Free SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames by Frederick Nebel

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,