House Dick hcc-54

by E. Howard Hunt

  A few guests reading newspapers in the lobby. A couple in evening dress left an elevator and strode sedately to the revolving door. Another girl behind the tobacco counter. Sylvia would be home now, fixing dinner for her kid and thinking about things she had to do before eight o’clock. Tough being a divorcée with a kid to care for. Maybe it was tougher staying married to a man who cheated on you or drank too much or couldn’t hold a job. Or beat you up for laughs. Like Ben Barada. I don’t know which is tougher, he said to himself. I’ve got only the male angle, but it’s not always the woman who cops the raw deal.

  He walked slowly toward the elevators and the bell captain came over to him. “Bikel hasn’t showed, Pete. Everybody’s got the word. If he comes in we’ll spot him.”

  “Thanks, Andy.” He stepped into the open elevator and said, “Five.”

  The doors hummed shut, the cage lifted smoothly on its purring cable.

  As the doors opened the operator said, “Everything okay, Pete?”

  “Everything’s okay.” He walked down the hall and turned into the corridor. There was a light in the service closet, a maid fussing inside. As he walked he could see the luggage dolly leaning where he had left it after transferring Boyd’s corpse. Only two nights ago? It seemed like half a year. His head was buzzing. He stopped, shook himself, walked on. Too much liquor, or not enough sleep. Or the combination. Not young anymore, Novak. Can’t drink like a horse and kick like a mule much longer.

  He stopped in front of Bikel’s door, used the passkey and went in. Turning on the light he saw that Bikel’s bag was packed. The bed was smooth. Nothing in the closet. Or in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Seals on all the glasses. Turning off the light he let himself out and locked the door. He thought, I wonder how far you’ll get tonight, Eddie. Then he moved a few doors down the corridor and pressed the button.

  It took a long while for her to come to the door and when she did she looked older than he had ever seen her. Even in the dimness of the room her face was pale. A depression on the sofa showed where she had been sitting, staring out of the window at the vanishing light, watching night seep into the room.

  One hand touched the hollow of her throat. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I have my rounds to make,” he said, closing the door and walking further into the room. “Like the alley dog and the milkman.”

  Her laugh was artificial. “I didn’t know the Tilden provided such personal service.”

  Novak sat down and stared up at her. “Relax, Julia,” he said. “We’ve done business together. Before I went home I thought I’d make sure you were satisfied.”

  She placed one palm on the table, eased part of her weight onto it. The arm looked as sturdy as a piano leg. “Why...of course I’m satisfied.”

  “With the jewelry.”

  “Of course,” she snapped. “Why shouldn’t I be?” Her eyes narrowed. “However, since this morning I’ve thought things over, and I’m not at all sure my signing that receipt was a good idea.”

  Novak said nothing.

  Julia Boyd cleared her throat. “I said I don’t think I was wise to sign that receipt of yours. I was half-asleep, or I’m sure I wouldn’t have.”

  Novak placed his fingertips together and shrugged. “Seemed routine to me. If an insurance company had recovered the jewelry you’d have had to sign a receipt.” He squinted up at her. “It was a business transaction, Julia. Jewelry and money changed hands. A receipt was in order.”

  Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips quickly and disappeared.

  Novak said, “What was it you had in mind?”

  Nervously she said, “I’d like to have it back.”

  Novak looked down at his hands. “I need it, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Why do you need it?”

  “To protect myself.”

  She laughed shortly. “From what? Not me, surely?”

  His hands spread. “From anything. In case any question should ever arise regarding the disappearance of the jewels and the circumstances surrounding their return.” One of her hands was worrying a pleat in her skirt. He said, “Suppose someone got the idea I wasn’t entirely honest—that I’d stolen the jewelry myself and sold it back to you. It might be a hard thing to make a case against me, but on the other hand, without your receipt I’d have a hell of a time disproving it.” His head moved to one side. “See what I mean? Through you I had early knowledge that the jewels were in the hotel. It could be claimed that I decided to steal them and killed your husband in the process.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Mrs. Boyd. What you ask isn’t possible.” He stood up and moved past her.

