E. Hunt - House Dick

His eyes returned to Bikel who was fitting himself into a taxi.

Novak walked through the doorway, waited until Bikel’s cab had pulled away and made a sign at the doorman. The lead cab ground up, and the doorman opened the door. Novak got inside and said, “Follow that cab.”

The driver half-turned and sneered, “Give me a reason, buddy.”

“The reason is I’m the hotel security man, and I’m asking for some quiet cooperation.”

The driver’s foot hit the accelerator and the taxi leaped ahead. “Cripes,” he complained. “I was only asking. This here’s a screwy town. That’s Al Fornella’s cab, and we’re on him like bumper tape.”

Novak sat back and stubbed his cigarette in the ashtray. The cab stayed on K Street, rounded the public library, passed the market and stayed on K another four blocks. At First Street the cab turned and drove north past Armstrong Tech.

The driver said, “He’s slowing. What do I do now?”

Novak sat forward. Bikel’s cab was making for the curb a block ahead. “Pass him, and go around the block. I want to spot where the fare goes.”

Bikel was getting out. He hurried up a walk that led to an old red brick house. As Novak went by he saw a flaked wooden sign over the porch steps: HOTEL JENSEN. GUESTS BY DAY, WEEK OR MONTH. Bikel jogged up the steps and opened the screen door. The waiting cab’s flag was still down. The driver was bent over, tuning the radio.

Novak’s cab went around the block slowly. As it came back onto First Street, Bikel’s cab pulled away. Framed in the rear window was the back of Bikel’s head. The driver said, “What now?”

“Let me out at the Jensen.” He read the meter, got out the fare and added a dollar. As the cab stopped Novak handed it to the driver.

“Thanks. Say, that’s okay. Any time, pal.”

“The name’s Novak.” He got out and walked up the sidewalk.

A four-story brick house old enough to have ten-foot bow windows and crenellated balconies, set far back from the street under tall elms that had won a stand-off battle with a scanty lawn. Roots lifted the walk unevenly, and dry rot had made away with most of the bannister supports along the front steps. Dusty windows deflected filtering sunlight, and the stillness made Novak tread lightly as he crossed the wooden porch.

Inside the door was a reception counter with a punch bell and a length of inkstained blotter. The curling calendar on the wall advertised a patent cough medicine. In better days it had been a reception hall where servants greeted guests and helped with their cloaks. The flowered hall-runner was worn down almost to burlap. At the far end there was a carved door with frosted glass panels. The door was partly open, and from the opening there peered a white-thatched head. Nothing more. The face was pale and wrinkled with surplus flesh. A pince-nez bridged the thin nose, a satin ribbon trailing away behind the door, it was a face so old as to be almost sexless, except for the way the white hair was parted and combed.

The door opened a little further, and Novak saw trousers, white suspenders and a striped, collarless shirt. Slippered feet shuffled toward Novak, and the voice piped, “We have a nice vacancy, young man. Two dollars a night. But for a week or more we could offer a nice discount. Would you care to see it?”

“I’m sorry. Dr. Bikel asked me to meet him here. I’m a little late so perhaps he’s already arrived.”

Disappointment gnawed the bloodless lips. “I...I don’t believe I know a person by that name.”

“Tall and thin. Wears glasses and dark clothes, also a pencil mustache.” Not much of a word picture, Novak thought as the old man shuffled closer.

Light spread downward from the old eyes. “That must be Dr. Barnes. Such a nice man. So very pleasant. Considerate, too. Yes, that would be Dr. Barnes. From out of town.” One finger tapped his lower lip. “Dr. Barnes arrived not long ago. But I believe I heard the door close. So he must have left.”

“Or it could have been me coming in,” Novak said helpfully. “I’ll just go on up and see if he isn’t there. What was the room number?” His face formed a frown of concentration.

The old man blinked and stared at Novak uneasily. Bothered by failing memory, probably. Wasn’t sure of the day or the month. A perfect place for Bikel.

The old man said, “The room is Number Four. Just walk up the stairway, and follow the hall down to the far end. At the back. It’s really quiet easy to find. All of our rooms are numbered. Number Four is a nice room. For Dr. Barnes we made a special rate—he being a medical man and all.”

“A credit to his profession,” Novak murmured and began walking up the long stairway.

At the jog there was a tall window of colored glass in an old-fashioned geometric design. Falling sunlight spattered the risers with red, green and yellow in a senseless pattern. It stained Novak’s shoes as he trod the steps to the hallway.

There was a grimy chandelier suspended by a tarnished gilt cable, and spaced along the hall were blackened gas pipes mounted with dusty glass mantels. An old, old house, relic of a far more gracious age.

The flooring was grimed oak, partly covered with cheap carpeting in a somber shade. Brass-plate house numbers had been nailed to room doors. As the old man had said, Number Four was the farthest down the hall.

Through one of the doors drifted a ragged, rubbing sound. Novak decided someone was scrubbing clothing on a basin washboard. He moved on and stopped in front of the door with 4 tacked onto a center panel. For a moment he listened, heard nothing, then knocked.

The lock must have failed to catch, because the rap of his knuckles moved the door inward. It opened far enough to show speckles of light slanting into the room through a tattered roll curtain. There was a brown bureau with peeling veneer, a washbasin with a small wooden mirror cabinet above it, two chairs and an iron bed.

The bed had chipped, yellow enamel with vertical rods at the end to hold the mattress in place. The bedspread had faded stripes, and it was rumpled from the body beneath.

She lay on her right side, arm under her head and projecting stiffly beyond the mattress. The fingers were curled slightly as though death had halted a reaching movement.

Novak felt for the wall switch and turned on the bulb.

Even without her glasses he could recognize her. She was the woman who had run from Bikel’s room, the woman he had followed to the chapel. Her eyes were closed, and her lips were parted. The skin of her face looked as if it had been washed with light blue dye.

Join the fellowship of prayer, he thought, and stepped closer to the bed. Bending over he touched the dead hand and drew back. Rigor mortis...hours dead. Turning he walked to the wash basin. The flat edge held an empty water glass. Beside it stood an open brown bottle labeled Keep Away from Children. Peering into it he could see that whatever it might have held, it was empty now.

His body was chilled. He moved stiffly toward the bureau and opened the top drawer. Nothing there except her glasses. Nothing in the other four drawers either. In the closet a cheap fiber suitcase lay open. It held a disarranged dress, a pair of shoes and some cheap stockings and underwear. Nothing more.

Novak went back to the bed, pulled down the covers and stared at the body’s left hand. The third finger held a plain gold wedding band, not new. He rearranged the covers and stared around the room. Yesterday the little woman had carried a handbag. Now there was no trace of it. The bag would have held cards, a driver’s license, perhaps, or a Social Security card. Without them there was no easy way of identifying her.

Turning off the wall light he felt death hovering close, like a smothering fog. He went out of the doorway leaving the door as he had found it, walked quietly along the hall and down the stairway.