House Dick hcc-54

by E. Howard Hunt

  Novak sighed. “When I was leaving Mrs. Boyd last night I ran into a Chicago gambler—Ben Barada. The Tilden’s conservative about floating dice games so I booted him out. Ben didn’t like it. Not at all. In fact he later sent around a pair of punks to work me over. They jumped me in the alley and got the point across. I’ve got a scab on my scalp and my chest looks like a bad job of tattooing.”

  Morely grunted. “Making a complaint?”

  Novak shook his head. “I’ll settle with Barada—if we ever meet again.”

  Morely’s mouth made a thoughtful sucking sound. “There wasn’t any gun, Pat. That’s what I don’t like. Not even an ejected shell. Nothing to show Boyd was killed where he was found. Close to a contact wound, by the singed cloth and only internal bleeding. Heart penetration. The ME says he must have dropped like an elephant. Because of the warm room the ME can’t fix death within three hours.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Any time from eight last night until five this morning. That’s what I got to work with.” He stood up. “Oh, yeah. One of Boyd’s business partners is a Congressman—Representative Barjansky. So I can expect federal pressure on this one.” His fingers rotated the cigar between his lips. “Naturally I’d appreciate any help you can manage.”

  Novak stood up. “You know Tilden policy—complete cooperation with law enforcement authorities.”

  Morely’s eyes regarded him humorously. “Except when we find a nest of hustlers operating in one of your fancy suites. Then cooperation’s the last thing we get.”

  “We’ve got three hundred and forty rooms here. I can’t shake down every one on the hour. Hell, this is a city within a city.”

  “Keep it clean,” Morely murmured, and went out of the office.

  Novak waited until the door closed and then he blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. Morely was an old-school cop, not one of the bright young crimelab detectives. He hoped he had said enough to satisfy Morely. And if Morely stumbled onto Paula later he couldn’t accuse Novak of not mentioning the Barada run-in.

  Mary got up from her desk and brought over a typed letter. Novak signed it standing. “Seal the package with red wax,” he told her. “Send the envelope registered, insured, return receipt requested. Just in case the blonde’s left Cleveland by now.”

  Mary nodded. “A shame you don’t get a reward, Pete.”

  “Well, I get the inner satisfaction of a job well done.”

  “There’s always that.” She went to the safe, took out the jewels he had recovered from Murky’s room and carried the letter and the envelope to her desk. Novak went into the coffee shop and sat down at the counter. The waitress had a starched cap perched above her auburn hair, hazel eyes and a turned-up freckled nose. “Well, well,” she said, polishing the counter in front of Novak. “God’s gift to the weaker sex.”

  “Middle-aged members only,” Novak bantered. “Coffee, Jerry. Hot and black as sin.”

  “And sweet as secret seduction?” She turned around, drew a cup and put it in front of him.

  Novak grinned. “Young love. It’s been years since I even thought of it. How’s art school, kid?”

  “Fashion design,” she corrected. “Pretty good. One more term and Manhattan, here I come. And will I be glad—no more dirty plates and tarnished dimes.”

  Novak sipped the coffee. It was hot enough, but weak. He told her so. “Argue with the management,” she said saucily. “Or take up Postum and mix your own.”

  “I might at that. Haven’t been sleeping too well.”

  “Couldn’t guess why,” she said wickedly. “You and that young-old face of yours. That’s something I’ll miss on the Big Island.”

  Novak shook sugar into the cup and stirred lightly. “Sounds like pillowtalk, redhead.”

  “Not to me it doesn’t. I’m holding out for a ring.”

  “The lonely crowd,” Novak sighed. “Just pass me the check.”

  She made a mock-mad face. “Just try and get one.” Then she flounced off to another customer.

  A good kid, Jerry. Looks, spirit and maybe even talent. She might just make a go of it in New York. In one of those houses featuring fruity young men in pipestem velvet and skullfaced women with voices like stevedores. At least she was making her try. And on her own.

  Jimmy Grant was patting his sleeve. “Pete, front office wants you. Right away.”

  “What’s the beef?”

  “The dead guy, I guess. Mr. Boyd—the one who got murdered last night.”

  Novak slid off the stool. “Murder, was it? Is Mr. Connery all nervous and upset-like?”

