House Dick hcc-54

by E. Howard Hunt

  Then he dialed Police Headquarters.

  14

  Novak ate lunch in the coffee shop and spent a couple of hours going over the hotel with a fire inspector on a periodic inspection tour. When the inspector left, Novak turned back from the front entrance and started walking to his office. As he neared the reception counter he saw the clerk beckoning at him. “May I trouble you a moment, Mr. Novak?” he chirped.

  Novak angled over and saw a man resting an elbow on the marble counter. He wore a houndstooth coat, flannel slacks, moccasin shoes and a stitched-brim tweed hat. His green challis tie was figured with trout flies, mostly concealed by a beige corduroy vest. A very sporty customer, Novak decided and looked at the face.

  It was a face that would have been overly handsome but for a nose bridge that might have been broken and set repeatedly. As Novak neared him, the man’s elbow left the counter, and he straightened the lapels of his coat. The shoulders had the powerful roll of an athlete, and the eyes that surveyed Novak were cool and steady. To Novak he looked like a man who had seen the collegiate light-heavyweight ring within the last ten years.

  Novak laid one hand on the counter and looked at the clerk. The clerk coughed nervously. “This gentleman was inquiring for someone, Mr. Novak. I thought you might be able to provide the information.”

  Novak turned his glance to the other man.

  The man reached a gloved hand into his coat, extracted an ostrich wallet and selected a card. He gave it to Novak and put away the wallet. The card was good quality stock, engraved with a name: Pike Hammond, St. Louis. There was a telephone number over the lower right-hand edge. Novak dropped the card in his pocket, said, “What was it you wanted, Mr. Hammond?”

  The man’s smile was casual. He spread his gloved hands and said, “Looking for an old friend. Seems I may have missed her. The clerk thought you might have more information.”

  “Who’s the friend?”

  Almost indifferently the man said, “Name of Barada—but I understand she’s using her maiden name, Norton.”

  “Miss Norton checked out before noon.”

  Hammond nodded. “It occurred to me she might have left a forwarding address.”

  Novak gave the clerk a long stare. The clerk swallowed hard and fluttered away. Then Novak said, “She left no forwarding address, but something was mentioned about Winnetka, Illinois. Too bad you missed her, Mr. Hammond.”

  He shrugged. “That’s how the ball bounces.” His eyes moved over Novak. “She stayed here alone?”

  “Single reservation.”

  “Too bad,” he said musingly. “Thought I might be able to connect up with her husband. Actually he’s the one I needed to see.”

  Novak drummed his nails on the counter. “What’s your line of business, Mr. Hammond?”

  The man’s lips pursed slightly, then resumed their even smile. “We could call it the entertainment business,” he said smoothly. “How’s that sound?”

  “Passable,” Novak said. “Which end, Mr. Hammond?”

  Hammond’s smile showed white, sturdy teeth. “The collection end. But we weren’t talking about me.”

  “Excuse the detour. Where’d you know Ben Barada? Northeast Illinois?”

  “Chicago?”

  “I was thinking of Joliet.”

  The smile thinned. “A fellow like Big Ben does a lot of traveling. In the course of a year you could spot him in twenty or thirty places: Hialeah, Hot Springs, New Orleans, Vegas...”

  “And St. Louis.”

  “Wherever the fast money moves.” One hand made a fist and hit the gloved palm of his other hand. “Time’s a-wasting,” he remarked. “Thanks, fella. This has been a big disappointment.” He started to move past Novak. Novak’s elbow blocked him.

  “Down, boy,” Hammond said icily. “Playtime’s over.”

  “Relax,” Novak said. “You’ve come a long way to see Barada. No need to go away thirsty.”

  Hammond’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not a drinking man,” he said, “but I don’t object on principle.”

  Novak took his arm and steered him into the bar. They sat on a curved corner seat and ordered Irish and a Coke. Hammond took off the tweed hat and smoothed dark brown hair. Just above the hairline there was a white scar that could have been a bullet crease. He pulled off his gloves slowly, and Novak saw the battered knuckles of a fighter. The gloves were Italian peccary at about thirty bucks a pair.

  Hammond waited until Novak had lighted a cigarette and said, “You’ve got quite a line on old Ben. How come?”

