Hard Case Crime: House Dick (7 page)

At the doorway he waited, listening, and then he pushed the dolly quickly across the corridor. Behind him Paula’s door snapped shut.

Novak trundled the corpse through the darkness until the dolly hit the side of the sofa. He stood still and listened. The snores were rhythmic now. Julia Boyd was light-years away.

Using his thigh as a lever he got the heavy body onto the sofa. Theatrical arrangement wasn’t important. He blinked his flash at the late Chalmers Boyd and wheeled the dolly out of the room. Closing the door he wiped his prints from the knob and hurried the dolly back to the service closet.

For a while he leaned weakly against the wall, breathing deeply until the dizziness left him. Then slowly he walked toward Paula’s door.

“God,” she breathed. “I thought you’d never get back. What’d you do with him?”

“You’ll hear about it in time. The less you know the better. When the body’s found there’ll be more cops here than dogfaces on D-Day.” He slumped into a chair. “You bring the bottle this time—with a couple of fresh aspirin on the half-shell.”

She did as she was told. Novak washed down four aspirin with Scotch whisky. Cold out of the bottle it tasted like the edge of a knife.

Standing beside him, she stroked hair back from his forehead. Her hands were cool. Closing his eyes he felt her mouth brush his cheeks. “Kissing’s nice,” he murmured sleepily.

“Very nice. But what about your condition?”

“I’ve had worse nights. And I could use a shower.”

After a while he got up, went into the bathroom, stripped and braced himself under a hot shower until the pain dulled. Then he toweled himself, pulled on his shorts and went into the sitting room.

The only light came from a table lamp by the far wall. He had to squint to see her, and when he did she was an indistinct swirl of white gauze on the sofa. “Hello, Novak,” her voice came throatily across the room. “Feel better?”

“Some. Room for two there?”

“Let’s try.”

He sat beside her and kissed the tip of her nose. Her hands moved around his body, kneaded the flesh behind his neck.

They were warm hands now. He put his arms around her and drew her close. She nibbled his lip and said, “You’re built like a buffalo, Novak. Including the pelt.”

“Only pansies and actors shave their chests.”

She laughed lightly. “I suppose you’re thinking I do this with all the boys.”

“It would be a waste of talent.”

Her hands framed his face. “You’re a kick,” she murmured. “Tough as elephant hide and laying your neck on the block for a girl you’ve known barely six hours.”

“Seven.”

“Ummmmm. What did you do before you got into the hotel business?”

“A lot of things. Too many. And very few things I liked.”

“You’ve got a funny job.”

“Well, you get to know a lot of drunks. And upper crust lushes.”

He felt her face wrinkle. “I guess I hadn’t better leave tomorrow, had I?”

“Stay around a few days. Act innocent.”

“Be sensible. What about Ben?”

“He’ll have to find a new girl.”

“Uh-huh.” Then her mouth covered his hotly. He felt her flimsy gown slide apart, the fullness of her breasts. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

The last thing he saw was the table lamp, an orange eye in the distant darkness.

“We could send out for something to drink.”

He was tying his tie. “Too late. This is a scissorbill town. You can’t buy a drink after midnight. Legitimately.”

“The law worry you a lot?”

“Just worries me enough.”

“What are you going to do about...Chalmers?”

“Give the police full cooperation. They don’t pay me to solve murders. Not the Tilden chain.”

“No ambition, Pete?”

Turning, he saw the glow of her cigarette from the sofa. “It’s a disease I went through long ago.”

“Along with a woman, maybe?”

“Along with a woman.” He pulled on his coat, patted the holster into place.

“Married?”

“We were married,” he said quietly. “She tired of it. She wanted bigger things—more than a mortgaged bungalow with time payments on the appliances.”

He saw gray smoke drift into the arc of light near the bathroom door. Huskily she said, “I wish I’d known you then—before her.”

“Hell, I haven’t changed much. A little older and grayer, but they say the richer years come later.”

“Not to a woman they don’t. That’s what I told myself. We’re a couple of characters, you and I—and not out of fairy tales. Me, looking for a guy to keep me in furs and caviar, you—wrestling drunks and hopheads out of lobbies. Or is there more to life than that?”

“I wouldn’t know.” He straightened his lapels. “The job buys whisky and clean sheets. In today’s world only a sap would complain.” He crossed the room, bent down and kissed her forehead. “See you tomorrow, beautiful. Thanks for the tender care.”

Her arms arched upward, her hands lowered his lips against hers. It was a long kiss. And a long time since he had known a kiss like that. Finally he parted her arms, patted the back of her hand and let himself out of the door.

