stretching and yawning. Then the drawn shade hid both.

After a minute Donahue crossed the street, got the number of the house, and walked to Sixth Avenue, turned north and then east into Eighth Street.

When he entered his hotel there was a letter in the box. It was on the hotel stationery.

The clerk said, “A man came in at about eight, asked for you and I said you'd gone out. He wrote a note and said I should be sure to give it to you.”

“Thanks.”

Donahue walked away, stopped, tore open the letter. It was from Ames.

Dear Donny:

Tubba Klem finished a five-year stretch last Tuesday. He was Poore's cell mate. Luck. And don't forget yours truly.--Billy.

Donahue walked to a large earthen ash receptacle, tore the note into fragments, dropped them on the butt-littered sand, and entered the elevator wearing a puzzled frown.

The man he had seen yawning and stretching was not Tubba Klem.
IV

WHO WAS the woman? . . .

“Never saw her before,” Donahue said.

“That's queer,” Hinkle said. “Funny, too, that when Dom said a girl was asking for you, you didn't get right up and fall right down for her.”

“What am I supposed to do, laugh?” Donahue leaned back in the chair.

“If the man I'd seen was Tubba Klem I'd bite. But he wasn't, and I haven't the slightest use for that sort of a woman. They mean trouble every time and all the time and no foolin'.”

Hinkle sighed. “Well, we won't go into that. . . . And Roper started a third degree on you, eh?”

“Yeah. And he's got a flatfoot tailing me now.” Donahue stood up, strolled to the window. “He's holding a pole up now. Some rookie.” He came back and stood by the desk, staring abstractedly at its hard, shiny surface. “And the guy wasn't Tubba Klem. He was a big guy, plenty of muscle, and light hair. At a glance, I'd say I'd” never seen him before. The jane and the guy must be strangers in town.”

The telephone rang. Hinkle answered it, then shoved it across the desk. “For you, Donny.”

Donahue picked it up, said, “Hello. . . . Yeah, this is Donny. . . . Huh? ... I get you. . . . Sure. Okey, kid.” He hung up and put the telephone back on the desk. “One of my little stoolies. I know where Tubba Klem is. Tubba has come out of stir with a he-man complex. He's packing two big guns.” He put or? his hat.

Hinkle's face became grave. “I wouldn't get a two-gun man's goat, Donny.”

Donahue laughed. He slipped his- right hand beneath his left arm, drew out a long-barreled blue automatic. “Take a look at that, Asa.” He laid it on the desk and smiled at Hinkle.

“Hell, man, it's only a twenty-two!”

“Ten shots, hollow-point. The best balanced gun a man can buy, and one little slug will do the trick. When a guy packs two big guns, it means to me that he's a punk shot and figures on dynamiting his way out.”

He picked up the slim automatic, slipped it into the sheath beneath his arm. He took a look through the window. “First,” he said, “I'll have to shake the rookie.”

He went out and walked down Park Row to Broadway. He hopped a northbound Broadway street car, and saw the rookie climb into a taxi behind. The taxi followed the street car, though it had plenty of opportunity to pass it. Donahue rode as far as Worth Street, alighted and dodged traffic to the west side of Broadway, then strode west on Worth Street. The taxi passed him, and the rookie got off at the corner of Worth and Church. Donahue turned north on Church. The rookie was drifting along behind.

Donahue turned west into Franklin Street, walked one block and went down into the West Side Subway kiosk. A train was standing in the station. Donahue ducked into the toilet. He waited until the train had drawn out, then pushed the door open and stood behind the turnstiles. He saw no one. He dropped a nickel in the slot and a minute later caught a northbound local. He changed to a Bronx Park express at Fourteenth Street, saw no sign of the rookie.

Harlem was sunning itself. The spring afternoon held promise of an early summer. Little kids--three of them --sat half naked in a doorway from which issued the sound of something frying and the smell of that which was being fried. Two doors farther on a couple of tough-looking bucks leaned against a dirty store-window that had the word Pool painted on it.

Donahue passed the smelly doorway, and slowed down as he approached the pool parlor. A hall-door was ajar just beyond the big window. It indicated regions above the pool layout. Donahue pushed the door open, left it open, so that bright sunlight followed him in. He stood inside, body twisted, eyes slanted at the door. After a minute he looked up the wooden staircase.

He climbed it. The soles of his shoes made loose boards creak, and the banister wobbled when he leaned against it. On the first landing a door opened and a girl came out humming. She was high-yellow, had pretty teeth and flashing black eyes. It was the perfume Donahue didn't like. “How yuh, mistuh big boy?”

“Yeah,” said Donahue, and went on up the next staircase.

He paused at the top. The girl's heels were rapping down the stairs below. Donahue climbed a third staircase, stood at the top counting doors. Then he walked past three doors, stopped before the fourth. He knocked. He waited a minute and knocked again.

Then he took a bunch of keys from his pocket. He chose one of three master keys. It worked. He entered swiftly, closed the door and locked it.

The room was small, with one window looking out on a backyard and a panorama of roofs, clothes-lines and garbage cans, rusty fire-escapes and skeins of radio aerials.

The room itself had a cot salvaged from some army and navy store. Two chairs, one with a broken cane bottom. A washstand with speckled stone top, a bowl and a pitcher. An imitation-leather suitcase, new, lay on the floor. A dirty shirt lay on the bed, along with a pair of socks. The drawer of a cheap bureau was open, revealing one clean shirt.