  “They oughta diaper him today.”

  Novak chuckled, pushed through louvered walnut doors and crossed the lobby to the Assistant Manager’s office.

  Ralph Connery was in his late forties, a neat dresser with thin fingers and lips. Hairline deeply scalloped and a narrow bony nose that gave his voice a nasal quality. He was wearing a heather herringbone suit and a tab collar shirt and his eyes looked desperate.

  “Where the hell have you been, Novak?”

  “Out milking the pigeons.”

  Lips drew back showing brittle white teeth. “That’s a wisecrack, I suppose. Well, we don’t pay you for vaudeville chatter, as you’ve been told before.”

  Novak leaned forward slowly. “Hold down the aggressive impulses, Ralph,” he said softly. “Where I’ve been is in my office listening to Detective Lieutenant Morely describe the morning’s unpleasant discovery.”

  Connery’s eyes shifted. “You weren’t around,” he complained. “I had to handle the police myself.”

  “Nobody notified me. And the police don’t take much handling. They know their business. They get a pretty steady workout on DOA’s.”

  “Even so,” Connery muttered, “it was damned unpleasant. I understand you know Mrs. Boyd—the widow.”

  “Met her last night. Lost and found matter.”

  “Well, she wants you to come up. Now. And for God’s sake, try to show a little sympathy. Where the Boyds come from they’re important people.”

  “I’m deeply impressed. Shall I rent striped pants and a carnation before I make my call?”

  Connery wet his lips. “Just go. And remember Mrs. Boyd may be difficult. Shock—you know.”

  “Yeah,” Novak said pushing back at his chair. “I know. Fortunately her medicine man’s at hand. He’ll be a world of help.”

  As Novak reached the elevator bank Jimmy sidled over to him. “Pete, remember that luscious number with the gray luggage who checked in last evening?”

  “Thought about her all night.”

  “Me too. Well, she just drifted across the lobby and half the guys wheeled around and followed her out. Miss Paula Norton. Whatta dish.”

  Novak gave him a fake belly punch, tapped his chin with the other hand. “Too mature for you, sonny. Save your dough and shop for something your own age.”

  “But, Daddy, that’s the one I want.”

  Elevator doors opened and Novak rode up to the fifth. It was getting to be the only floor in the hotel.

  No uniformed policeman posted at the door. Not even a plainclothes man lurking down the corridor. A door like any other door. Novak ran his tongue over his teeth and pressed the bell.

  The man who opened the door was Dr. Edward Bikel. He stared gravely at Novak and intoned, “A dreadful tragedy, sir. Mrs. Boyd is containing herself with great forebearance. She has displayed a truly marvelous spirit. I entreat you not to upset her.”

  Novak gave him a glassy smile. “I’m the picker-upper, Doc. They keep me around mainly for morale purposes. Is the widow under sedation?”

  A nerve started to work in Bikel’s cheek. His eyes flickered. “As a matter of fact, I administered something mild and soothing. No laboratory product, Mr. Novak. Just a simple, natural remedy.”

  Novak’s voice became hard as he said, “I’d hold it to that, Doc. The Narco Squad would love to get their hands on an out-of-towner passing out prescription drugs.” He moved past Bi
kel and crossed the sitting room. Where Boyd had lain the pillows were plumped out. Everything was as sterile and impersonal as a stage-setting.

  He knocked on the half-open bedroom door and in a moment Julia Boyd’s voice told him to enter.

  She was propped up in one of the twin beds, wearing a lacy, salmon-colored bed jacket that did nothing for her muddy complexion. A ravaged tray on the other bed gave every indication that Julia Boyd had breakfasted heartily.

  One puffy hand lifted and signaled him closer. Novak drew a chair to the side of the bed and murmured, “You have my sympathy, Mrs. Boyd.”

  Harshly she said, “Chalmers Boyd was a skunk, Mr. Novak. After our marriage I realized he had married me for my money. Back in Winnetka I’ll have to put on a show of grief, but here—among strangers—I refuse to be hyprocritical. Do you have a cigarette?”

  Novak gave her one, lighted it and closed the bedroom door.

  Behind the veil of smoke her eyes narrowed. “What’s that for?”