  “He got into trouble a couple of nights ago.”

  Hammond eased forward. “What kind of trouble?”

  “Slapping his wife around.”

  Hammond picked a wooden match from the ashtray box and rubbed one end against an upper incisor. “You blew the whistle?”

  Novak nodded.

  Hammond smiled unevenly. Novak lifted his right elbow and eased it casually against Hammond’s coat. There was something hard and bulky under the well-tailored houndstooth. Hammond’s eyes flickered. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m rodded. So what?”

  “I like to know what I’m talking to,” Novak said. “Sorry about the crude frisk.” He took his glass from the waiter and waited while Hammond’s Coke was poured. Hammond wet his lips and lowered the glass slowly. “I got a thing on about guys who beat up dames,” he said harshly. “Barada would be about right for that—on top of everything else.”

  Novak sipped some of his drink and knocked ash from his cigarette. “Ben was padded outside town, on the road to Alexandria. A motel called the Vernon. You could maybe pick him up from there, but I doubt it.”

  “Anyone try?”

  “The police maybe.”

  Hammond’s face paled slightly. “I don’t like that. Ben can’t afford to mix with the coppers. Not now. Not until we finish a little business matter. After that he’s up for grabs.” He swallowed some Coke and stared at Novak. “Any chance he headed for Winnetka with Paula?”

  “It’s possible. She’s lately been remembered in a rich man’s will. She seems to think she owes something to Ben. He may have gone along to protect her interests—and his own.”

  “What rich man?”

  “Fellow name of Boyd. Died here the other night.”

  Hammond nodded reminiscently. “Paula’s sugar-daddy. Yeah, I heard of Boyd before. From Ben. She was to put the bite on Boyd and Ben was to have his cut by yesterday. When he didn’t call the boss, I caught a plane east.” He stared at the end of Novak’s cigarette. “The boss is holding a fistful of worthless paper. If he lets Ben get away with it, other guys will try and I’ll be busier than I like.” He picked up his glass, finished the Coke. “Used to be Ben signed an IOU and made it good next morning when the banks opened. Maybe Joliet sours a guy. I imagine it could.”

  “How much paper did Ben leave behind?”

  “Sixty-five grand. Too much to write off with a grin. And the boss rarely grins.” He glanced down at a thin gold wristwatch. “Think I’ll hire a car and drive out to the motel. I might just get lucky.” Pulling a bill from his pocket he covered the check and stood up. “I never did business with a hotel peeper before. And not even a harsh word.”

  Novak looked up at him. “What business?” he asked and saw Hammond move away toward the bar door.

  No wonder Barada had been frantic to get his hands on a chunk of money. A guy like Hammond could pick him up and bang him against a wall until his toenails dropped off. Novak took Hammond’s card from his pocket and studied it. Discreet and tasteful. Telling nothing. A name and a telephone number. Like a high-price bordello.

  Novak fitted the card into his wallet, finished his drink and left the bar. Crossing the corner of the lobby he went out to the sidewalk and waited while the doorman helped a woman from a cab. Then he went over to him and said, “Art, not long before noon a Miss Norton checked out. Gray fur, gray luggage and maybe a small dog on a gray leash.”

  “No dog,” Art said,
brushing lint from the sleeve of his coat. “I’d remember her anyway because she didn’t take a cab. There was a car waiting for her. Couple of guys in it. She got in, and they drove away.”

  “What kind of a car?”

  “It was new enough to be rental. I didn’t pay much attention to the plate numbers, but it was a District plate.” He squinted at Novak. “She skip?”

  Novak shook his head. “A fellow was asking for her,” he said and walked slowly back into the hotel. Crossing to the reservation desk he went behind it and motioned the girl away from the teletype. Sitting down he selected the line to the chain’s St. Louis hotel, consulted Hammond’s card and tapped out a message. He tore off the yellow teletype sheet and carried the message toward his office. In an hour or so there ought to be an answer.

  Over at the tobacco stand a newsie was unloading a pile of afternoon papers. Novak bought one and went back to his office.

  The Jensen Hotel death rated a paragraph on page fourteen, just ahead of the classifieds. Only the bare facts. An unidentified middle-aged woman had been found dead in her room. Death was due to either heart failure or an overdose of sleeping pills. A brief description of the woman followed, plus a police request for any information that could assist identification.

