Hard Case Crime: House Dick (9 page)

Novak said, “I sent you a client last night, Doc. A little toy Skye terrier.”

Robinson pulled off rubber gloves, wiped his rimless glasses and consulted a register. “Named Toby,” he said.

“His mistress got worried about him last night and came down here. Would you have a record of the time?”

“We admitted an Angora kitten and a Dalmatian last night but no visitors came by.”

“You were here how long?”

The vet frowned. “Oh, maybe eleven-thirty.”

“And Miss Norton—the Skye’s owner—didn’t stop by?”

“Not according to my records. She didn’t mention it when she came here a little while ago, either.”

“Oh?”

“She collected her pup and took him out for a stroll. Hasn’t returned yet.”

“Any ideas where she might have gone?”

“I suggested Farragut Park.”

“Thanks, Doc.”

“No trouble, Pete.”

The door opened and a woman entered, tugging at a boxer on a heavy chain. “Well, well,” the vet said in a cheery professional voice, “What seems to be the trouble today, Mrs. Tannenbaum?”

Novak eased himself out of the closing door. Setting his teeth he strode toward Farragut Square.

She was there, all right, hatless and in her mink coat, sitting on a park bench. The Skye was chasing pigeons nearby. Her head was tilted back and her eyes were closed. As Novak sat down beside her the Skye yapped protectively. He said, “Got a light, lady?”

“Dust, buster,” she said coldly, then opened her eyes. “You!” she said with a little gasp. “One thing about this town—half the men are on the make.”

“Any town.” Novak lighted a cigarette and gave it to her.

“Is this a chance encounter or were you looking for me?”

“A little of each. You said you went out to the vet’s last night.”

“I did.”

“Doc Robinson says you didn’t.”

Her eyes narrowed. “I said I went out to see Toby. I didn’t say I’d seen him. When I got to the hospital there was an awful fuss going on. An animal yapping and the owners carrying on. So I didn’t go in. I just walked around for a while and went back to my room. Anything else?”

“A small thing: Boyd’s widow called me in a while back. Seems she’d had detectives following the late Chalmers for quite a while. Long enough to learn about your connection with the dear departed.”

She sat forward, breath hissing inward between set teeth. “What else did she know?”

“She knew you had her jewelry and that her husband was trying to get it back. She knows you’re here.” He crossed his legs and leaned back, blinking from the sun. “And she’s offered me a thousand dollars to get the gems back from you. Even if I have to break your pretty arms.”

Her face was frozen. “That’s a lot of money in your league, Novak.”

“Some weeks I don’t see the half of it, gray-eyes. Not only that, she’s told the police about you and hubby and suggested strongly that you were responsible for his death.”

The cigarette dropped from her fingers. The Skye bounced over, but she told him to go away. Moistening her lips she said huskily, “Pete, I’ve got to get out of here.”

He shook his head slowly. “Absolutely the worst idea I’ve heard today. If you didn’t shoot him you’re in no danger.”

“You think I did?”

“It’s at least a possibility. I can visualize Boyd going to your room and jumping you for the jewels. I can see you grabbing a gun and shooting him to protect yourself. Then calling Sunny Jim to cart off the corpse.”

“And paying you off with my smooth white body,” she said bitterly. “What a lovely mind you have, Mr. Novak. I suppose keyhole peeping breeds thoughts like that.”

“Possibly,” he said, “but we aren’t discussing me at the moment. We’re talking about a murder and some missing jewelry. We both know where the corpse is. What I don’t know is where the jewelry is.”

“And you think I do,” she said dully. The Skye jumped onto her lap and she held it between folded arms.

“Let’s say I’m wondering if you’ve been entirely frank with me. At the moment the jewels are sort of a key item. If you’ve got them, get rid of them in a way that won’t lead back to you. If you haven’t, then you’ve no reason to worry.”

One hand ran back through her ash-blonde hair. She laughed thinly. “God, what a fool I was. I let myself think you were...” Her voice trailed away. “The hell with that. Well, I don’t have the jewels and I didn’t kill Chalmers—despite any ideas you may have to the contrary. Now would you mind leaving me alone with my thoughts, Novak? I’ll try to dryclean them here in the sun and fresh air.”

He got up from the bench. The Skye twitched its tail and stared up at him balefully. Novak said, “Where’s Big Ben Barada hanging out?”

Her lips clamped together and she shook her head. He thought he could see tiny, moist diamonds in her lashes.