  “I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for it,” she said quickly.

  He halted and stared at her. “It’s worth that much to me.”

  “How much?” she yelled.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you could give me. You’ve got your jewelry, and I’ve got the receipt. That ends the transaction. Sorry I can’t oblige.”

  “You son of a bitch,” she snarled.

  A crooked grin twisted his mouth. “Yeah, I’m a son of a bitch. I was useful last night when I took that dark walk down the country lane, but I’m a son of a bitch now. Think I don’t know what made the difference?” He walked past her and put his hand on the doorknob. Glancing back he saw her rigid as a pillar of salt. He said, “Bikel ever tell you he was married, Julia? Well, that’s no problem anymore. He’s a widower now.”

  A long sigh escaped her lips. One hand was working in the folds of flesh around her throat.

  “A pitiful little woman,” he said leadenly. “Pathetic as a frozen sparrow, lying on a cheap bed in a cheap flophouse in a cheap part of town. Not everyone gets to die in the Tilden, Mrs. Boyd. Little people die where they can. When Eddie comes by, ask him what went through his mind when he walked in on her this morning. I’d like to hear it myself—whether he felt a twinge of remorse over what he’s done or whether the only feeling was relief.” His hand opened the door. Julia Boyd had not moved. Novak said, “Yesterday she went to a chapel because that was the only place she could go. By this morning she wasn’t human any longer. Just something for the refuse heap.” He went through the opening and pulled the door shut. Leaning against it he wiped his face slowly. His throat was tight, constricted. He swallowed hard and walked down the corridor.

  Whatever Julia Boyd had been thinking before, she had other things to think about now. None of them very pleasant. He stabbed the elevator button and rode down to the lobby.

  There was a stir of activity at the reception desk, guests checking in, bellhops scurrying off with baggage, snap of the bell captain’s fingers. The revolving door turning steadily, swallowing, disgorging people. A place to spend the night. A room at the inn.

  The reception clerk caught sight of him and motioned him over. From under the counter he pulled a folded telephone message, slipped it to Novak and went back to explaining something to an irritated lady.

  Novak moved away and unfolded the message. Four words only: No strain. Pike Hammond.

  Novak balled the message and dropped it in an ash stand. Nice of him to remember me, he thought, and straightened his lapels. That meant Hammond had picked up Barada’s trail. But he still had to squeeze sixty-five grand out of him. Novak tried to think of the many ways a man like Pike Hammond could press juice out of a dry stone.

  Andy the bell captain came up to him. “Nothing yet, Pete. You staying around a while?”

  “Yeah. I’ll gobble the coffee shop special before I go home.”

  He went over to the newsstand, bought an evening paper and carried it into the coffee shop. The cashier girl nodded to him as he mounted a stool at the counter. A waitress with an ivory smile took his order and asked if he wanted cream in his coffee.

  Novak folded his paper, propped it against the sugar shaker and began reading baseball news. Not much action yet, too early in the season. Trades and deals and practice games in southern training camps. A game called for hail i
n Sarasota. Options, a sensational new southpaw from East Texas State. The waitress brought his dinner and Novak put the paper aside.

  There was nothing wrong with the food. It was standard hotel coffee shop food with the usual decorative sprigs of defrosted parsley, but he hadn’t much appetite. He toyed with the pork tenderloin, the frozen peas and string potatoes and began drinking his coffee. Like Julia Boyd, he had too many things on his mind. Plus a date at eight. Sylvia Riordan. She would have a pelt like wet sable and skin like waxed marble. Oh, yes, a fifth of bonded bourbon. Something to get at the corner store on his way home.

  He was stirring his coffee moodily when a bellhop came up to him. “Phone call, Mr. Novak. Operator Three.”

  Novak nodded, glanced down at his hardly touched plate, signed the check, left a quarter for the waitress and went out to the ledge that held the house phones.

  When the operator had switched his call he heard a voice crackle through the receiver. A voice as thin as a knife. “Novak?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No names, understand? We met the other night in a certain lady’s room.”

  “Get specific. I’m forever running into guys in dames’ rooms. Part of the business.”