Donahue pulled the two other drawers out. They were empty. He looked under the clean shirt. Nothing. He tackled the suitcase. There were two bottles of High-and-Dry in it, buried among more dirty clothes. He searched the clothes, making a face. Finally he closed the suitcase, stood up and let his eyes roam around. He crossed to the washstand, opened the door beneath the mottled top. Closed it. He drew his lower lip sidewise beneath his upper teeth, scowled reflectively, while his keen eyes stabbed the room in a dozen places. As a matter of form he turned the mattress over and searched the pillows. Nothing, of. course. There was a pair of old brown shoes beneath the cot. He pulled them out, ran his hand inside each. He threw them down, disgruntled. One turned over on its side.

The sun, driving one slim rapier of brilliance into the room, made something shine on the sole of the shoe. Donahue knelt down. Gum soles. He held the shoe in his left hand, took a penknife 'with his right, pried out the shiny little object. He carried it to the window. He smiled-- grimly, intimately.

He went to the door, unlocked it. He took one of the two chairs and placed it against the wall beside the window. He opened the window and looked down. A fire-escape led to the cluttered yard below. He looked at his watch. It was four o'clock. He dragged out his pipe, stuffed it and sat down on the chair facing the door. He lit up, and when the inside of the bowl was a red glow, he leaned back and crossed his arms on his chest, his right hand concealed by the upper part of his left arm. He hooked one heel on the edge of the bed.

At five a key grated in the lock. The door swung open and Tubba Klem rocked in. Stopped short. Drew up one side of his broad, fat nose and wrinkled his fat eyelids over rodent eyes.

“Should lock your door, Tubba, when you go out.”

“How'n hell'd you get in?”

“Door was open.”

“The hell it was!”

Donahue grinned. “Honest, Tubba. How the hell do you think I'd get in?”

Tubba Klem scowled with his huge apish face, kicked the door shut and scaled his hat on the bed. He had got a haircut in stir just before leaving. His head was shaped like one end of a watermelon, hairless, corrugated in the back. He had no eyebrows, but the bone above his eyes was craggy.

“What you want, Donahue? I know you!”

“go you've gone native, Tubba?”

“What you want? I said what you want?” His mouth was huge. His teeth were huge, and primordial fire burned in his crag-shaded eyes. A broad man, wide around the middle, wearing a misshapen coat. “You got a helluva nerve, comin' in here! What you want?” He stood on trunks of legs that were spread wide, mammoth feet rooted to the; floor, outthrust jaw belligerent. The room seemed to have grown smaller since-his entrance.

Donahue lounged on the chair, heel of his left foot still hooked on the edge of the bed. The surface of his brown eyes was whimsical. Deeper, there was a hawk-like watchfulness.

“Don't get steamed up, Tubba.”

Tubba Klem's scowl wavered. He looked almost sheepish. He laughed, shrugged, and drew a crumpled cigarette from his pocket. He lit up and dropped to the cot.

His tone was more amiable when he said, “What can I do for you, Donny?”

“I heard you were Poore's cell-mate.”

“Yeah.”

“I fixed him for that ride. I was wondering how he's getting on. He wasn't a bad guy.”

Tubba Klem shuttered his eyes, dropped his thick lower lip so that his lower teeth appeared. For a brief moment he looked oafish. Then he said, “Oh, yeah, Al's okey.”

“Hear he's trying to get another trial.”

“Well, maybe. Guess he is maybe. I dunno.”

“He needs jack; that's what he needs.”

Tubba Klem steadied his eyes. He was thinking hard. The effort made wrinkles on his forehead. Donahue was eying him slyly. Tubba Klem looked up at him a little baffled, a little suspicious. Donahue smiled. Tubba. Klem dropped his eyes, jerking them back and forth across the floor. Then he scowled and looked up.

“What you drivin' at? What you want?” He heaved up, making great fists of his hands.-"I don't savvy you at all, Donahue! You go get to hell outta here!”

“Ah, calm down, Tubba. I don't want you. I just thought you might spring something about Poore's plans. Well,” he got up, “I guess Poore held his trap. I just got a bum steer, Tubba.”

“Well, see you stay outta here!”

“Sure. Don't get sore, Tubba. I'm wrong. I admit it.” He grinned. “I always figured you got framed up the river last time. I'm sorry, Tubba.”

Tubba Klem looked grieved. “Course I got framed. Ain't I tryin' like hell to get a job now? And here you gotta come snoopin' around.”

Donahue held out his hand. “I'm sorry, kid. Shake.”

Tubba Klem looked suspicious again. He put out his hand warily. Donahue shook it, dropped it, went to the door. He opened it, said, “The straight and narrow pays, Tubba. So long.”

“So long, Donny.”

Donahue entered the hockshop on Fourteenth Street at a quarter to six.

A youngish man, with pomaded black hair, looked up from a ledger.

“Hello,” Donahue said.

“Hello,” the man said.

“Are you running this place now?”

“Yeah.”

“Ike's “brother?”

“Yeah.”

“Benny?”

“Sure.”

Donahue smiled. “I'm Donahue.”

“Yeah? You're the guy came in here the other day--”

“I'm the little boy. Now hold on, kid. Don't get hot and bothered. You'd like to find out who murdered your brother, wouldn't you?”