  Novak tore out the clipping and laid it in his desk drawer. Beside the dusted telegram blank. Then he skimmed the rest of the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket.

  Mary said, “How’d the fire inspection go?”

  “We’re certified for another month.” He wrote a name on a pad and carried the slip over to Mary. “Not a bad guy. Put him on the Santa Claus List. Two turkeys and a large basket of fruit. Gift-wrapped.”

  She made a shorthand note under the man’s name. “Wouldn’t mind one myself.”

  “He’s got four kids,” Novak said. “The chain can afford it and a lot more. I wouldn’t like to try to feed a family of six on what a fire inspector draws from the District.”

  “No,” she said soberly. “You sound a little mellower today. Any special reason?”

  “I just had a drink with a bill collector. I guess there’s tougher jobs than mine.”

  “I should think so. Bill collectors work on a percentage, don’t they?”

  “The house percentage. And the house always wins.” He laid the teletype message on her desk. When she had read it she glanced up. “That kind of a bill collector,” she said breathily.

  “With the trouble boys there’s not a live case of failure to collect. This one’s so tough he doesn’t have to strut to prove it. Very cool and silky and muscled like a bull gorilla. College education, by his grammar, and probably knows what spoon to use. The rackets don’t pick their personnel off the cattle boats any longer. It’s big business now, and the accent’s on brains. Congress and TV have given old-fashioned hoodlums a negative public image, so the syndicates employ muscles that can pass in a crowd without old ladies shrieking and fainting away.” He walked back to his desk and sat down. “The law tries to compete, but the pay’s too low. Competent prosecutors are playing to the voting public, and their working assistants are kids just out of law school who couldn’t connect with an established firm. Not much competition against the talent the syndicates can afford to hire. Hell, there’s hardly a big law firm in the East without one or more syndicate clients.”

  “You don’t see their names in the papers. The law firms, I mean.”

  “They work those things out over brandy at the club with the guys who own the newspapers,” he said tiredly. “Besides, the prosecutors are so busy grabbing space that when a defense attorney isn’t highlighted, nobody notices. The best people,” he said sourly. “Ah, the hell with them.”

  The office door opened, and Lieutenant Morely came in. He nodded at Mary, took off his hat and sat down near Novak. He was shaved, but his eyes were reddened, and his face looked haggard. He said, “Thanks for the tip on Paula Norton. Unfortunately she hasn’t been located yet.” He sat forward and smiled thinly. “You fooled me, boy. I thought you was maybe sweet on her, and here you turned her in like a little soldier.”

  “All in the spirit of cooperation.”

  Morely leered at him. “I’ll bet. The truth is she probably wouldn’t lay for you, and you got sore.”

  Novak’s hand shot out and jerked Morely’s tie forward. “Little plump pal,” he snarled, “who lays for me and who doesn’t isn’t a matter for police speculation.” His fingers released the tie and Morely’s flushed face bobbed up. Novak’s fist tapped Morley’s chin lightly. “The lady checked out. I notified the police as requested. Leave it at that, Lieutenant.”

  Morely’s right hand had gone for his belt gun, but it stopped short, the fingers opened and closed stiffly, a nerve fluttered in his mottled face. Slowly the back of his hand ran across his lips, fingers straightened his knotted tie. “Jesus, you take chances,” he said hoarsely. “Last guy who did that ain’t around to tell it.”

  “I’m chilled to the bone.” Novak bit off the words. “You were just kidding, and I’m edgy today. Want to write it off?”

  Morely was sitting deep in his chair, hands flat on his thighs, eyes staring at Novak. After a while he said, “Hell, I didn’t know you were so touchy.”

  Novak got out the box of hotel cigars. Morely took two and stuck them in his coat pocket without looking at them. The color of his face was nearly normal. His voice was still unsteady when he spoke: “We got a call from Mrs. Boyd. All upset and bitter. She wanted someone to come right over and arrest Norton for murdering her husband. By then we’d got your message, and when they told her Norton had checked out she yelled and foamed at the muzzle.”

