E. Hunt - House Dick

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.

9

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.

Mary was still out for lunch but she had left a typed message. Credit Central had called back with some information on Dr. Edward Bikel. He had done time in the forties for check altering, beat a federal rap for selling a phony cancer cure, and was last known to be in Chicago operating a health food store. His credit rating was zero. None of it was any surprise to Novak. He folded the sheet into his billfold and idled into the coffee shop. The redhead had gone off duty and the waitress who brought his Salisbury steak had a beak like a crow’s and a face with more lines than a contour map. Novak sipped a pint of homogenized milk, drank a cup of coffee and signed the check. As he walked across the lobby Jimmy Grant drifted over. “She just got back, Pete. About five minutes ago. Anything else?”