E. Hunt - House Dick

“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?”