  “What kind of evidence was she suggesting you arrest Norton on?”

  “Said she had detective agency reports that they were lovers.” He made a sound of disgust. “If we arrested every dame who was kept by a married guy we’d have jails in every block.” He heaved a long sigh. “I stopped by Bikel’s room before coming here, wanted to get a detailed account of his movements the night Boyd was shot. But he wasn’t around.”

  “Maybe Julia could find him.”

  “Maybe. And I’d just as soon not be the one to ask her. She treats policemen like wetbacks, and I haven’t slapped a dame in a couple of years. Yeah, Bikel’s an interesting fellow. You said they were planning to kneel at the altar?”

  “They’re already bundling.”

  Morely’s eyebrows lifted. “How would you know that?”

  “They were in pajamas when I went up to her suite this morning.”

  Morely chuckled lecherously. “Some guys will do anything for dough. But of course Bikel couldn’t marry her so long as her husband was alive. Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “I sure want a long interview with Doctor Edward Bikel.”

  “Boyd wasn’t the only obstacle.” Novak opened his drawer and took out the newspaper clipping. He reached it over to Morely who read it and handed it back, shaking his head. “An old dame conks out in a fleabag hotel—so what’s that got to do with the business at hand?”

  Novak pulled out the dusted telegram and laid it under the desk lamp. Morely got up and peered down at the block letters. Then his face lifted slowly. “What’s the connection?”

  “Yesterday I saw a woman answering the newspaper description run from Bikel’s room. I was close enough so that I could hear they’d been having emotional words. When I got the chance I shook down Bikel’s room and pulled this off the top of the telegram pad.”

  Morely scanned the message again. “There doesn’t have to be a connection,” he said slowly.

  “Checking’s easy. He sent this to a Mrs. Edward Bikel in Chicago at the address given. The message tells her not to come to Washington and spoil everything. It promises he’ll work everything out and be back in a few days.” Novak lighted a cigarette and let smoke drift over the desk. “You could call Chicago and see if Bikel’s wife is at this address, or if not where she’s gone. It’s worth the try, anyway. And there ought to be so
mebody around the neighborhood who could give you a description of Mrs. Edward Bikel.” He lifted the clipping and let it flutter onto the desk. “If the dead woman and Mrs. Bikel turn out to be the same person, the Doc might have to postpone his wedding.”

  “Yeah,” Morely growled, “while we sweat the truth out of the son of a bitch.”

  15

  Mary had gone home, and except for the light on Novak’s desk the office was dark. The blinds were partly open, showing moving forms hurrying along the sidewalk. Through spaces between people he could glimpse the slow crawl of traffic. The windows were closed and what sounds penetrated were muffled and detached. He had been smoking in the near darkness, isolated and alone, sipping Irish whisky and turning things over in his mind.

  In the lobby it was the time after the check-out hour bustle and before the evening business began. The time when the help changed shifts, when the dining room opened and the muted sounds of the string trio drifted through the hotel. No raucous page boy bellowing the name of an out-of-town visitor. No slurred chatter of idle women leaving the cocktail lounge. No slapping of convention hands on convention backs or shouts of merry recognition. No drunks fighting the potted palms. All that came later. For now everything was hushed, suspended. Waiting for the night to come.

  His head tilted back, and he stared at the shadowed ceiling. A hotel is like a prison, he thought. The rooms are cells hiding secrets and passions. Then something happens, the smallest thing, and doors fly open. The explosion goes off. Panic. And fragments of truth.

  He shook himself, forced his eyes to the empty desk. He began to think about Paula, wondering where she was. He thought of the teletype from the St. Louis house security man and wondered if Pike Hammond had found the trail of Ben Barada. Hammond and the boss who seldom smiled.

  He picked up the long steel letter opener, toyed with it. The end stabbed little nicks in the smooth green blotter. He wondered if Morely had found Bikel and what their talk had disclosed. He thought of a horrid old fat woman in a fifth-floor suite and wondered what was on her devious mind.

  Stubbing out his cigarette he got up heavily and pulled on his coat. One hand buttoned his collar, slid the tie knot into place. The pint bottle was empty. He dropped it in the wastebasket and heard it bounce against the metal sides. Then he turned off his desk lamp and went out.