SSC (1950) Six Deadly Dames by Frederick Nebel Page A

that anyone might have fluked it.”
    He dropped the bogus stone on the desk. “I guess you can let the Police Commissioner have it back. It didn't work.”
    Hinkle took off his diplomatic pince-nez. “That diamond must be in America, Donny. Poore and the Saffarrans woman know stones. They wouldn't have tried to bring in a fluke.”
    Donahue squinted. “What do you want me to do-go down and see Friedman again, get him in the back room and punch him around until the yellow runs? I'll do it! By God, I'll do it!”
    His dark eyes glittered, his fists were rocks at his sides.
    Hinkle smiled, shook his head. “Donny, don't be so thoroughly Irish.”
    Donahue turned away, growled, “That's an old one of yours!”

II
    DONAHUE WAS EATING ravioli in an Italian speak in West Tenth Street at noon the next day when Libbey, a city press association reporter fell in through the door, picked himself up and headed for the bar in the rear.
    “Some day you'll knock your brains out,” Donahue called.
    “Oh, hello, Donny.”
    Libbey changed his course, came over and flopped down in a chair facing Donahue. Drink had sapped the color in his cheeks. Drink had given him that young-old face. The crown of his hat was dented in, and his tie was crooked against his collar. He reached for the bottle of red wine beside Donahue, poured a water-glass full, swallowed it without a pause. He smacked his lips.
    “How's the ravioli?”
    “How's the wine?”
    “I don't like wine.... Hey, Skinny, bring me a Bacardi cocktail, and I don't mean rosewater.... Well, wine is all right, Donny, if there is nothing else but water around. I feel depressed. That louse Sweeney is God's most ungrateful man. I telephone him immediately after the murder happens and what does he do but wisecrack and accuse me of being drunk. I'm going to throw the job and get down to writing a novel.
    “Who got gunned out?”
    “A fellow gave pennies and baubles to little kiddies. It's a shame, Donny.”
    “Around here?”
    “Fourteenth Street.”
    “Oh, yeah?”
    “Yeah. A hockshop man, Friedman.”
    Donahue looked up. “How'd it happen?”
    “Nobody knows. Some guy just came in, apparently, and blew him apart and went away, taking with him some loot-possibly. At any rate, there was a chamois gem bag on the floor near the pool of blood.”
    “What time?”
    “About eleven, I guess.... If you could see the pool of blood-”
    “What's the cop on the job think?”
    “Who... Roper?”
    “Roper on it?”
    “Yeah. Great mind, that Roper... for a moron. Well, what the hell could he think? What do I think? What does anybody think? Look now: Murder and robbery, of course. But of an odd nature. There is the chamois bag lying beside the pool of blood. But it appears that the safe was not rifled and nothing stolen from it. Then what? Well, either the chamois bag was flung down in disgust by the murderer-thief, or it was discarded after he had taken something out of it. In the latter case, it's plausible to assume-to assume that Friedman had something shady in his possession. What was it? Who knows? Ah, my son, that is the mystery.... Well, it's about time, Skinny!”
    Libbey tipped the Bacardi cocktail against his lips and drained it at two swallows. “Encore, Skinny.... How's to, Donny?”
    “No, thanks. And what does Roper think exactly? Did he figure things out that way?”
    “No. God, no! Roper? Pardon me if I seem to chortle.... How's the ravioli?”
    “Fine.”
    “Think I'll have some spaghetti. By the way, I kidded our friend Roper a bit. I said to him, quite offhand, 'If you find it hard, Roper, look up Donahue.' You should have seen him! And do you know what he said? He said, 'When-; ever I look that palooka up, it'll be to put bracelets on him.' I said bracelets were kind of effeminate; you might object. He spit on the floor, showing how he was brought-or dragged-up.... Gripes, Skinny, you take long! A guy would think this belly-wash was custom made.” Donahue paid