Across the corridor only a closed door: Suite 515. Thirty-five bucks a day plus District Tax. Rate about to be lowered for single occupancy. He turned and made for the service elevator.

When the doors opened he saw the night watchman nodding in his chair. My alert security force, he thought, and eased around the corner and out to the street.

In the early dawn the trees were bony arms with fingers like ancient women. A newspaper truck whizzed around the corner, a heavy stack of newspapers bounced against the lamppost. Like a lazy black beetle a prowl car crawled down K Street. Lighting a cigarette, Novak coughed and turned up his coat lapels. The cold new morning was as gray as smoke. As he walked toward Seventeenth the streetlights flickered out. The night was over, a new day beginning.

A woman with a cloth bundle shuffled toward him, kerchief around her head. Sagging brown cotton stockings, palms whitened from years of alkali soap. As she passed he heard tuneless humming. Something to ease the loneliness.

Getting into his car he thought: she could have had another gun. Maybe she shot him after all.

At eight o’clock a maid with a passkey opened the door of Suite 515, took one startled look at the sofa and ran shrieking down the hall. In the confusion that followed, no one thought to call Novak. He strolled into his office at nine-thirty. By then the black bag boys had photographed the body, dusted the room for prints and trundled the remains of Chalmers Boyd away in a mortuary basket. By a rear door, according to standard procedure. The prints found on the doorknob were those of the semi-hysterical maid who kept screaming she was used to walking in on sleeping drunks, not murdered corpses.

The man who brushed past Novak’s secretary wore a brown suit, not new, not old; a gray hat, stained around the band, a maroon tie and a big gold and zircon ring of some fraternal order. He was a short man with the serious face of a hungry beagle. The frizzle of gray-black beard on his face showed that he had gone on duty sometime during the night. Novak had done business with him before. He was Detective Lieutenant Morely, District Homicide.

As he eased into a chair across from Novak, he said, “I get all the dirty ones. I oughta grab my retirement and hire out on a job like this. Nice clean office, chic secretary, readable files and nothing to do but collect saddle boils.”

“You wouldn’t like it.” Novak took a box of hotel cigars from a desk drawer, opened it. He pushed the box across the desk to Morely. “Too many straw bosses.”

“Yeah,” Morely grunted, selecting two cigars. He stowed one in his upper coat pocket, slicked cellophane from the other with a broad thumbnail, bit off the end and lighted up. He straightened his legs and eased back into the chair. A gust of blue smoke issued from his mouth.

Novak said, “How’s the widow taking it?”

“The way a fat woman takes anything. Her story is she took some sleep syrup last night and turned in. Next thing she heard was the maid screaming. Boyd was supposed to have been at a convention banquet downstairs from eight-thirty on. But so far nobody remembers seeing him.” He made a sour face. “Three hundred half-soused loan sharks scooping up filet mignon and French fries wouldn’t notice a Cape Buffalo charging down the table. Much less a missing colleague.” He stared down at his scuffed shoes. “We ought to be getting stuff on Boyd from Winnetka sometime today. The way the fat lady talked he pulled his share of weight around there.” Squinting at Novak he muttered, “That guy Bikel’s a weirdie. Another ten minutes and he’d have had me on a diet of stewed acorns and papaya seeds. Calls himself a doctor.”

“A much-abused title,” Novak said. “When I was a freshman I called a professor Professor. He got pretty mad—told me the only professors he knew about were musicians, acrobats and mountebanks. So I called him Doctor after that. Brickyard Charley Bates, the campus rock king.”

Morely drew the cigar from his lips, patted a wrapper leaf into place and shrugged. “Know anything about Boyd I’m not likely to?”

“Well, the Boyds checked in three days ago bringing Bikel as a retainer. Then last evening the lady reported a quantity of jewels missing. Insured value ninety gees. I told her to report it to the Theft Squad.”

Morely’s eyebrows lifted. “Did she?”

“Not as far as I know. Her late husband hurried down here to explain the whole thing as a big mistake; wife subject to hysterical delusions. He credited Bikel with having had some success in treating her.”

“What about the dazzlers?”

“Locked in his office safe in Winnetka.”

Morely drew a frayed brown notebook from his coat, made a brief note and put it away. “We can check that when the safe’s opened by the state tax people. Sounds interesting. Anything else?”

“Nothing relating to Boyd’s death.”

Morely shifted his weight, scratched his right ankle and stared at Novak. “Give, buddy,” he snapped.

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.