Hard Case Crime: House Dick (4 page)

The clerk snorted, consulted a registration card and twittered, “Dr. Bikel’s bill is being taken care of by the Boyds. So there.”

Novak’s teeth made a sucking sound. “Sorry, Perce,” he muttered and angled over toward the newsstand. He bought a pack of cigarettes from the cutie behind the counter and lighted one. She laid her arms on the counter and put her weight on them. The strain pushed her breasts up and she gave Novak a thoughtful stare. “Working kind of late tonight, Pete,” she murmured.

“Tonight and every night.”

“My name’s Sylvia, you know.”

“Yep. I got your card on file. Sylvia Riordan. Age: twenty-six, divorced. Got a kid in school. Education: secretarial school. Plays house with a couple of regular customers.”

“Gumshoe,” she hissed. “Remind me to slit your throat some dark night in Lafayette Park.”

“There’s a line of volunteers ahead of you, gorgeous. Anyway, your next night off give me a growl. We could sip a glass of schnapps up at my place. One thing could lead to another.”

“Sorry,” she snapped. “I seem to have lost interest.”

His face looked pained. “Did I say something? About the middle-aged boyfriends? Hell, I’m the last guy in the world to get jealous.”

She had turned away to arrange paperback books in a rack. Glancing back she said, “You don’t kid me, Pete. Anyone cheating on you you’d tear apart with your teeth.”

He felt his face stiffen. “Don’t make any bets on that. The fires of youth are long since damped. What does sentiment get you? An empty coffee cup and a stained spoon.” Reaching across the counter he patted her cheek lightly. “Sorry, sweetie. Bad mood tonight.”

“What happened? Trouble with the manager again?”

“That bottom-pincher?” He shook his head. “A girl,” he said softly. “A girl getting slammed around by a heel who shouldn’t even be in the same city with her. And she boosted for him.” He let smoke spiral out from his nostrils. “You could say it piqued me a little. See you, Sylvia.” He moved along the lobby wall, turned into the men’s bar and saw the usual crowd of well-dressed gonifs and five-percenters selling each other chunks of Capitol Hill carved from the air, with arm gestures made uneven by expense account vodka marts and rye on the rocks. Over the bar hung a light haze of tobacco smoke. Conditioner not working too well. Fred, the head bartender, with a face lined like Lincoln’s and white hair as light and carefully brushed as a baby’s. Hi, Freddie, Novak mouthed silently and passed along.

From the second ballroom the muffled beat of a dance orchestra. What was it tonight? The Owls? The Odd Fellows? No, let’s rack that honeycomb brain, Novak. Got it: Gamma Tau Sorority’s spring bash. The Gamma Tau lasses were from a night secretarial school. Their beaus would be working stiffs in rented tuxes and stiff-bosomed shirts the wrong size. Play on, wild strings, play on.

In the florist shop only a window light. The airline reservation stand in the corner was dark. The Western Union counter held a yellow sign with a black arrow pointing at a nearby telephone. The sightseeing booth was empty, the top littered with giveaway folders: See Colonial Williamsburg. Four-Hour Tour of the Nation’s Capital, Chinatown Included. Visit Historic Mount Vernon. Sail to Relaxing Virginia Beach. Moonlight Cruise on the Potomac River. See... Do...Visit...Ride... Lord, can’t anyone sit down and think any more? Without turning on the silver tube? Or read a book that isn’t condensed from the Original (unexpurgated) Version?

Wearily, Novak slid into an upholstered chair and butted his cigarette in the sandy stand. Off in one corner an old man in a gray whipcord uniform was sifting butt stands and stamping HT on the smooth surface. Wiry white hair and a face like worn cordovan. Shuffling along in toeless shoes, carrying the sieve and trash bucket. Novak closed his eyes and massaged them with his fingers. A long day. Too much to do, not enough time to think. Ought to go home and hit the pad. Tune the FM to a little Brahms and soothe the aching cortex. Relax until the alarm breaks you out. All quiet at the Tilden.

Except for the obese wife of a wealthy industrialist, the furtive face of a raw food quack and the memory of a silk-shirted hoodlum tossing a green bill on the carpet for you to crawl and fetch.

All quiet except for the tortured face of a gray-eyed, ash blonde lovely with a showgirl’s body and a conscience heavier than a carload of sins. Mouth, a slash of red; eyes that pleaded for pity, understanding. And lips that told nothing....

Novak opened his eyes, blinked away whirling circles and stretched his legs stiffly. Shoes needing a shine. Tomorrow in his room would do. Pick up clean shirts from the Chinaman’s. Buy a bottle of sauce before the package stores closed. Tomorrow he had things to do, places to go. A few hours in the kip was the sensible prescription.

