Free Tough as Nails: The Complete Cases of Donahue From the Pages of Black Mask by Frederick Nebel Page A

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 dis-trict 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 butch-er’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 emp-tied 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 re-turned 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’ll 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 meager chest. He looked helplessly at Donahue. Don-ahue 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 fire-place, 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.
Chapter 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 at-tended the quiet murder of Crosby, and crowds in Waverly