“What's that to you?”

“Maybe I can turn the trick. Now forget I was going to punch him in the jaw. I lost my temper, that's all. I'm sorry, too. You forget it and maybe we'll get somewhere.” The man shrugged. “Go ahead: Spill it.”

“Okey. When you came in here to open up, I suppose things were not in order. Was anything lying on the floor? I mean, was anything spilled?”

“As far as I can make out, nothing was swiped.”

“I know. But was anything lying on the floor? Watch parts. Anything.”

“Well, there was some parts scattered on the work desk in the back room.”

“Let's look at 'em.”

Benny grumbled, but led Donahue into the back room. He pointed to a tray. “These things were scattered on the desk. I put 'em back.”

“What's this?”

“Lady's wristwatch. I guess Ike was fixing it.”

“Yeah. All the parts here?”

Benny looked at a tag. “It needed a main spring.”

“Is that all?”

“That's all it says.”

Donahue got down on his knees, lit a match and searched under the desk. Two fingers of his right hand slipped into his vest. Then he lit another match, searched some more, and finally stood up, asking:

“What's this?”

“Looks like a watch stem. Guess it belongs to that watch.”

Donahue picked up the small watch, inserted the stem. It fitted flush with the frame of the watch. He stood back, stroking his jaw.

“Well,” he said, “another blind alley, but worth a chance. Thanks, Benny.”--;

Outside, he hopped a taxicab. Fifteen minutes later he walked in on Asa Hinkle. Hinkle was putting on his hat.

“I see no blood, Donny.”

“Don't lose hope. I'm going to get a good meal under my belt and then I'm going after Tubba Klem.”

Hinkle dropped his smile. “That certain.”

“I dropped in Tubba's place this afternoon. He was out. I looked around and I found the smallest watch stem you ever saw. It was jammed in the gum sole of Tubba's spare shoes. Tubba came in and we talked about the weather. Then I went down to the hockshop. The stem fitted a watch there.”

“Listen, Donny; you'd better get a flock of cops--”

“No! They'll blow him apart. I just want to put him out temporarily.”

“For God's sake, Donny, that guy's a killer!”

“That's tabloid talk, boss. But if he gets me, here's his address.” He bent over the desk, writing.

“Donny, it's suicide--”

“Said he hysterically.”
V

DONAHUE WENT TO the Italian joint in West Tenth Street for a spaghetti feed and a bottle of ink. He took on a whiskey sour at the bar, then went into the side room, saw Libbey, the journalistic drunk, in one corner and chose another. It was one of those times when Donahue wanted to be alone.

“Why the tall millinery?” yelled Libbey:

“Hello, Libbey.” Donahue spread a napkin, said to the waiter, “Spaghetti and the works.”

“Oke.”

“I always thought you were a conceited, high-hat--” yelled Libbey, good-naturedly.

“Oh-ho!” softly.

Donahue froze on his chair.

The woman again.

She sauntered through the door, passed Libbey's table and sat down at one six feet on his right. He eyed her with the dazed look of a sot. She was stunning in a dark cloche hat, a dark tailored suit and a white blouse with black vertical stripes.

Donahue was moving one leg from beneath the table, reaching with his right hand for his hat. The waiter came with a menu.

Donahue clipped, “Gus!”

The waiter came over, and Donahue muttered, “That jane's looking for me. She'll ask for me. Tell her I don't come in here.”

“Oke.”

She ordered a gin rickey.

Skinny came in with Libbey's Bacardi cocktail.

Gus stopped at Donahue's table. “She did. Oke.”

Donahue nodded.

At that auspicious moment the drunken Libbey again yelled across: “I say, brother Donahue, do you know class when you see it?”

Donahue dropped his eyes to the table, broke a breadstick.

The woman had started, was looking at him. Donahue kept his head down, frowning sourly.

The woman smiled, said, “Hello, Mr. Donahue.”

Donahue looked up. “Speak to me?”

She rose, moved her long legs slowly on the way over, sat down at his table and took one of his cigarettes.

“Got a light?”

“You see the matches, don't you?”

She chuckled. “Just a strong, silent man, eh?”

“I'm not in the habit of having stray broads sit at my table. Give your legs a walk, sister.”

“Is that a way to treat a lady?”

His nostrils twitched. “I know how to treat a lady.”

She blew smoke in his face, showed even white teeth in a droll smile. “I'll bet you bite when you're really mad.”

Donahue folded arms on the table, settled head between broad shoulders, bored the woman with unfriendly eyes.

“Get it off your chest and then take the air,” he clipped in a low, incisive voice.

“Why rush things, big boy?”

In the same incisive voice, “Do your song and dance or I'll call the boss in and tell him to throw you out. This speak is no port of call for your kind.”

“So you think I'm that kind?”

“I'll take the benefit of the doubt.” Looking at her, he suddenly became aware of the fact that her eyes were green.

She said, offhand, “Oh, I want that diamond, Donahue. That's all..”

“You also have a sense of humor,” he said; laughed shortly and took his arms off the table as Gus swooped down with steaming dishes. Gus drew the cork on the bottle “of ink, flicked the woman with a sidelong glance, sighed, and shuffled off.

She said, “You switched stones, Donahue. You showed a fake to the police commissioner. Nobody switched stones but you.”

“And you want it, eh?”

