E. Hunt - House Dick

Her voice grew frosty. “You know my attitude toward Chalmers. He died painlessly, if I am to believe the police physician. Who killed him is a matter for the police to discover.”

“Quite. Although you harbor your own suspicions.”

“Indeed I do,” she snapped. “I’m a stranger in this city. I know no one I can trust. That is why I am calling you. I have agreed to pay one thousand dollars for the return of my jewelry tonight. What is needed is a man to make contact with whoever has it, pay him and bring the jewelry to me.”

“Tell the Doc. He’s a good dark-alley type, and you seem to trust him.”

“Doctor Bikel is not in his room,” she said sharply; “therefore I am willing to pay you the sum I originally promised you for the return of the jewelry. One thousand dollars.”

“We seem to get back to that same round figure. We keep batting it back and forth, and I haven’t yet seen even a glimmer of green. A grand for me for running a simple errand? You wouldn’t mind if I brought in a little police assistance, would you?”

“You can’t,” she protested. “That was part of the bargain.”

“And you feel bound to treat thieves honorably.”

“Listen, Novak, my ethics aren’t under examination. I’ve got a job for you. It might take two hours of your time. In return I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars.”

“Cash,” he said. “I get awfully weary of endorsing large checks.”

“Very likely,” she said coldly. “The instructions are for you to proceed to the corner of Connecticut Avenue and Bradley Lane—wherever that may be—leave your car there, and walk down Bradley Lane until contact is made.”

“Yeah. One if by land and two if by sea. That’s a pretty dark and deserted part of town this time of night.”

“I didn’t think you were short on courage.”

“It comes and goes. Like a phony Harvard accent. What hour was mentioned, if I’m not too inquisitive?”

“Two o’clock.”

“And the payoff money?”

“I’ll seal it in an envelope and have it left at the desk for you. You can pick it up on your way out. I expect you to follow instructions implicitly and provoke no difficulties.”

“Suppose they lift your money and neglect to give me anything in return?”

“It’s a chance I’m willing to take. There isn’t much time left. You may bring the jewelry to me in the morning. After nine o’clock.” The line went dead, and Novak replaced the receiver slowly.

He thought for a while and then he dialed Police Headquarters and asked for Morely. The Lieutenant was out, the desk man told him. No telling when he’d get back. Where he was was police business. Novak left his name and hung up.

From a bureau drawer he took Paula Norton’s chrome-plated pistol and slid it into his right hip pocket. Then he fitted on his holster rig, spun the cylinder of his .38 and stuck it loosely in the holster.

When he had laced his shoes he pulled on a coat, got his hat and walked down the dark staircase to the alley.

11

The envelope had been at the desk as Julia Boyd had said. Now it was in his right inside coat pocket. When he moved the steering wheel his arm brushed the envelope’s slight bulge, reminding him of what lay ahead.

Connecticut Avenue traffic was scanty. A few cruising taxis, late trolleys rattling down the rails, and tourist cars with out-of-town licenses groping toward the center of the District. The black asphalt was slick with night dew, and he had to use the windshield wiper to clear off moisture.

Not a night to take long walks in the dark. He could have used some support from Morely, but the dice had rolled the other way. He wondered where Paula was. And Doc Bikel.

Chevy Chase Circle, with the bus station and the Chinese restaurant on the left. Now dark and inhospitable. Out of the District and into Maryland. Maryland, My Maryland. Let all the swains adore thee. Shoot if you must this old gray head, but spare your country’s flag, she said. A highly unlikely incident. Eat Barbara Frietchie Bagels, Pretzels, Marmalade, and Crab-burgers. Someone was coining dough off her old gray heroic head. American Enterprise.

Less than a mile to go. Not more. And no cars in a long time. Only lighted diners and beer taverns and shy on business at that. Barbara Frietchie’s Vitamin Pastrami will keep the teeth pegged in your jaw long after your neighbor’s have dropped out.

The pistol in his hip pocket prodded naggingly. He shifted on the seat, found a new position. In the rear view mirror no trailing headlights, no car parked at the roadside ready to edge out and follow. Not even highway police. Hell, they’d be in a diner dunking crullers and cracking dusty jokes with a bored waitress. Seldom around when you needed them. Like obstetricians.

A sapphire ring, a diamond bracelet and an emerald brooch. Together they shouldn’t make a parcel larger than a woman’s fist. Concentrated wealth. Ninety thousand dollars worth. Sold for a thousand cash along a dark road. By someone who didn’t have time to negotiate with the Midland Company. Someone who needed cash badly. Someone who would settle for a grand tonight in place of forty-five thousand next week. Not the most logical sort of deal. Unless the seller wasn’t planning on turning over the jewels.

Only two more blocks to the intersection. Novak slowed the Pontiac, let it idle toward the curb. He turned off the ignition, dropped the key in his pocket and turned off the lights. A southbound truck zoomed past. Food for Washington’s central market from the lush fields of southern Maryland. The dash clock showed ten minutes to two. His right hand slid inside his coat pocket, nudged the revolver and let it drop back into the holster. His license was good for the District, not Maryland. Now that he was over the line they could jug him for carrying concealed weapons. Two of them. He grinned at the darkness and got out of the car.

Locking it, he started up the road.

Streetlights flooded the intersection. He felt as conspicuous as a fly on vanilla icing. Not even the sound of traffic to cheer him. A lonely road, lighted at far intervals. Dark houses set far back from the road. Five minutes to two. Turning he looked back at the intersection. A car whizzed down Connecticut, tail-lights twin cigarettes in the darkness. Novak plodded on, stumbled on a stone and caught himself against a telephone pole. Ahead in the distant darkness the glow of headlights coming toward him. Novak moved farther to the right. The shoulder grass was high enough to wet his cuffs. He could hear the car’s engine now coming at a measured, unhurried pace. He wondered if this was it.

It would be smart strategy to get him alone in headlights that could pick out any police covering him.

The car was closer now, only ten or twelve yards away. Novak strode along the shoulder, drainage ditch at his right. He could hear gravel crackle under the car’s tires. Then a spotlight blinded him.

Novak covered his eyes with his left hand and kept walking.

He heard the car crunch to a stop. A voice barked, “Close enough. Let’s have the dough.”

“Let’s have the jewels.”

“This ain’t your play, pal. Pull it out, and toss it over. Stay where you are. You’re covered and plenty.”

Novak drew the envelope from his pocket and sailed it at the car. It landed ten feet from the door. The door opened, someone got out, scooped up the envelope and got back in.

The spotlight went out and the voice snapped, “Here it comes.”

Something sailed from the car window. Blinking, Novak snatched at it, let it land in the ditch behind him. Turning he knelt, grabbed his pencil flash and swiveled around. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminated the face of the driver.