  “Save it for a sister act,” the voice sneered. “The lady checked out today. Only she didn’t get very far. She’s here right now. She wants to see you, Novak. She can barely stand the pain. Get it?”

  His flesh was clammy with sweat. Chilled fingers gripped the black rubber handle. “Let me talk to her,” he said unsteadily.

  “Sure. I’m taking the phone to her.”

  A moment of silence, then Paula’s voice, strained and breathy. “Pete...don’t—” then the hard crack of a slap and a scream, fading as the phone was jerked away.

  The voice was cold and vicious. “She’s not herself tonight, Novak. A great little kidder. She meant to say she wants you to come and straighten a few things out. Any objections?”

  “No,” Novak said in a cracked voice.

  A snotty chuckle. “The sooner you get here the sooner she can relax. And stash the heater home. Understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “You got ten minutes to get to the corner of Vermont and Fourteenth. South side. Any cops and the lady gets hurt.” The line clicked off, and Novak lowered the receiver. Stiffly his fingers released it on the cradle. His eyes traveled to his wristwatch and marked the time. He could make it in five minutes if he hurried.

  Novak spun around, jogged to his office. He flipped on the lights and spun the safe dial. He missed it the first time, swore and forced unsteady fingers to retrace the combination. This time the drawer opened, and he pulled out Paula’s chrome-plated automatic. He jacked a shell into the chamber, clicked off the safety and bent over. Pulling up his right trouser leg he lowered his garter, tightened it and slid the automatic down against the back of his leg below the bulge of the calf. The garter would hold it in place until he needed it.

  Jerking off his coat he shed the shoulder holster and jammed the .38 in his inside pocket. Then he opened a desk drawer and took out a bone-handled folding knife. The knife he dropped in his right coat pocket. Then he snatched his hat from the rack and raced out of the office.

  On K Street he dodged through ebbing sidewalk crowds, pulse throbbing in his temples, throat tight and raw. It was cool enough for gloves and a topcoat but there was sweat around his neck and his palms were damp, fingers stiff.

  Past the Investment Building, then only a short block to Vermont. Traffic swarmed past, tires snicking like knives in green wood. A blur of neon signs, the lighted window of a drugstore jammed with cheap toys and plastic skeleton models. Straining he peered through the darkness and saw the lighted statue at Thomas Circle. Below it a steady whirl of cars rounding the circle, cutting off, converging within the close-packed maze. His lips were dry. He moistened them, glanced at his watch. Two minutes to go. They had planned it neatly.

  Past the Burlington Hotel. Now he could see the point where Fourteenth cut across Vermont. The spot where he was supposed to wait. Inside his coat the revolver banged loosely against his ribs. His hip sockets ached. He sucked cold air into his lungs, coughed and kept going. Dimmed headlights of circling cars stared like unseeing eyes. Novak reached the point and rested against the lamppost. Breathing deeply, he saw that there was a minute to go.

  Slowly the pounding in his temples eased and his pulse slowed. His hatband was clammy. He took it off, wiped it on his sleeve, fitted it on his head again.

  His eyes searched each car that followed the outside lane. Beige, blue, dandelion yellow; new, old, dented fenders, paint spots on the doors. All anonymous. No way to tell which was the contact car. Glancing down he saw hands clenched into hard fists. He straightened the fingers, flexed the stiff joints and rubbed the palms against his legs. His left foot toed the back of his right leg. The pistol was still in place. Paula’s garter gun.

  Squinting at the traveling wheel of cars he saw one cross to the outside lane and head for the lamppost. The driver stuck out his hand, slowed and stopped beside Novak. A dark blue Chevy sedan.

  From the rear seat a voice barked, “We ain’t got a world of time.”

  Blocked cars honked their horns. Novak stepped off the curb, yanked the door open and got in. The car jerked forward, slamming him against the seat. A voice rumbled, “You’re covered, Novak. Lift the arms.”

  Novak raised his arms, felt a hand patting his pockets, his chest. It prodded the revolver, dipped into his coat and pulled it out.

  “Naughty boy,” the voice chided. “You was told not to bring the iron.”

