E. Hunt - House Dick

“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.

Jimmy Grant was patting his sleeve. “Pete, front office wants you. Right away.”

“What’s the beef?”

“The dead guy, I guess. Mr. Boyd—the one who got murdered last night.”

Novak slid off the stool. “Murder, was it? Is Mr. Connery all nervous and upset-like?”

“They oughta diaper him today.”

Novak chuckled, pushed through louvered walnut doors and crossed the lobby to the Assistant Manager’s office.

Ralph Connery was in his late forties, a neat dresser with thin fingers and lips. Hairline deeply scalloped and a narrow bony nose that gave his voice a nasal quality. He was wearing a heather herringbone suit and a tab collar shirt and his eyes looked desperate.

“Where the hell have you been, Novak?”

“Out milking the pigeons.”

Lips drew back showing brittle white teeth. “That’s a wisecrack, I suppose. Well, we don’t pay you for vaudeville chatter, as you’ve been told before.”

Novak leaned forward slowly. “Hold down the aggressive impulses, Ralph,” he said softly. “Where I’ve been is in my office listening to Detective Lieutenant Morely describe the morning’s unpleasant discovery.”

Connery’s eyes shifted. “You weren’t around,” he complained. “I had to handle the police myself.”

“Nobody notified me. And the police don’t take much handling. They know their business. They get a pretty steady workout on DOA’s.”

“Even so,” Connery muttered, “it was damned unpleasant. I understand you know Mrs. Boyd—the widow.”

“Met her last night. Lost and found matter.”

“Well, she wants you to come up. Now. And for God’s sake, try to show a little sympathy. Where the Boyds come from they’re important people.”

“I’m deeply impressed. Shall I rent striped pants and a carnation before I make my call?”

Connery wet his lips. “Just go. And remember Mrs. Boyd may be difficult. Shock—you know.”

“Yeah,” Novak said pushing back at his chair. “I know. Fortunately her medicine man’s at hand. He’ll be a world of help.”

As Novak reached the elevator bank Jimmy sidled over to him. “Pete, remember that luscious number with the gray luggage who checked in last evening?”

“Thought about her all night.”

“Me too. Well, she just drifted across the lobby and half the guys wheeled around and followed her out. Miss Paula Norton. Whatta dish.”

Novak gave him a fake belly punch, tapped his chin with the other hand. “Too mature for you, sonny. Save your dough and shop for something your own age.”

“But, Daddy, that’s the one I want.”

Elevator doors opened and Novak rode up to the fifth. It was getting to be the only floor in the hotel.

No uniformed policeman posted at the door. Not even a plainclothes man lurking down the corridor. A door like any other door. Novak ran his tongue over his teeth and pressed the bell.

The man who opened the door was Dr. Edward Bikel. He stared gravely at Novak and intoned, “A dreadful tragedy, sir. Mrs. Boyd is containing herself with great forebearance. She has displayed a truly marvelous spirit. I entreat you not to upset her.”

Novak gave him a glassy smile. “I’m the picker-upper, Doc. They keep me around mainly for morale purposes. Is the widow under sedation?”

A nerve started to work in Bikel’s cheek. His eyes flickered. “As a matter of fact, I administered something mild and soothing. No laboratory product, Mr. Novak. Just a simple, natural remedy.”

Novak’s voice became hard as he said, “I’d hold it to that, Doc. The Narco Squad would love to get their hands on an out-of-towner passing out prescription drugs.” He moved past Bikel and crossed the sitting room. Where Boyd had lain the pillows were plumped out. Everything was as sterile and impersonal as a stage-setting.

He knocked on the half-open bedroom door and in a moment Julia Boyd’s voice told him to enter.

She was propped up in one of the twin beds, wearing a lacy, salmon-colored bed jacket that did nothing for her muddy complexion. A ravaged tray on the other bed gave every indication that Julia Boyd had breakfasted heartily.

One puffy hand lifted and signaled him closer. Novak drew a chair to the side of the bed and murmured, “You have my sympathy, Mrs. Boyd.”

Harshly she said, “Chalmers Boyd was a skunk, Mr. Novak. After our marriage I realized he had married me for my money. Back in Winnetka I’ll have to put on a show of grief, but here—among strangers—I refuse to be hyprocritical. Do you have a cigarette?”

Novak gave her one, lighted it and closed the bedroom door.

Behind the veil of smoke her eyes narrowed. “What’s that for?”

“It’s likely the doc wouldn’t approve. Tobacco’s a wicked weed.”

Her throat gave forth a deep chortle. “S’what he keeps telling me. He’s right, of course, but I haven’t many pleasures left.”

Novak resumed his seat and said nothing.

Julia Boyd blew a jet of smoke toward the ceiling. After a while she said, “My late husband visited you last night.”

“True.”

“I want to know the subject of the discussion.”

“I’d guess you know it already.”

Her head moved to one side. “Chalmers went to tell you I had delusions; that the jewelry I said was missing wasn’t missing at all. Am I right?”

Novak nodded.

“Did he mention where it was?”

“He said it was in his office safe.”

She laughed unpleasantly. “A damn lie, Mr. Novak. Chalmers didn’t have it, I didn’t have it either. Not for a long time.”

“You lied to me, Mrs. Boyd?”

“Yes, I lied to you. For practical reasons. So the slut he gave my jewelry to would never be able to enjoy it. So that she’d be forced to return it. And for a price considerably under what she was asking.”

“This is all getting pretty involved, Mrs. Boyd. Frankly, I don’t know why you’re confiding these unpleasant facts to me.”

She sat up and rolled her bulk toward him. “I’ll tell you why, Novak. Because there’s a job I want done and I think you can do it for me. You look hard and you talk tough and that’s the kind of a man I need.” She was leaning on one elbow staring at him, her little eyes shiny as beetle backs. “Well, what about it?”

“I haven’t heard what you have in mind, Mrs. Boyd.”

“Call me Julia. What I have in mind is recovering the jewelry Chalmers gave to that little bitch he was keeping. How you get it back, I don’t care. The point is I want it. And it’s worth a thousand dollars to you.”

Novak fanned himself lightly. “A lot of money, Mrs. Boyd—Julia. I’m Pete, by the way. Plus travel expenses to Winnetka?”

She snorted. “No traveling involved. All you have to do is cross the hall and twist my jewelry out of the woman in that room. Her name is Paula Barada. What she’s registered as I haven’t the faintest idea. Well?”

“She was your husband’s mistress?”