  “It’s likely the doc wouldn’t approve. Tobacco’s a wicked weed.”

  Her throat gave forth a deep chortle. “S’what he keeps telling me. He’s right, of course, but I haven’t many pleasures left.”

  Novak resumed his seat and said nothing.

  Julia Boyd blew a jet of smoke toward the ceiling. After a while she said, “My late husband visited you last night.”

  “True.”

  “I want to know the subject of the discussion.”

  “I’d guess you know it already.”

  Her head moved to one side. “Chalmers went to tell you I had delusions; that the jewelry I said was missing wasn’t missing at all. Am I right?”

  Novak nodded.

  “Did he mention where it was?”

  “He said it was in his office safe.”

  She laughed unpleasantly. “A damn lie, Mr. Novak. Chalmers didn’t have it, I didn’t have it either. Not for a long time.”

  “You lied to me, Mrs. Boyd?”

  “Yes, I lied to you. For practical reasons. So the slut he gave my jewelry to would never be able to enjoy it. So that she’d be forced to return it. And for a price considerably under what she was asking.”

  “This is all getting pretty involved, Mrs. Boyd. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re confiding these unpleasant facts to me.”

  She sat up and rolled her bulk toward him. “I’ll tell you why, Novak. Because there’s a job I want done and I think you can do it for me. You look hard and you talk tough and that’s the kind of a man I need.” She was leaning on one elbow staring at him, her little eyes shiny as beetle backs. “Well, what about it?”

  “I haven’t heard what you have in mind, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Call me Julia. What I have in mind is recovering the jewelry Chalmers gave to that little bitch he was keeping. How you get it back, I don’t care. The point is I want it. And it’s worth a thousand dollars to you.”

  Novak fanned himself lightly. “A lot of money, Mrs. Boyd—Julia. I’m Pete, by the way. Plus travel expenses to Winnetka?”

  She snorted. “No traveling involved. All you have to do is cross the hall and twist my jewelry out of the woman in that room. Her name is Paula Barada. What she’s registered as I haven’t the faintest idea. Well?”

  “She was your husband’s mistress?”

  “Unless the detective I hired reported nothing but lies.”

  “Do you think she was responsible in any way for your husband’s death?”

  “I certainly do!” she screeched. “I told that police lieutenant all about her.”

  Novak stood up. “The wise thing to do. For now I’d leave it with the police. Slander can cost a pile of money.”

  “Well,” she snapped, “are you taking the job?”

  Novak pursed his lips. “Cases of this sort can run into surprising difficulties. For now I’ll reconnoiter the ground—see what the lady looks like first. A little caution could pay off.”

  “Don’t be too damn cautious,” she bristled. “For my thousand dollars I expect action.”

  The door opened and Bikel slid in. “Julia, you must remain calm. Please. We mustn’t have one of your spells now.”

  Staring at him levelly she spat. “Drop dead, Eddie.”

  Bikel choked, colored and disappeared.

  Julia Boyd watched the retreat with evident pleasure. “That creep,” she snarled, “may well be my next husband.”

  Novak blinked. “He won’t last.”

  “And why not?”

  “You’ll eat him alive and stuff the skin for your bedroom.”

  Julia Boyd cackled hoarsely. “I like you, Novak—Pete, is it? You say what you think. Yes. A man spending my money owes me certain obligations. Chalmers forgot his. You may go now. But I expect to hear from you. Understand?”

  “You won’t care if I break a couple of her arms?”

  She chortled greedily. “I’d love it. Now get busy.”

  Novak went out of the bedroom and saw Bikel slumped in a chair staring out of the window. “Brace up, Doc,” he said cheerfully. “Everyone has days like this. A little pink pepsin compound ought to calm her down.”

  Bikel shot him a venomous glance. Novak opened the door and went out.

  8

  As he walked down the corridor he shook out a cigarette, moistened dry lips and lighted it. So Julia Boyd had known about Paula and her hubby. That was a small item Morely had neglected to pass along. Already Paula was under a degree of suspicion.

