E. Hunt - House Dick

Novak shook his head. “That’s all for now, kid. Go hustle some shiny quarters.” He went over to the elevators and rode one to the fifth floor. Stopping at Paula Norton’s door he pushed the bell button.

After a while he heard her muffled voice. “Who is it?”

“Novak.”

“Go away.”

“A couple of words, beautiful.”

The door opened the length of the snub chain. She was wearing a dressing gown and her feet were bare. “What is it?”

“All the way,” he said. “I’m not going to beat you up. I’m not your ex-husband.”

She shivered and the chain rattled free. Stepping back she let Novak enter. When the door was shut he said, “Ben wasn’t there. I waited for him but no show. Only a phone call.” He shrugged. “So much for that. I’m going to talk to fatty now, tell her I braced you for the jewelry but got nothing. That should hold her for now.”

“Such faith in me,” she sneered. “Sure it won’t bend your professional ethics?”

His hands caught her wrists and held them until she stopped struggling. As he drew her to him he muttered, “After what I did for you last night my ethics show more curves than a pretzel. Remember that, beautiful.” He pressed her lips against his and felt her body quiver and go slack. When he opened his eyes he saw that hers were glistening.

Huskily she said, “I had no right to say what I did. I guess I’m half-crazy with worry. Ben, the jewelry, the old lady...What I ought to do is get stone drunk.”

“I’ve heard worse ideas.”

“Can’t I change to another room? Every time I go into the bedroom I think of Chalmers lying there. And the widow across the hall. Good Lord, I’ve never been in a spot like this.”

“Since the police are mildly interested in you they might get even more interested if you changed your room. Waiting’s tough but none of this would have happened if you hadn’t started to exploit that streak of larceny in your beautiful body. At that you’re getting off easy. If staying in your room is bad, think what it would be like down at Police Headquarters trying to explain away a dead lover in your bedroom. And I haven’t even twisted your arms, the way I’ll tell it to Mrs. Boyd. So, between highballs, count your blessings.”

“I will,” she said throatily. “I’ll do everything you say.”

Opening the door, he backed into the hallway.

Crossing to Suite 515, he rang the bell and waited.

Instead of Bikel, Julia Boyd opened the door. Her face registered surprise. “Oh, I thought it would be the police.”

As he closed the door he said, “More questions?”

“Not that.” She shrugged. “They aren’t ready to release Chalmer’s body for burial. I thought once an autopsy was over, the next of kin could claim the body.”

“Not always. Guess that postpones your departure plans.”

She patted the side of her hair with one pudgy hand. “I’m not leaving without my jewelry, Mr. Novak. Oh, no!” Turning she walked further into the room. Her stout legs were clad in bulging slacks. There were fluffy slippers on her bare feet. A heavy cotton brassiere showed through the lacy white blouse. “Well,” she demanded, “did you get it from her?”

Novak shook out a cigarette and lighted it. “Not yet,” he said slowly. “She was out all morning, just got back a little while ago. I moved in on her then.” He smiled wolfishly. “A hard baby,” he purred. “Took plenty of punishment.”

Julia Boyd’s face broke into a lustful smile. “You really beat her up, huh?”

“She’s huddled up on the sofa sobbing like a baby.” He blew smoke at the chandelier. “Look, Mrs. Boyd— Julia, I mean—I don’t think she has the stuff. Either that or she’s the toughest pigeon I ever pummeled.”

“Nonsense. You can’t handle her kind with velvet gloves. She’s tough, all right—tough enough to kill my husband. Now go back there and get my jewelry.”

Novak let himself down on the sofa and stared up at her. “Her ex-husband is in town—Ben Barada. That mean anything to you?”

“It means you’ll have to work fast.”

He shook his head slowly. “Barada’s a factor we ought to consider. He’s not long out of Joliet, and broke, the way she tells it. I figure he followed her here, latched onto the jewelry and blew town. Maybe he killed your husband in the process.”

Her eyes were slits in an unbaked pie. “You gone soft on her?” she hissed.

“No, ma’am. I’m trying to find a logical answer—and your jewelry. Shoving her around didn’t get us anywhere. Maybe there’s another way.” He let his voice trail off doubtfully.

“What?”

“Tell the police about Barada, let them haul him in and squeeze out what they can.”

Her face seemed in deep thought. Finally she said, “No. I don’t want that.”

“Don’t you want your husband’s murderer caught?”

“I mainly want my jewelry back before she has a chance to cash it in and hire defense attorneys with my money.”

Novak leaned back and gazed up at the cool green ceiling. “I don’t think they’ll arrest her,” he said thoughtfully. “The body was found here and there’s nothing to suggest she was ever in here, and logic’s against your husband inviting her in. Alive he was a heavy man; dead he would be even heavier. Think a jury would believe a girl as slight as Paula could wrestle his dead weight through two doors and onto this sofa?”

Her face was the color of a ripe grape. “You fool,” she wheezed, “I tell you that woman killed my husband. I insist you search her rooms and baggage. The evidence is there. It must be. That’s not much to do for a thousand dollars.”

Novak stood up. “Suppose I told you I’d searched her room and her bags—and found nothing.”

Julia Boyd swore. “She’s bought you off, that’s what’s happened. Damn, who can a helpless widow turn to?”

“Ed Bikel,” Novak said. “He’s about the size and build for a prowl job. And he can probably pick a lock as good as the next follow. Sorry we didn’t make out as a team, Mrs. Boyd, but all this has been pretty far out of my usual line. You’re a sturdy figure of a woman. Why not charge over there and take up where I left off?”

“You’re walking out on me?”

“Guess so.” He moved toward the doorway. “Oh, one thing, Mrs. Boyd. If you didn’t know it before, that pink mixture Bikel doses you with is loaded with mescaline. Nightmare juice. No wonder you’ve been getting hallucinations. That’s what the stuff’s for.”

“Mesca...mesca— what?” she stuttered, face paling.

“Mescaline. Where the Doc comes from, the Indians make a brew of buds from a special cactus plant. That’s how they do those crazy stunts with snakes and hot coals. Their medicine men take it for visions. It stops time, turns the world green, purple and gold. Dangerous stuff, Mrs. Boyd—in non-professional hands. Now might be the time to change to something milder.”

One hand clawed a roll of fat around her throat.

“The Doc’s hanging by a thread. The law around here is all federal, and even possession is a crime. You might mention that to him the next time he ambles up with a teaspoon.”

Opening the door he went out.

His hands felt clammy but his face wore a smile. As he walked along the corridor he saw Bikel’s door jerk open. Novak stopped, half-turned and fussed with his cigarette. The sound of angry voices reached along the corridor. A door slammed and Novak turned.

Someone was running toward the elevators.

Novak jogged, slowed and saw a woman pressing the DOWN button. As he strolled quietly toward her he heard a sound of sniffling, saw her fumble a handkerchief from her purse, dry her eyes and blow her nose. She was breathing in quick gasps. A little birdlike woman in an old blue rayon dress, a black straw hat with a half-veil and scuffed black walking shoes. The elevator door opened and they entered together. Her shoulders moved jerkily and she kept her face covered with the handkerchief. Once he thought he heard a stifled moan, but it could have been only a strain on the elevator cable.