“I want it.”

“Well, I haven't got it. And if I did have it--”

He chuckled and began eating. “On your way, girl scout.”

Her green eyes narrowed. “Okey, wisenheimer. This means you're on the spot.”

“Okey,” Donahue said cheerfully.

She leaned back, still eying him shrewdly. “A split would be all right by me.”

Donahue laid down his knife and fork. “I told you to take the air! By God, if you don't, I'll have you kicked out!”

She stood up, her nostrils quivering. Her green eyes blazed. She went out swiftly, her high heels rapping on the floor.

When Donahue came out of the speak into Tenth Street, his eyes swept up and down. He started off, turned into West Fourth Street and headed for Sheridan Square. He walked a bit gingerly, his dark eyes alert, darting from sidewalk to sidewalk and frequently back over his shoulder. He kept close to the shadows of the houses.

At Sheridan Square he entered the uptown subway kiosk, caught a local and changed to an express at the next station. He watched the people who entered behind him.

Harlem at night was no beauty spot. Donahue was a lean man striding purposefully through the seedier part of the Black Belt. Only this night's grim mission prevented him from having played along with the strange woman.

There was the familiar pool parlor, half a block ahead, on the other side of the street. The click of balls could be heard, and a man's harsh laughter. A few lighted windows straggled above the poolroom to the roof. A couple of Negro sheiks sauntered past swinging sticks, and whistling. Donahue crossed the street and was about to enter the hall-door when he heard heavy footsteps above. He stepped aside, walked rapidly away and melted into the recess between two dark-faced store windows. He saw Tubba Klem come out of the doorway and walk south. A minute later Donahue followed.

Tubba Klem turned three corners and then went down a dark street. Half way down the street was the Black and Tan Club. Tubba Klem entered beneath the blinking electric light sign. Donahue passed the club, walked a block, turned and came back. He entered the Black and Tan.

There was a smoke-filled lobby, black drapes covered with silver scrolls, and black men with white teeth, white stiff shirt fronts and natty tuxedos. There were dim lights with red globes, and a hat-check girl with dusky skin and marcelled hair. And the buzz of voices.

Donahue checked his hat and hung around in the lobby smoking until the jazzband cut loose. When he heard the shuffle of dancing feet, he drew aside the folds of the black-and-silver curtains and bumped into a huge black head-waiter. The head-waiter took him to a small table far removed from the dance-floor. Donahue ordered gin and ginger ale.

Through the shifting panorama of dancers he caught intermittent glimpses, of Tubba Klem sitting with a small beady-looking man with a big nose and a shiny bald pate. The little man was doing-most of the talking and all of the gesturing. Tubba Klem was grinning at a brown girl who sat at a long table with five other brown girls. When the dance was over, the crowd sat down, and Donahue had to bend sidewise to see Tubba Klem. He saw the small man get up petulantly and go to a table where a girl waited.

Tubba Klem was drinking. He drank out the space of four dances. Then got up and headed for the lobby. Donahue saw him pass through the curtains.

Donahue called the waiter and paid his check. He waited two minutes, then got up and went into the lobby. He saw the front door closing, caught a fleeting glimpse of Tubba Klem in profile. Donahue got his hat, went out and saw half a dozen persons getting out of a limousine. They wore evening wraps. He saw Tubba Klem walking away.

When he had taken six steps, Donahue drew the long-barreled .22 from the sheath under his arm. He pushed the barrel into his pocket, keeping his hand on the butt. He walked rapidly, and was ten feet behind Tubba Klem when he turned in towards a doorway.

“Just a minute, Tubba,” Donahue said quietly.

When Tubba Klem turned, Donahue was only five feet away from him--stopped. His hat was yanked down far over his eyes.

“Look here, Don--” Tubba Klem began.

“Shut up!”

“Damn you, Don--”

“Walk a bit, Tubba.”

“Say, what the hell--”

“Get!”

Tubba Klem's hands went in towards his sides.

Donahue drew his automatic. “I said, Tubba--walk a bit.”

“--Dam you--you--” But Tubba Klem began walking.

Donahue walked at his side, a foot clear of him, half a foot behind.

“Don't hurry, Tubba. . . . Now, listen: Have you an alibi as to where you were at ten-thirty Tuesday morning?”.

“What the hell's it gotta do with you?”

“Slower. There's no hurry. ... I know you haven't got an alibi. You killed Ike Friedman, the pawnbroker.”

“Me? Ah, you're--”

“When I poked into your room this afternoon I found a little watch-stem jammed in the sole of one of your brown shoes. I went down to the hockshop and the stem fitted a lady's wristwatch that was being repaired. You picked it up with your shoe when you killed Friedman Tuesday morning. Poore was your cell-mate. He told you about the ninety-thousand dollar hunk of ice. You got to be pals in stir. You went after the ice, and Poore's split was to go toward financing a shyster for a new trial. I saw you talking with Hermie Shantz, the fence, in the Black and Tan.”

Tubba Klein whirled, rooting himself to the pavement on huge legs. “You're a dirty liar, Donahue! You're a doublecrossin'--!”

“Keep your hands away, you punk, or you'll get a belly-full! I'll give you a break. But I want that ice. I--”

“Ice me eye! I ain't got no ice!”

