Hard Case Crime: House Dick (6 page)

Shivering, he closed his eyes.

After a while the phone stopped ringing.

The back of his head was sticky with drying blood. He cleaned it off slowly and threw the streaked washcloth into the corner. Drying himself slowly, he felt giddiness return and steadied himself against the wall. Then he pulled on pajama bottoms and staggered off to bed.

The next time the phone rang the clock showed nearly one o’clock. He awoke stiffly, reached for the receiver, then drew back his hand. Barada again, or one of his boys. Why give them the satisfaction of jeering at him?

He rolled over and tried to forget the telephone but it shrilled insistently. Finally he grabbed it and snarled, “Novak here, what’ll it be?”

The voice that replied was reedy with terror. Paula Norton’s voice. “Pete—I...I called before. Something’s happened.”

“Well, Mrs. Barada, I’m scarcely answering the phone these days—the effort’s so painful.”

“Pain?...Pete, what’s the matter?”

“Oh, nothing mortal. Your ex-husband sent around a couple of muscle boys to kick my teeth out. All they did was cave my ribs.”

Her throat made a sucking gasp.

Novak said, “Let’s not talk about my little problems; alongside yours they’re probably trivial.”

Her voice came back, pitched a little lower. “I have no right to ask you anything—I know that. But I’m in trouble. Bad trouble, Pete.”

He sat up slowly. Along his spine the skin was icy. “You wouldn’t want to talk about it over the phone.”

“No.”

“And it can’t wait until morning? I could use a—”

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have called. No, it can’t wait until morning. By then you’ll have to talk with me through bars.”

He wiped sweat from his upper lip. “Mix yourself a drink,” he said levelly. “Mix another for me. I’m on my way.”

The receiver clattered into place, the ceiling light flared on and Novak pried himself off the bed. Dressing took a long time; when he bent over to pull on his shoes the effort made his temples pound painfully.

Finally he was dressed. He strapped on the shoulder holster and walked down the stairway.

Opening the garage doors took more effort. Setting his teeth he told himself he should have downed another pain pill. Then he was backing the Pontiac out of the alley, driving down Seventeenth toward the Tilden.

He found a parking place two blocks away and went in by the service entrance. No one paid any attention to him as he slipped into the room service elevator and punched the up button.

Leaning in one corner he closed his eyes and sucked deep breaths to steady himself. The elevator hummed to a gentle stop at the fifth floor.

Novak stepped out. The doors closed behind him.

Before he turned into the corridor he listened for voices and footsteps but the floor was silent. Even so he moved quietly along the wall until he was at her door. Touching the buzzer lightly he opened the door with the master key and closed it behind him.

She was sitting in an upholstered chair, wearing black toreador pants and an indigo blouse with puffed sleeves. Her knees were drawn up and held by laced fingers. Her eyes had a vacant, brooding look. Below them her cheekbones were as white as ivory.

As he walked toward her she said, “I didn’t mix your drink. Ever since I called you I’ve been sitting here as if I were frozen.” Her eyelids fluttered and her hands released her knees.

“The drinks can wait. Tell me what you couldn’t over the phone.”

Her eyebrows raised and she began to giggle. The tone was false, rising. Her shoulders shook.

“Stop it!” he snapped.

She moved her head helplessly as an ugly guffaw racked her throat. Novak slapped her face. The crack was like a pistol shot.

Shocked eyes stared up at him. Her face had gone rigid but the hysteria had drained away.

Blinking, she drew one hand across her forehead and said, “I needed that. God, I’m a softy.”

He sat slowly on the sofa, a yard from her, and waited.

Her breasts lifted, her head drew back and she said, “After you left I felt lousy. No one’s talked to me about right and wrong in so long I’d forgotten there was a difference. Then you walked out on me.”

“It seemed like the thing to do.”

She nodded slowly. “I let you go—a big mistake. How big you’ll find out. Anyway, I called you and when you didn’t answer I couldn’t stand being cooped up here with my conscience and the four walls. I decided to go out for a walk. I looked up the vet’s address and went over there—to see Toby, I told myself, but it was really to get away. Do some thinking.” In the hollow of her throat a nerve fluttered lightly. Her tongue darted out, moistened her lips. “I don’t know how long I walked—an hour maybe—and when I came back here I had company.”