  Novak grunted, lowered his arms, fitted himself into the seat corner.

  The man who had taken his revolver stowed it in a coat pocket and leered at him. “That gives me two. And none for you. Like it?”

  “Not much,” Novak croaked and saw the man’s head turn.

  “Okay, Tags. We ain’t followed. Feed it some gas. Ben’s waiting.”

  The car had made a half circle and come onto Vermont Avenue again. It headed north, picking up speed.

  16

  Novak’s hands gripped his knees. His face looked dejected, defeated. His eyes studied the other man. Hatless and hair too long. The eyes were narrow and his forehead was too thin. One of the guys who had played soccer with him in the alley.

  Novak leaned forward, said softly. “How’s the nose coming along, Tags?”

  The driver snarled. “You son of a bitch!”

  Novak leaned back and grinned in the darkness. “Someone ought to invent a new word. That’s all I get called these days.”

  Beside him the other man grunted nastily. “Be grateful you lasted so long, pal.”

  Novak nodded soberly. “I ought to be at that. Only last night you had me in the headlights, an easy target. This pickup looks like afterthought.”

  “Never mind, pal. You’ll find out soon enough. You ain’t getting this ride so’s you can jawbone us helpless. Keep the mouth shut. Get it?”

  “Suits me. The bad grammar gets boring anyway.”

  A hand cuffed the side of his face. Novak rubbed the spot tenderly. The guy spat, “That’s only the beginning. Keep the lip zipped.”

  Novak gripped his knees harder, felt the car lurch to the right and saw a street sign flash past. Melrose St. They must not care that he saw the route they were taking. That could mean he wouldn’t be making the trip again. They could be right. Shivering, he wrapped his arms together for warmth.

  A slewing turn to the left, half a block more and the car bumped over a curb driveway and slowed to a stop beside the back door of a dark house.

  Tags turned off the engine, got out. He poked his face in the rear window. “Let’s move, Al.”

  “Cover him,” Al said, opened the door and got out. He held the door opened and drawled, “Last mile.”

  Novak’s teeth bared, he shifted along the seat and stepped down, hands lifted to protect his head against a whistling sap.

>   It was an old frame house with a screened back porch. He followed Tags up four wooden steps, through a creaking screen door and waited. Al jabbed a gun in his ribs. “Slow and easy,” he breathed. “Nothing fast, pal. Just follow the man.”

  Through a crack in the door shade Novak could see a glimmer of light. Tags turned a key in the rusty lock and pushed ahead. A kitchen with a linoleum floor. No smell of recent cooking.

  A dark narrow hallway. The heavy clump of their feet on the dusty floor.

  Tags elbowed the door open and Novak followed him into the living room. The shades were down and the light came from two wooden floor lamps. A fringed imitation oriental carpet, worn smooth in patches. Rockers with stained petit-point seats, a low stuffed sofa, a round writing table and a couple of Windsor chairs in bad repair.

  Ben Barada sat on the sofa staring up at Novak. He wore a yellow silk shirt, cuffs rolled back and no tie. His face looked hard and desperate. The girl was tied in one of the chairs, hands behind the chairback, cords around her ankles. Even in the amber light angry patches stood out on her face. Her hair was disarrayed and the torn linen blouse showed one bare shoulder, marked with deep finger bruises. Her lips were puffed and her cheeks showed traces of dried salt. Her eyes prayed to Novak.

  Barada smiled thinly, blew smoke at Novak and said, “At last everyone’s together. Glad you came, Novak?”

  Al said, “He tried to sneak a rod, Ben.”

  “He would.” Eyes flickered back to Novak. “Everyone together,” he repeated. “You, my faithful ex-wife and me.” He got up slowly and walked to Novak. “Funny what a dame sees in a guy. Paula says you’re okay. To me you’re just another dumb sucker. Anything to say, cheapy?”

  “Hello, jailbird.”

  Barada’s face convulsed. His right hand stabbed out, slamming Novak’s belly. Novak doubled over. Nausea flared through his mouth. He retched, staggered to one side and straightened painfully. Barada was stroking the knuckles of his right hand. “Thought you were tough,” he sneered.