“I want that ice, brother, or I call on the cops. You're not the kind chucks a gat away after smoking out a guy. You've got the gat on you. Headquarters has the bullet killed Friedman. I get the ice or I call on the cops. You've got just one minute to make up your mind. And when I get the ice, Tubba, I wait three hours before I tip off the cops. If I don't get it, I tip them off now.”

Tubba Klem's great chest heaved. His jaw worked, and little sounds strangled in his throat. His huge hands opened and closed.

“It's murder, Tubba, and you'll burn. If I get the ice you get three hours to jump any train you want to. Minute's almost up. There's a drugstore--and a telephone--around the corner.”

“Jeeze, I hate your guts!”

“I think they're okey. Minute's up.”

Tubba Klem's breath exploded. “You dirty --”

“Come across--or start walking!”

Tubba Klem coughed. His big hands shook. One hand stopped against his pants belt. Two fingers slipped into the small watch-pocket, came out shaking. The hand clenched. “I'll get you for this, Donahue! If it's the last thing I do I'll get you. I'm gonna get you! Blow your lousy heart out!”

Donahue held out his left hand. Tubba Klem smacked a ball of cloth into it. Donahue fingered the cloth open and felt a small, hard object. He flashed a quick glance at it.

“Now walk, Tubba. Walk to the next block and turn. I'll be standing right here. And if you don't want to conk out before the cops get you . . . then look for me, sweetheart-- look for me. Get.”

Tubba Klem turned and lunged off, his huge trunk swinging on his short thick legs. Donahue stood in the middle of the sidewalk, his gun in a line with Tubba Klem's back.

A man stepped from the shadows on the opposite side of the street and started across to head off Tubba Klem, Tubba Klem stopped and for a split-instant froze.

“Put 'em up, you!” barked the man.

Donahue tensed. Roper! Roper had been tailing him!

Tubba Klem let out a roar and pitched against a house wall. Both guns leaped out of his pockets. Roper raised his gun and the muzzle blast blazed in the gloom. Tubba Klem screamed, but his guns belched. Roper turned half around in the middle of the street and started falling.

Tubba Klem roared, “Now you, Donahue!” And his guns blazed again.

Zing!
That was the sound of a high-speed bullet passing over Donahue's head.

Donahue jumped sidewise, danced from foot to foot. Bang. Bang. One of Tubba Klem's bullets chipped pavement alongside Donahue's foot. Tubba Klem was not aiming. Like most gunmen he was trying to dynamite his man down.

Donahue had his gun raised, his right arm out straight, right side in a line with Tubba Klem. He pulled the trigger. The report sounded like a small firecracker. He saw Tubba Klem sit down on the pavement, and heard his guns clatter down. He ran forward and found Tubba Klem sticking his tongue out, his eyes bulging.

A police whistle shrilled, and a cop came tearing around the corner.

Tubba Klem was like a man paralyzed, He could see. He could hear. But he couldn't move a muscle. This is what a small calibre bullet does when it strikes a man's solar plexus.

The cop came pounding up with a drawn gun.

“What the hell's the matter?”

Donahue stood up. “This gun and Detective Roper had it out. I had to shoot this guy. He's Tubba Klem.”

“Who are you?”

“Donahue. Interstate Agency. Take this guy's guns. He's not hurt bad. Only his wind's knocked out.”

Donahue rose and ran out-into the street. He dropped down beside Roper. The dick was dead. His throat was torn out and there was blood on his stomach.

“How's Roper?” the cop yelled.

Donahue stood up and went towards the cop, saying, “He's dead.”

There was another cop coming down the street.
VI

THE PRECINCT CAPTAIN was a tough nut with a reputation and a clean record. He sat on his desk with arms folded and one foot planted on the seat of the swivel-chair. Roper had gone to the morgue. Tubba Klem had been taken to the hospital.

“Roper,” said the precinct skipper, “dropped in here just this afternoon. He was lookin' for Tubba Klem.”

“He must have figured the same way I did.”

“I don't know you, Donahue. Roper knew you well. He said you were the world's worst pest. A guy that hated city cops--”

“Ah, bologney!” Donahue laughed. “That was Roper's version of it. Listen, skipper--ask some other guys: Billy Ames, down at Times Square; Captain Hafferkamp at Old Slip; Inspector Kaltenheimer.”

“Anyhow,” the captain said, “I'll have to take that hunk of ice you took from Tubba Klem.”

Anger leaped into Donahue's round brown eyes. “After I got it!” He stood up and glared at the captain. “Not on your natural, skipper. This diamond goes in the Agency's safe. We return it to the European Indemnity company that hired us to get it.” He chuckled brittlely. “You must take me for a two-year-old!”

The captain thinned his gray eyes. “You heard me, Donahue. Stolen property when regained goes into the hands of the police for safe keeping.”

“Now don't read me the law. I know the law. There are exceptions to every law, and this is one. The Agency has a rock-bound reputation, and you just don't get the ice.”

“Donahue,” said the captain grimly, “I want that diamond. Hand it over.”

Donahue said, “Mind if I use the phone?” He picked up the instrument and called Headquarters. He got Inspector Kaltenheimer on the wire, then handed the phone to the captain.

The skipper tightened his lips, spoke into the mouthpiece. A minute later he hung up, twisted his lips and put down the phone.

“Okey, Donahue. Thanks for going over my head.” He got off the desk, turned his back on Donahue and walked to a window, staring bitterly out into the street.