“Answer the man,” he said roughly. “Don’t be a sucker all your life. Your ex-husband’s been playing a part in this from the beginning. From just the little you’ve told me, he was desperate for money. To him money or jewels would have equal value. That’s enough for motive. I can see him letting himself into your empty room and waiting for Boyd to show, killing him and lifting the payoff roll and the jewelry as well. He’d lived with you long enough to know where you’d be likely to hide something valuable. I want to know if he’s left town. If so the police would be glad to have the information. There are a few questions he could answer.”

Her head lifted and she stared dumbly at him, eyes foggy with tears.

Novak said, “Why make me do it the hard way? If he’s still here he’ll be calling you. I can have the hotel switchboard trace all calls to your room.” He shrugged. “All right, go on taking his lumps. You’re in a tough spot, beautiful. The cops aren’t in any mood to write off this one.”

Suddenly her chin dropped, her shoulders shook. The terrier licked her cheek. After a while she dabbed her eyes and said unevenly, “He’s in a motel on the road to Alexandria. The Vernon.”

“Room number?”

“Thirty-seven.”

“That’s better,” Novak said. “And let’s not make any calls before I get there. I’d hate to have to shoot my way in.”

“But you would,” she said tightly.

“After what his punks fed me last night I’d welcome the chance. Meanwhile, give doggie a nice long airing and think wholesome thoughts.”

Bitterly she said, “You really put your heart into your work. A thousand dollars is cheap for what you’re willing to do. From now on I’ll bolt my door at night.”

Turning, he walked away from her. As he crossed toward the Army and Navy Club he glanced back and saw her staring vacantly at the sidewalk. He hung a cigarette in his mouth, but it did nothing for the bitter taste, and he flicked it away savagely.

His mouth took on a crooked set, he squared his shoulders and muttered, “You’re hell with the ladies, killer. Ought to finish off the morning slapping around a white-haired old mom for kicks.”

He walked two blocks rapidly and turned into a bar with flaked English script on the windows:
The Hunters’ Lodge.
The inside was dark and musty with a permanent odor of stale peanuts and potato chips. “Irish,” he snapped at the bartender.

“Hold on, buddy, there’s plenty of time. Water or soda?”

“Ice, pal. I skate better than I swim.”

At the far end, a waiter mopping down the floor, chairs upended on tables. A couple arguing in a side booth. Married probably. You don’t develop subjects for sustained argument until you’ve been married awhile.

The bartender shoved an Old Fashioned glass at him, covered chipped ice from a metal jigger. Novak stirred it with one finger, lifted it and tossed it off. “Encore,” he said and gripped the round bar edge with his hands.

As the bartender sloshed more whisky over the ice he said, “Whassa matter? Trouble with the girlfriend?”

Novak stared at him. “You could say that and have a fifty-percent chance of being right. Anyone could.”

“Yeah, the other being money. That’s what it all boils down to here at the bar: dames or dough. I see plenty of it. The things I hear from this side would make a novel a day. Trouble is I don’t know any writers. You know one, send him around, I’ll collaborate cheap.”

“Facts aren’t good enough,” Novak said and downed the drink. “The writing guys always have to gaudy them up.” He pulled out five dollars and waited for change. The bartender rang up two whiskies and slapped the change on the counter. “Drop by any time,” he said. “Glad to have the business.”

Novak pushed out to the sidewalk, blinked at the sunlight and covered the last two blocks to his garage. He unlocked the door, backed out the Pontiac and turned south for the Fourteenth Street Bridge.

On the road to Alexandria.

The Vernon Motor Hotel was one of twenty-odd between Washington and Alexandria, set back off the highway on a lush rise of emerald grass. Between the transplanted elms a shiny hardtop drive wound toward the center Georgian portico. On either side of the lobby building brick wings curved back, each unit served by its own driveway and porte-cochere. It looked clean, tidy and expensive as a Caribbean cruise. Novak parked on the main drive and cut across the lawn.

There was no car beside Number 37. That could mean something or nothing. As he walked he loosened his revolver in its holster and eyed the doorway ahead. A white-jacketed waiter was pedaling a shiny red bicycle along the sidewalk, balancing a covered tray on his padded head. Novak watched him park the bike, dismount and ring a doorbell.

When the waiter had disappeared inside, Novak stepped up to the door numbered 37 and pressed the button. Then he stepped to one side.

From a shade elm a robin swooped toward the grass, lighted and began stalking over the close-cropped greenery, cocking its head from side to side. From inside Number 37 no sound of moving feet, no shouted query. Novak rang again, wondering if Barada was driving his own car these days.