Novak got up slowly and eased himself across the lobby. He slid behind the reception counter and thumbed through the registration file. Dr. Edward Bikel. From Antelope Wells, N.M. A glance at Room 522’s mailbox told him both keys were there and Bikel was out. For dinner, probably, and a night on the town. If the doc were still cosseting Julia Boyd he’d have one key in his pocket.

Novak went over to the elevators and rode one to the fifth floor. The doors slid apart and Novak brushed past a young couple waiting to ride down. The man had on a dinner jacket and a plaid tie. The girl wore a willow-green dress with a net stole and an orchid corsage. Honeymooners, most likely. May it last forever, he thought as he turned down the corridor.

The make-up maid was wheeling her change cart toward him. As he passed she said, “Everything quiet up here, Mr. Novak.”

“That’s how it ought to be. I’ll be in 522 a few minutes, Anna. If the guy comes back, stall him, huh?”

“If I see him.”

Novak stopped and turned. “A single in 516, checked in before seven o’clock. Looks like dough but keep her in mind. Anything out of line, let me know.”

“S’what I’m supposed to do. A looker?”

“She wiggles when she walks.”

Anna snorted, bent over to rub one kneecap and trudged on, pushing her cart with its carefully hung towels, bathmats and trays of hotel soap, sterile glasses and washcloths.

Novak reached 522 soundlessly, pressed his ear to the door panel and palmed the knob slowly. Locked. No sound from inside. Glancing down the corridor he slipped the master key in the lock, turned the handle and went in. Slipping the safety bolt he turned on the ceiling light.

On the luggage rack a Gladstone bag. Beneath it a pair of black shoes with elastic inserts instead of laces. A tidy person, Dr. Bikel. In the closet hung a dark poplin raincoat and a black pinchtop hat. Nothing more. The bathroom cabinet held a worn, ivory-handled straight razor and a scraggly pigbristle brush. There was a toothbrush with
Northwest Airlines
stamped along the handle, souvenir of an overnight flight sometime in the not recent past. Beside it a small plastic box of salt. Use only natural products. Heh, heh.

Novak went back to the luggage rack. The Gladstone was locked, but a minute’s labor with a spring-steel pick solved it. Opening the bag, Novak straightened it on the rack and untied the interior ribbons.

There were three white shirts, two dark ties, several pairs of black silk socks and some striped underwear. Novak lifted the divider and examined the other side.

There was a dark worsted suit and a roll of
Natural Health
magazines. He poked the suit and felt something hard under the folds of the coat. Lifting it out he saw a brown medicinal bottle with no label on it. He unscrewed the top and sniffed.

The scent was pepsin mixed with cherry. Carrying the bottle to the bathroom he tilted it at the washbowl and saw pinkish syrup roll out. He dabbed one finger and touched it to the end of his tongue. The syrup had a pleasant taste—of pepsin and cherry flavoring. The doctor’s medicine, or Julia Boyd’s?

He screwed the cap back on the bottle and replaced it in the folds of the coat. Funny Bikel wouldn’t have hung up the suit when he checked in. Most travelers did. And once inside their room they usually left their bags unlocked. Not so Bikel. The bottle wasn’t meant to be seen. Novak wondered why.

As he smoothed the suit and retied the retaining ribbons the phone began to ring. The sound halted his hands. He straightened and stared at the telephone. It rang four more times, then stopped. Novak sucked in a deep breath and closed the Gladstone, locking it with his spring-steel pick. Then he went over to the writing table.

On the blotter lay a Western Union telegram pad. Tilting it toward the light he could see scrawled impressions from the previous sheet. All he could make out was that the telegram had been sent to Chicago, signed Ed. Not much to go on there. He picked up the telephone and called the desk. When Percy answered, Novak said, “This medicine man Bikel—when did he check in?”

“Two days ago.”

“And the Chalmers Boyds?”

“Same date.”

Novak fished a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it with one hand and blew smoke at the writing desk. “What’s Boyd in town for?”

“There’s a convention of Building and Loan Association presidents. I’ve seen him wearing a blue badge with his name on it.”

“That’s pretty clever,” Novak conceded. “Mrs. Boyd go out much?”

“I saw her cross the lobby earlier this evening—just before she called about her jewelry. Other than that no.” He tittered. “Must take a power of calories to move bulk like hers.”