“The trouble with a lot of you guys,” said Donahue, “is that you're not grateful. I give your precinct Tubba Klem, and still you yap.”

The skipper said nothing. Donahue put on his hat, started a cigarette, and went out.

At a corner drugstore he made a telephone call.

“Billy Ames? . . . Hello, Billy. Donahue. Listen, I got Tubba Klem. . . . I'm sorry, kid, but a couple of bulls took him over, up here in Harlem. . . . Yeah, I'm up here now. I thought I might be able to give you the pinch, but there was no go. But listen, Billy. I'll do right by you. . . . Well, it's this way. Some jane was after the ice, too. She's got a boy friend. The jane handed me a tough line in Julie's tonight and said I was on the spot. Now you can take this tip or leave it. ... Yeah, it sounds good to me. She and the guy are living at number -- Waverly Place. Third floor, front, left--as I saw it from the street. I'd go heeled, Billy--and maybe I'd take some boys along. . . . Roper? Oh, Roper got his throat shot out by Tubba 'Klem. . . . Yeah. I'll tell you about it when I see you. . . . Sure. Good-bye, Billy.”

He hung up, went out and entered a downtown subway kiosk.

It was eleven o'clock when he entered the lobby of his hotel. He went to a writing desk, sat down and drew out the diamond. Gold fire in the palm of his hand! He took a half a dozen sheets of note paper, folded one four times around the stone, then doubled the other five around that. He slipped the lot into an envelope and sealed it. He went over to the desk and said:

“Hello, John. Put this in the safe till morning, will you?”

“Will you write your name on it, Mr. Donahue?”

“I forgot.” He picked up a pen and dashed off his name.

John took a key and a letter from one of the cubbyholes behind. He said, “A lady left this note for you, Mr. Donahue.”

“Thanks.” Donahue tore it open while John went to the safe and put away the letter Donahue had given him.

Donahue read:

Dear Donahue,

Forget about that row tonight, will you? I was off my head. I came around to apologize but you weren't in. If you will meet me at that place in Tenth Street tomorrow night, I'll explain.

No signature. Donahue crammed the letter in his pocket and went to a telephone booth. He called a number and when the connection was made, he said:

“Billy Ames there? . . . When did he leave? ... I see. . . . No; no message.”

He slammed the receiver into the hook and rolled out of the booth scowling. Ames had left the precinct half an hour ago. That meant he was already at the address in Waverly Place.

Donahue sighed, got in the elevator and was whisked upward. He stepped out into a quiet corridor, walked on thick green carpet. He took out his keys inserted one in the lock of his door. He entered and pressed the light switch just inside the door. “Put 'em up, brother.” Donahue froze.

A man was standing in the center of the room holding a big automatic pistol. The woman was sitting on the divan, smiling.

“Why, you dirty--”

“Cut it!” bit off the man. “Close that door! Lock it!”

Donahue kicked the door shut but did not lock it. He turned and looked at the man.

“Lock
it, I said!”

“Lock it yourself.”

The man jerked his head. “Lock it, Clio.”

The woman got up, sauntered across the room and turned the key. Donahue eyed her narrowly.

He said, “How the hell did you punks get up here?”

“Simple,” she said. “I went back to the speak after you left and got talking with that drunken reporter. He told me where you lived. I came over and asked for you. You weren't in. I wrote the note and watched where the clerk put it. I could see the room number on the cubbyhole. Then I got”--she nodded to the man--“my husband, and we sprung the lock. My husband--”

“Without benefit of clergy,” sneered Donahue.

“That's enough juice outta you!” barked the man. “Take his gun, Clio.”

She tapped Donahue's hip pockets, then his coat pockets. She wore a puzzled look.

“Look under his arm,” coached the man, and moved around to Donahue's left side.

She got the gun and stepped away.

The man with the gun came closer, “Now that ice, brother.”

Donahue bit him with a contemptuous eye. “Ah, lay off that. I haven't got any ice.”

“Frisk him, Clio.”

The man moved around behind Donahue, pressed the muzzle of his gun against Donahue's back. The woman went through Donahue's vest pockets. She went through his coat pockets. She went through his pants pockets. Then she emptied his wallet on the table.

“Nothing, Jess,” she said.

The man came around to face Donahue. He was a big-shouldered man, the same one Donahue had seen yawning in the room in Waverly Place. His eyes were glacier blue, his nose battered, his lips wide and thick. He bared a row of teeth, two of which were gold.

“I want that ice, Donahue. You got it. You switched it when you got it from Bonalino, when that Poore rat was sent up. I know you private dicks. You're a lot of crooks, and a hunk of ice like that was worth more to you than any job could pay you for a lifetime. I tell you, I want it!”

“Well, if I had it, guy, I'd give it to you. But I haven't got it. That's on the up and up.”

“You know where it is, then! Where is it?”

Donahue grinned. “Sure I know where it is.”

“Then where is it?”

“At a precinct in Harlem.”

The man's eyes narrowed. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. You sap, you've been on a blind trail. I had the ice. I had it tonight. I took it from Tubba Klem. He was Poore's cell-mate in the Big House. He got it from Friedman, the pawnbroker. I put a bullet in Tubba's guts, and I had to leave the ice with the precinct captain. Tubba smoked out Roper, a precinct dick, before I got him. You'll see it in the first editions.”

