SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames by Frederick Nebel Read Free Book Online Page B

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.”

Get A Load Of This
    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