  Paula thought she had the jewelry safely hidden, then found out it was missing. Maybe Boyd had waited until Paula went out, opened her door somehow and searched for the jewelry. Maybe he had found it, then later got himself killed. For what? For the jewels? Or maybe the murder of Boyd and the theft of the jewels were two unrelated happenings. Barada had been in a wild mood last night. He had plenty of reason to resent Boyd. Suppose he came back for another chat with Paula and found Boyd there, with or without Paula. Maybe Barada had pulled a gun and shaken down Boyd for the ninety grand payoff money, drilled him and waltzed away with the jewels to boot.

  So far he had been accepting Paula’s version as close to the truth. Of what other things she might be guilty he didn’t care. He had believed her last night, believed her enough to move the corpse from its compromising location. But Julia Boyd had pushed her into a hot skillet anyway. Before Morely did anything he would take a hard look at the evidence, at where the threads wound. Then, if he were convinced, he would move in ruthlessly.

  “What if she killed him?” he said half-aloud, and thought, how far would you go to save her?

  Not a centimeter, a voice said coldly. Then another voice: You’d want to find out why she did it. Then make up your mind.

  “Yeah,” he said to the empty hall. “That’s what you’d do.”

  Back in his office Novak phoned the Credit Central and asked for traces on Bikel. Lighting a cigarette he stared through the Venetian blinds at the sunny street. Whir of traffic, click of heels, chatter of voices. The outside world.

  A grand from Julia Boyd to get back jewelry from Paula Norton who no longer had it. Who, then? The murderer, probably, but no long odds on that, either. Or had Paula staged a little act for his benefit? In the normal course of events Boyd would have gone to her room with the payoff money and walked out with the jewelry. Suppose he had gone there and tried to strong-arm the jewels from Paula. Novak could see her shooting Boyd, hiding the gun and the jewels and phoning him. Hell, he should have searched Boyd’s body when he had the chance. For jewels or money or both. Now it was too late.

  He dialed Paula’s room, heard the phone buzz a dozen times and hung up.

  Mary carried over some morning registrations that had been credit-checked. Novak initialed them and dropped them in his OUT box. A new day at the Tilden. New faces, new names. Traveling men, lobbyists, grifters, old folks seeing the Nation’s Capital. A city of overnight guests. The largest floating population in the country. A city of parks and highway
s and museums. With marble and granite buildings that looked as hospitable as a county jail.

  The phone rang. Mary answered and buzzed Novak.

  The caller was Lieutenant Morely. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said in a voice frayed with fatigue. “We scooped a sample of the widow’s sleepy tonic. Whattaya know—under the cherry flavor it’s loaded with mescaline. No wonder fatty gets hallucinations. I guess we wouldn’t have to look far to find the source of supply.”

  “No,” Novak said. “About as far as the luggage of a certain nature doctor. You figure she was asleep last night when the shooting took place?”

  “Well, the syrup’s got a high enough percentage to make her crazy as a dancing bear. Of course, we don’t know when Boyd caught his bullet or when Mrs. Boyd went to bed. Or whether she really took that syrup last night. Or—if she did, how much?”

  Novak said, “Bikel’s from near the Mex border where the Indians brew mescaline from peyote buttons. For the Rain Dance or whatever the hell they celebrate these days. Picking him up?”

  “Not just yet. Any sign of either one checking out, let me know. I’m going home to grab me some shut-eye but the desk can reach me.”

  “Will do,” Novak said. “Any other leads?”

  “Yeah, that hood Barada’s wife is a guest at the Tilden. A looker. Signed in as Miss Norton.”

  Novak’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “You don’t say.”

  Morely yawned. “There was something steamy between her and the dear departed. With Barada around, looks like it could have been the badger game. Work hard, pal.”

  The phone went dead.

  Novak replaced the receiver and wiped his palms on his thighs. Morely had worked fast. He had Bikel where he could squeeze him if the need arose. Even homebrew mescaline was on the list of controlled narcotics.

  He thought about visiting Paula’s room and shaking it down. But if she had a second gun it was gone by now. The same with any jewelry. Too late for that now. Hours too late.

  As he passed Mary’s desk he said, “If Connery wants me I’m following up a request by Mrs. Boyd. Be back in an hour.”

  Walking across the lobby he signaled Jimmy Grant and said, “If you see Miss Norton come back, make a note of the time and leave it on my desk.”