“That's just a line, Jess,” the woman said. “He's stalling for time. Don't swallow that.”

Jess jabbed the gun hard against Donahue's stomach. “Listen, baby. You're in a hell of a tough spot--”

“I know I am, Jess. And I'm trying to get out of- it. So help me God, I'm telling the truth.”

The woman laid Donahue's gun on the divan and said, “Jess, if you swallow that you're a jackass. This guy is as two-faced as they come. Let's take him for a ride.”

Jess said, “How would you like to go for a ride, Donahue?”

“Come on, be your age,” Donahue said. “Don't you suppose I'd cough up if I had the ice? I told you where it is. Call the hospital and see if Tubba Klem isn't there. There's the phone.”

“What hospital?”

“The Harlem Hospital on Lenox Avenue.”

“Look up the number, Clio.”

The woman found a telephone book, flipped the pages, found the number. “Call it,” said Jess.

“What, I should call from this room? Don't be that way. Make this bright boy do it.”

“Go ahead, Donahue.”

Donahue put the call through, and while he was waiting for the connection Jess told Clio to take it over. Donahue handed her the phone.

In a few seconds she said, “Harlem Hospital? ... I want to know how Mr. Klem is? ... All right. Thanks.”

She hung up, scowled. “He's resting.”

Donahue smiled. “As I told you.”

The woman spun on him, her green eyes murderous. “So you think you're out of it, eh?” Her nostrils quivered, her whole body began to vibrate.

Jess snarled, “Snap out of it, Clio!” but his tone smacked of indecision.

She snapped at Jess, “Are you turning la-de-da?” The man's jaw hardened, but he said nothing. The woman clenched her hands and jerked her green stare back to Donahue. “No, you're not out of it! You're going for a ride, brother! You're going to get your guts blown out!”

Now Donahue was baffled.

Her voice rose, quavering hysterically. “You hear me! You're going for a ride!”

“What the hell good will that do you?”

“Good? A lot of good, you--damn dick! A lot of good! All right . . . the ice is safe in the precinct. But you get yours anyhow. You know what you did to get this ride? Do you?”

“No,” dully.

Blue veins stood out on her forehead. “You sent my sister up for ten years.”

“You're--”

“My sister! Irene Saffarrans!”

“Good God, Clio!” growled Jess. “Calm yourself!”

Donahue's brown eyes opened wide.

“Shut up, Jess!” she cried. “You've got to go through this with me. You promised. That's what we came here for. If we didn't get the ice, then we were to get this louse. You promised, Jess! You can't let me down!”

“Wait a minute,” broke in Donahue. “For God's sake, sister, you're crazy--”

“And you shut up, big boy!” she snarled. “You've said all you're going to say! You hounded her. You sent her up for ten years. Ten years! You're a sneak, a dirty double-crossing yellow dog--”

“And you're a liar!” Donahue broke in hotly. “I sent her up. Yes, I did. But I managed to get her ten years instead of fifteen, which she deserved. She double-crossed every man she ever traveled with. She caused the deaths of Crosby, Babe Delaney, Bruhard, and the little old Adler. And because of her Poore went to the Big House. Don't tell me! That sister of yours was a crook--and a dirty one--from the word go! I know you janes--the whole lot of you! I wouldn't wipe my feet on you! And I know how to treat a lady, sister, when I meet one. But this lousy business I'm in--”

“That's enough,” she snapped. “Jess, we'll take this guy. Down the stairs and out the side entrance. We'll walk him to the car and ride him up First Avenue and pitch him from the Willis Avenue Bridge,”

Jess's eyes nickered, and muscles bulged alongside his jaw. His voice was muffled when he said, “Okey, Clio. . . . Put your hat on, Donahue.” '

“Listen, Jess--”

“Put it on!” choked Jess.

Donahue picked up his hat. His face turned gray, a humid look came into his brown eyes.

Clio went over and listened at the door. Then she unlocked it. Opened it. Jess jerked his chin, and Donahue walked past him slowly into the corridor, his lips hueless.

Clio whispered, “Past the elevator to the stairway!”

“Go ahead, Donahue,” said Jess.

Donahue had taken two steps when the elevator door opened.
VII

THE THREE STOPPED. Jess slipped his gun into his pocket. The elevator door was open, but no one came out. The girl looked at Jess and Jess looked at the girl. Donahue looked towards the elevator. None of them could see its door, but all knew that it had opened.

Then it closed. It was a silent elevator. You could not hear its movement in the shaft.

Jess drew out his gun. “Mosey along, Donahue.”

The girl led the way to the end of the hall, opened a door that led to a cement stairway. Their feet echoed on the way down. It was really a fire exit. Jess walked behind Donahue, his big hand white-knuckled on the gun.

Presently the girl stopped. “The next landing is the last, Jess. Shove the rod in your coat pocket. If he makes a break let him have it.”

“Okey, Clio.”

They went out into a marble corridor where a few lights burned. They started down an arcade lined by exclusive little shops--all dark at this hour. Glass swing-doors were at the end leading into Ninth Street. Donahue marched between the man and the woman.

Clio moved ahead when they neared the swing-doors. She pushed one open and held it open while Jess prodded Donahue into the street. Then she let the door swing shut on its silent spring, and they started east on Ninth Street towards University Place.

“Hey, you!”

