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

southward overhead. At Twenty-third Street the Elevated swings east for a block, then south again on First Avenue. Between Second and First Avenues is the Twenty-third Street station. Donahue’s taxi reached it four blocks ahead of the train. Donahue got out, paid up, climbed the staircase and stood behind a partition at the platform exit.
    The train pulled in slowly after having made the turn. It was pretty empty. Train gates opened—closed. Quick footsteps sounded on the platform. Alfred appeared, strode past the partition behind which Donahue crouched. Donahue took a fast step after him and said:
    “All right, Alfred—quiet, now!”
    Alfred stopped short when Donahue poked a gun muzzle against Alfred’s back.
    “Hands out of pockets,” Donahue said.
    Alfred took his hands from his pockets. Donahue frisked with his left hand, said, “Turn around.” Alfred turned around, his small face white and breathless. Donahue reached inside Alfred’s ulster, drew a pistol from the ulster’s inside pocket. There was a silencer attached. Donahue shoved gun and silencer into his own inside pocket. His mouth was tight, a windy look was in his eyes.
    “Now, you—we’ll go places,” he said.
    “Listen, Donahue—”
    “Down those steps, sweet man—and a wisecrack out of you and I’ll break your jaw. Get!”
    He grabbed Alfred’s arm, walked him rapidly down the staircase. Alfred was like a man in a daze. He kept on trying to say things but somehow he seemed unable to utter a word.
    But finally he said, “Where—are we going?”
    “Ever hear of a dick named Roper?”
    Alfred winced. “You mean—Bat Roper?”
    “They tell me he bats hell out of guys.”
    Alfred dragged to a stop. “Cripes, Donahue—”
    “You’re such a red-hot, though, that maybe he won’t have to bat you. Quit stalling! Come on!”
    Alfred hung back, setting his small mouth firmly. Three men were coming up Second Avenue.
    Donahue rough-housed Alfred. “Damn you—”
    Alfred leaped at Donahue yelling, “Help! Help!”
    “You—!” Donahue snapped.
    Alfred clawed at him, yelling for help, struggling frantically. The three men broke into a run, shouting. They were big men—East Siders. Donahue clouted Alfred on the head with his gun. Alfred screamed. The three men came up yelling.
    Donahue shouted, “Stay off, you guys!”
    Alfred buried his teeth in Donahue’s arm. Donahue kicked Alfred’s shins. The three men landed on Donahue and whaled him with hard fists. Alfred broke away, raced down Second Avenue.
    Donahue shouted, “You fools, that’s a killer! I’m a cop!”
    “Yeah, you’re a cop!”
    “Damn your souls, clear out!” Donahue roared. He whipped his gun back and forth, laying open a cheek; plunged through the men, streaked off after Alfred. Alfred swung west into Twenty-first Street. Donahue took the corner wide, saw Alfred speeding towards Gramercy Park.
    He yelled, “Stop, you! I tell you, stop!”
    Alfred did not stop. He was swift for a small man. But Donahue stopped, clicking his teeth together. He raised his gun, looked down it, pulled the trigger. Flame and smoke burst from the muzzle. The street boomed. Alfred reeled sidewise, fell, slid on his side into the gutter.
    When Donahue came running up Alfred was crawling on his side, moaning hysterically. He was dragging his left leg. When Donahue reached down Alfred screamed like a maniac. Windows were grating open. Lights were springing to life. Alfred screamed till his voice broke—and then he coughed, choked—but kept on crawling, leaving a thin trail of blood. Donahue reached down again, grabbed Alfred’s shoulder.
    “A guy would think you had places to go,” he said. “Snap out of it, dumb bell.”
    Alfred stopped crawling but screamed again until his voice broke, banged his head on the pavement and swept the air with his hands.
    Donahue knelt down and grabbed him by the throat. “And you’re not going to bang your brains out!”
    Running footsteps came down