Read SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames for Free Online Page B

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,