The woman flung a look over her shoulder. Jess hugged his gun tight and twisted.

There was a man standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel entrance. Even in the gloom Donahue recognized Billy Ames.

Said Billy Ames, “Put 'em up!”

“It's a frame!” the woman muttered. “That guy was waiting for us! Donahue knew it!”-

Her hand jumped from the pocket of her blue coat and a small automatic spat sharply. Ames had jumped sidewise. The woman bared her teeth and sent three shots in rapid succession. One of them got Ames. He flinched, and then the gun in his hand banged.

“Oh-o,” the woman grunted. One of her legs buckled, and she slumped to the sidewalk.

Jess roared and blazed away, and Ames staggered backwards, as his own gun thundered. Donahue fell on the gun in the woman's hand, tore it from her feeble grasp. He whirled on Jess, charged him and jammed the muzzle against his side, press the trigger. The explosion was muffled by Jess's clothes.

Jess heaved away, groaning. He started running. Donahue streaked after him. Swinging into University Place, Jess twisted and sent two shots at Donahue. One nailed Donahue in the left leg, and he skidded against the building. He clawed his way to the corner and saw Jess running north on University Place. He toiled after him, hopping on one foot, dragging the other. If only he had the long-barreled twenty-two!

Crossing the street, Jess turned for another shot. Donahue heard the bullet snick past his ear, heard it crash the plate glass window of a shop. Donahue fell down, lay panting at the curb. Jess ran on towards a parked car.

Donahue got up and tried to run on both legs. The experiment drew a rasp of pain from his throat that was clipped short by tightened lips. He hopped across the street, his breath clotting in his throat. He heard the cough of a starting motor, saw smoke belch from the parked car's exhaust. He clamped his teeth and tried to run again on both legs. The pain seemed to stab to his brain. It made him dizzy. But he stuck it out. Stuck it out till he reached the back of the car. But the car was starting.

Donahue grabbed the spare tire, got his arms around it. He was dragged a matter of ten yards before he got his foot clamped in the inside of the rim. He hung on grimly as the car wheeled around a corner. It was a big sedan.

East on Sixteenth Street, past Stuyvesant Square, and then north on First Avenue with the throttle wide open. Donahue hung on, his wounded left leg lying across the tail light, shooting pain through his body with each bump. After a while the car slowed down to a normal rate of speed. It made a left turn into Thirty-seventh Street and rolled past garages and dark-faced houses. Halfway up the block it swung in to the curb and came to a stop.

Donahue was already off the tire. He staggered up the side of the car as Jess pushed the door, open and shoved a foot out.

“Come right on out,” said Donahue, “but watch your step.”

“Why, damn my soul--”

“Out Jess, or I'll finish you right here.”

Jess stumbled out, one hand pressed to his side, pain on his face.

“I gotta get a doc, Donahue.”

“So have I, you big bum.”

Jess was breathing hoarsely, doubling up.

“But you walk now,” Donahue said. He reached out with his left hand and tore the gun from Jess's hand. “Walk to Lexington Avenue. There's a hotel up there where I can telephone.”

“I can't! So help me, I can't go another step!”

Donahue leaned against the car, his face drawn. He hefted the two guns. “Get, Jess--or I'll empty both these rods in your belly!”

Jess staggered away from the car. Donahue toiled after him, dragging his left leg, hopping on the right. Jess dragged his heels, bent far forward, both hands held to his side. They crossed Second Avenue, crossed Third and started up the hill towards Lexington. Half way up Jess fell to the pavement, groaning.

“Get up, Jess!”

“I can't. Honest to God, I can't! Oh-o. . . . God. . . . God!”

Donahue started towards where Jess lay, but he never made it. He dropped three feet short, and lay braced on one elbow. Jess was sitting facing him, hands gripping his side, torso rocking from side to side. The street was dark, deserted; not even a house light shone. At the next corner was the hotel.

For fully two minutes they said nothing. They could hear each other's labored breathing, see each other's sweat-smeared and pain-twisted face. Then Jess fell quietly side-wise.

Donahue looked at him through glassy eyes. The street began to fade. Jess became a dark blur lying on the sidewalk. Donahue's braced arm collapsed, and his head struck the sidewalk. He could not move it. Blackness was sweeping down on him.

His hand tightened on the gun he had taken from Jess. He pulled the trigger, kept pulling it until the hammer clicked. The echoes of the shots hammered violently m the narrow street.

“This last play was a bad one. We've got it straight now that Poore sent Tubba Klem after the ice. Poore figured that Friedman had switched it. And we've got it straight that Irene Saffarrans had a long talk with her sister and Irene figured that you'd switched the ice.”

Donahue sighed. “Okey, boss . . . okey. Get the ice and get rid of it. It's the unluckiest hunk of ice I ever tailed. I'm on my back for a month, and I don't want to hear about it, don't want to talk about it. I'm sick of guns and gun-toting frails. When I can walk I'm going to go to the country. I know a guy up in the mountains. He's got a cabin there. And it's quiet as hell. God, Asa, it'll be good to smell the woods and forget all about business!”

Asa sat back with a reflective smile. “You know, Donny, I'd like to go with you.”

Donahue glared. “Nix. You couldn't get enough newspapers, and you couldn't go an hour without talking about your life's work. Nix, boss. Just nix.”

Hinkle chuckled. “I guess you're right, son.”

THE END