“Barada?”

One hand gestured at the dark bedroom doorway. “In there.”

Novak levered himself off the sofa and trudged to the doorway. He groped for the wall switch, pressed it. White light flooded the room.

There was a mirrored dressing table, a jade-green bureau, a stool, a laden luggage rack, two chairs and twin beds. One of them had been turned back, exposing the pillow and the undersheet. The other bed had a jade green cover with white piping.

On it lay a man.

His eyes stared at the ceiling light as though they had never seen. His mouth was open but it would never speak. His arms lay slackly alongside his large body, the empty hands slightly curled. Light glinted from buffed nails.

Across his dark vest lay a golden chain, a charm of carved ivory. The cheeks of the once-hearty face had a waxy, caved-in look.

Novak moved closer.

The hair was rumpled. In the dark material of Chalmers Boyd’s vest was a small hole, the edges singed black, close enough to the heart to have been instantly fatal. Novak lifted the left arm and flexed it. Then he turned the body over. No exit hole in Boyd’s back. A low-power weapon. Possibly as low-caliber as a .25 pistol.

He let the body roll onto its back again. Turning off the light he went back to the girl.

“The Big Noise from Winnetka,” he said hoarsely. “It’s been a day full of surprises. Let’s see your pistol.”

She got up unsteadily, walked to the writing desk and brought back a cloth-covered purse. Opening it, she held it toward Novak.

He covered his hand with a handkerchief and lifted out the chrome-plated pistol. Removing the magazine he ejected the chamber cartridge and sniffed the muzzle. Then he tilted it toward the light and peered down the barrel. It was dusty; months probably since it had been fired. Novak bent over, cringed, picked up the cartridge and dropped it in his pocket. Then he slid the magazine into the butt, locked it and put the pistol in his pocket. Her eyes questioned him.

“Some towns you don’t need a license to carry an iron,” he said. “This is one where you do. I’ll take that drink now.”

The bottle was where he had left it. He built two strong ones and carried one over to where she was standing. “Don’t just sip it,” he said. “Belt it down.”

As she tilted the glass Novak eased himself into a chair and fished out a cigarette. Before lighting it, he emptied his glass and set it down. “Mr. Chalmers Boyd,” he said musingly. “He was going to write me a letter of commendation. Too late now.” He sighed.

Her eyes glinted like pellets of ice. “So you knew him,” she said tautly.

“Enough to figure him for the mark you were putting the bite on.”

She nodded slowly, made her way to the sofa and sat down. Her hands opened and closed emptily.

“Maybe it wasn’t Big Ben who called when I was here. Maybe it was Mr. Boyd.”

“It was Boyd,” she said wearily. “He wanted the jewels tonight. But I’d better tell you about that. Could you spare a cigarette?”

He lighted one for her, reached over and placed it between unsteady fingers. She sucked at it deeply, her cheeks hollowing. Gray smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “Boyd was the man I met while Ben was in Joliet,” she said in an uneven voice. “I’m not particu larly proud of him but he did well by me. Before we broke it off he gave me some jewelry: a sapphire ring, a diamond bracelet and an emerald brooch. He told me they were insured for ninety grand. He didn’t tell me they were his wife’s. That came later—when he wanted them back. By then Ben had seen them, wanted me to sell them. I told him I couldn’t...that all Boyd had to do was put in a robbery beef and the jewels would be traced back to me.” She drew in on the cigarette and the end glowed hotly. “So I told Boyd he could have them back for their insured price. He had to come here for his convention and we arranged to stay in the same hotel. Ben knew the arrangement, and showed up too—in case I changed my mind.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “You saw how he was bucking up my morale. Well, I was ready to go through with it until we talked earlier this evening. A girl like me takes what she can get and shoves off. Thinking’s too much trouble. But something changed me. Maybe the beating-up Ben gave me, maybe talking with you. Anyway, when Chalmers called me I was undecided. I thought about it after you left and then I called you. Nobody answered.”

“I figured it was Barada.”

“Then I went out, took my walk and came back.” Her head turned slightly. “That’s what I found.”

“Cold company,” Novak said.

Paula Norton shivered. “I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. The way his eyes stared at the ceiling told me all I needed to know. What are you going to do now? Call the police?”

