E. Hunt - House Dick

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.

7

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.”