“Yeah. And all from raw carrots.” He hung up, wiped his prints from the phone out of habit and crossed to the door. From the hallway no sound. Novak opened the catch and slipped out. At the end of the corridor Anna was gathering things from her wagon and carrying them into an open doorway. When she saw Novak she waved all-clear.

He walked on down the corridor, passed 516, slowed and turned back. Cupping the cigarette in his hand he took a long drag and let the smoke filter out of his nostrils. Maybe Ben Barada was still there, maybe not. Why
Big
Ben? Hell, he was only five-ten, a hundred sixty. A pushover in a light breeze. Novak’s hand slid up along his tie, adjusted the knot, patted his lapels and settled on the door button. He jabbed it, heard the distant response and waited. No soft footsteps padding toward the door. No lilting female query. Novak poked the button savagely. Still no response.

Stepping back he looked up and down the corridor. Anna was out of sight in the make-up room. Novak pulled the master key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock. Opening it quickly he stepped inside.

The room was lighted. It was also occupied.

Paula Norton was sitting up on the sofa. Light glinted from the chrome-plated gun in her right hand. As Novak elbowed the door shut he heard breath whistle between her teeth. The gun arm dropped listlessly and she lay back. Coolly, she said, “Mandrake the Magician. He goes through doors, walks on ceilings. Now you see him, now you don’t.” One hand fumbled for an ice pack beside her thigh, lifted it against the side of her face. Her eyes closed. “You’re crowding your luck a little, Novak. Anyone but you and I might have pressed the trigger. I’m that jittery tonight.”

“Don’t tell me why,” Novak said and walked toward her. “Let’s keep it a big secret, take our lumps and suffer in silence.” He reached down, picked up the pistol and extracted the magazine. Seven copper-point slugs plus one in the chamber. He slid the magazine back and flicked the safety on. Then he laid the pistol on the coffee table. “You weren’t kidding,” he said thoughtfully.

A short laugh answered him. “The crowd I played with used blanks once a year, Novak—on the Fourth of July.”

“Barada’s crowd?”

One hand shifted the ice pack to the other side of her face. Novak sat down at the end of the sofa and lifted her feet across his lap. He pulled off her slippers and began massaging the arch of one foot.

“Hey,” she called, “that tickles, you oaf.”

Novak grinned. “Endure it, beautiful. It’s a great relaxer. A hockey trainer taught me about feet.” His strong fingers kept up a regular pulsating pressure and when he felt the tenseness leave her leg he shifted to the other foot.

After a while Paula said, “Okay, coach, why the subtle entrance with the master key?”

Novak shrugged. “Last time I came in you were on the floor. I wondered where you’d be this time.”

“With my face the way it is, you knew I’d be here.”

“Yeah. But alive or dead—that was the question.”

She turned on one side, facing the back of the sofa. “You came at a good time at that,” she said huskily. “God knows what he’d have done if you hadn’t come when you did.”

Novak slid the slippers back on her feet and straightened the crease in his trousers. “By then you’d taken your beating,” he said. “Why stop me from slapping him around a little?”

“Maybe I found myself liking you. Guys who slap Ben Barada around don’t live long enough to tell the story in the corner saloon.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Barada copped five spaces at Joliet. The right contacts got him out early on clemency and a floating parole. Armed robbery.”

“Ben’s a gambler,” she said tunelessly. “He drifted into a brace game in Moline, it was a packed deal. Afterward Ben came back for his money. Someone called the cops.” She turned around and sat up. “I thought you never heard of Ben.”

“I’ve done some research, sweetheart, but there wasn’t anything on you. Want to tell me?”

She looked at him for a long time. Then she said, “What for, Novak? I’m checking out tomorrow. You’ll never see me again.”

“Friends call me Pete,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s say it’s for the record—my files. The story of Mrs. Ben Barada.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “It’s a lonely life around the Tilden. Other guys with a wife and a TV set go home. Me—I got my files. For those long winter nights.”

She gave him a thin smile. “We were married—you know that. I was a hoofer doing a specialty in a Jackson Park spot when I met Ben. We got along pretty good—he shaved anyway, and he dressed well. I guess I don’t have to tell you what the hoofer’s grind is like, doing the four-and-dirty bit. Sure, my legs don’t look too much like tree stumps and I’ve got a good body but so have ten thousand other shuckers. And no Hollywood agent ever propositioned me.” She breathed deeply. “Ben did. And he added a ring.” One hand opened slowly. “We made out for a while, then he got sent to Joliet for five years.” She leaned forward. “In Illinois a felony sentence is grounds for divorce. I waited a year, two years. Then I met a man. He took me out, sent expensive presents, but that was all. Finally he hired a lawyer and arranged the divorce.”