Novak said nothing.

Her hands knotted. “They’ll hang me. They’ll find out I was his fancy woman and claim I killed him. They’ll never give me a chance.”

“It’s not as simple as that,” Novak said and stood up. “The law has to prove motive, opportunity and intent. Boyd was shot through the heart—but not by your little toy. He could have been shot anywhere—there’s no exit wound, no blood on your bed.” His cigarette tasted like wet straw. He butted it and stared at her. “You mentioned some jewelry. Let’s have a look at it.”

She got up dumbly and walked into the bathroom, her slippers making little scuffling noises on the carpet. The light went on and in a moment she brought back a small bag of watered silk with a drawstring. “I keep it with my makeup,” she said and opened the drawstring. As she peered into it her face went blank. Frantically one hand scrabbled around the inside and came out empty.

“They’re gone!” she shrilled and threw the little bag at the sofa. Then she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Novak watched her from his chair. She drew a small handkerchief from the slash pocket of her slacks and dabbed at her cheeks. When she could speak she said, “Ben did it, the bastard. He shot Chalmers and stole the jewels!”

“Sit down, sweetheart. We may have to do a little thinking.”

As she obeyed, her eyes narrowed. “A
little
thinking? A hell of a
lot
of thinking, I’d say.”

“My skull’s a little battered. I don’t know how much sense we can squeeze out of it.” He leaned foward. “What you don’t know is that Julia Boyd—your late friend’s overweight widow—reported her jewels missing earlier this evening. I listened to her story and told her to report it to the police. I was barely back in my office when her husband rushed in to tell me it was all a big mistake—the jewels were back in his office safe in Winnetka. Boyd added that his wife suffered delusions and hysteria. He told me what I had already learned—that she was being treated by an herb doctor named Bikel who checked in here with the Boyds. So when you told me what you planned to do it didn’t take integral calculus to identify Boyd as the turkey and the jewels as the ones his wife had reported missing.” He leaned back and stared down at her white face. “Maybe Julia Boyd really thought she’d brought the jewels to Washington. People with mental twists have far crazier ideas. On the other hand, maybe she knew damn well the jewels were in the hotel. I haven’t talked with her since Boyd cooled me, but it occurs to me that if she had any idea that her husband’s sweetie had her jewelry, she might very well have taken wifely steps to protect her own interests: report them as stolen—nullifying their use to you, and enabling her to collect their insured value. Or maybe she’d come to some sort of an understanding with her husband—get the jewelry back from you at any cost.” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “How much did Julia Boyd know?”

“He never mentioned her.”

“Fastidious, huh? That fits.” He got up heavily. “Well, the sparklers are gone. What we’ve got in exchange is a body. I don’t like cleaning up after Ben Barada but I can’t see any other way.”

Her eyes had widened. There was a little color in her cheeks. Enough to show the flesh was alive.

“Hotel work,” he muttered and blew a soft raspberry.

Turning, he left her and went out of the door, locking it behind him. He crossed the corridor quietly and listened in front of 515. The widow Boyd. Tomorrow would be a big test for Dr. Bikel.

Silently he slipped the key in the lock and entered. The room was totally dark. He took out his pencil flash and played it around. The furniture hadn’t moved. On tiptoes he moved toward the bedroom doorway and heard a guttural snore. Good. The widow was asleep. Retracing his steps he left the room, crossed the corridor and unlocked the girl’s door. She was sitting where he had left her, eyes remote, body shrunken. He went to the bedroom, bent over and tried to lift Boyd’s body from the bed. The effort dizzied him and his bruised ribs slashed razors of pain through his body. His right arm was next to useless. Wincing, he lowered the dead weight and went back to where Paula was sitting. “Too heavy,” he rasped. “When a guy’s over forty he ought to watch his weight.”

He left the room again, went down the corridor to the service closet and opened it. Propped against the wall was a dolly for heavy luggage. He wheeled it out, closed the door and pushed it back to 516 and into the bedroom. By the time he had lifted and pushed Boyd’s body onto it his face was strained and he was gasping from the pain of tortured muscles. To Paula he called, “Here we come, beautiful,” and began wheeling the body out of the bedroom. Glancing toward her he saw that she had turned away.