Still no answer.

Looking around, Novak waited until the waiter was pedaling back toward the kitchen and then he turned the doorknob. The door was locked. Glacing down he saw the lock was a cheap model with a keyhole in the pushbutton on the knob. He felt for his folder of spring-steel picks, selected one and went to work. Down the line a door opened and a man appeared lugging a heavy suitcase. His wife followed with an overnight bag and half a page of advice. Novak palmed the pick and stared at the white-painted door numbers. After a while he heard an engine start and when he glanced around, a blue Dodge with Arkansas plates was pulling away. Novak stepped close to the door and inserted the pick again. Finally the button popped out and the knob turned.

Novak went quickly inside and locked the door handle.

It was a two-room unit, small sitting room, bedroom and shower-bath. Novak clicked on a table lamp and looked around.

There were two suitcases, one open across the seat of a chair. It held some silk shirts, a couple of ties, a pair of alligator shoes with pointed toes, toilet gear and a bottle of rye. The writing table held an almost empty bottle of the same brand, two bottles that had once held ginger ale, a bucket of melted ice and three dirty glasses. He looked at the ashtrays. None of the butts had rouge on them.

The bed had been slept in. The corner held a tumble of dirty laundry. One of the shirts was blue silk, the one Barada had worn last night. In the bureau drawers, nothing but half a dozen monogrammed handkerchiefs.

Novak went back to the sitting room and listened. Then he knelt down and unstrapped the other suitcase. The catch was locked so he opened it with a small pick and unfolded the suitcase on the carpet.

More shirts and ties. Two sharkskin suits. A dozen packs of cards. A leather dice holder and eight ivory dice. A green box of cartridges, some of them missing. Caliber 7.65 mm. That meant Barada was wearing a gun that fired a slug about the size of the one that killed Chalmers Boyd.

Standing up Novak massaged his knees and broke the seal on the bottle of rye. He rinsed a little around his mouth, swallowed and made a sour face. Far from the best available. Recapping the bottle he dropped it back into the open suitcase. Then he turned off the table lamp, fitted himself into an armchair and waited in the darkness.

A car accelerated down the drive, tires squealing as it braked in the distance. Check-out probably. Then silence for a long time.

As he waited his ears grew sensitive. He could hear the whir of a vacuum somewhere in the same wing, goosey laughter from a couple next door, the splash of water in a swimming pool behind the wing.

Sun warming the roof made the joints expand and creak. Now that his eyes were accustomed to darkness, he could make out the furniture from where he sat. Another car idling along the drive. It seemed to slow in front of Number 37, then moved on and Novak let his breathing relax.

His body still pained him, but it was a dull pain today and the liquor was helping. His hands curled over the wooden ends of the chair arms and he flexed his muscles. The door would open any minute, bringing Big Ben Barada.

Then outside sounds seemed to fade away and he could hear only the uneasy creak of the timbers above.

The telephone rasped harshly.

The sound jerked him out of the chair. When he realized what it was he cursed softly and walked toward it. The sound came again, commanding and urgent. He hesitated, then picked up the receiver. Muffling it with his fingers he snapped, “Yeah?”

The voice was a distant disembodied whisper. It breathed, “We’ll have to make it later. No earlier than nine o’clock.”

“Why?”

“I’m being watched. I can’t...” the voice dropped and grew suddenly urgent. “Got to hang up. I’ll call later.” The receiver clicked down.

Novak stared at the receiver in his hand, lowered it and went back to his chair. The call had been meant for Ben Barada. The voice could have been anyone’s. No chance of tracing it.

His eyelids were heavy. He stretched out his feet and yawned. The liquor was making him sleepy. In the warm silent darkness he felt himself drifting away. Closing his eyes he slept.

He woke with a jerk, grabbing at his holster, then heard the car backfire again. A sports car with a noisy muffler. The engine caught, held, and the car
throomed
away. Blinking, he shook himself and stood up. His wristwatch showed 12:20. No telling when Barada might come back. Novak crossed to the door, pressed his ear to the panel and listened. No outside sounds. Opening the door a crack he peered out and then he eased through the doorway and began striding across the grass. A waiter pedaled past on a bicycle. A new station wagon pulled up in front of Number 35 and a bellhop helped the young couple unload. No one paid any attention to Novak. He got behind the wheel of his car, started the engine and drove back into Washington.