E. Hunt - House Dick

Novak’s head moved slowly. “How would I know if I hadn’t talked to him?”

On the porch the screen door slammed. Tags with the car keys. Careful boys, worrying over car thieves. The thought made him smile grimly. He laid the pen on the table and looked up at Barada. “My mother was Irish,” he said quietly, “and Celts have the gift of second sight.” His head tilted back. “I look at you, Barada, and I see a skull. A bleached skull with hollow eye sockets and a hole in place of a nose. Even as far away as you are you stink of death. It’s perched on your shoulder licking its filthy lips and waiting.” He laughed roughly. “You can’t frighten me, Barada. You’re as good as dead.” His elbow struck the pen, rolling it under the table. As he bent down for it he heard footsteps along the hallway. His hand groped, slid up his trouser cuff, grabbed the pistol and snatched it free. Whirling he dropped to his knees and shot Al. Twice. The reports were sharp and clear. Al bellowed in agony and slid to the floor.

Novak got up, backed to the wall and saw Al’s body shudder and lie still. His gaze fastened on Barada. “Everyone’s been so damn clever the little things get overlooked. Like this.” He moved the snout of the chrome-plated automatic. “On your knees, Barada. Untie her. Fast.”

His eyes gazed at the dark doorway. By now Tags should be among them. What had stopped him? From the corner of his eye he saw Barada fumbling at Paula’s ankles, then a lightning movement of one hand.

Before he could move there was a gun in Barada’s hand. A small one with twin barrels. A gambler’s gun, he thought as he dropped sideways and heard it bark. Then another shot. Deafening and from the doorway.

Barada made no sound. A little derringer fell from one hand. The other was already covering a stain spreading across his chest. The face grimaced horribly, the eyes went glassy and vacant. Suddenly he pitched forward.

From the floor Novak scanned the man in the doorway. A man in a houndstooth jacket and a brittle smile on his handsome face. The cool eyes fixed on Novak.

Pike Hammond said, “You didn’t know about Ben’s derringer. I did.” He opened his coat, put away the Colt. Then he stepped into the room and stared down at Barada. “The most expensive shot I ever made,” he said thickly. “Sixty-five grand it cost me.”

“You can afford it.”

Hammond’s eyes darted quickly at him. “What would you know about that?”

“You don’t work for anyone, Pike. Most everyone works for you. That’s the word from St. Louis.”

Hammond shrugged, lifted his left foot and toed Barada’s body as if it were garbage. “So long, welsher,” he said tautly. “See you in the hot place.”

Paula had fainted. Novak untied the cords, carried her to the sofa, laid her gently down. When he looked around Hammond was bending over touching Al’s jugular vein. He shook his head slowly. “Fair shooting, Novak. Even if it took two.” He straightened up and went to the sofa. For a long time he studied Paula’s face and then he turned to Novak. Almost reverently he said, “I never saw her before, just heard about her. She’s as lovely as they said. Maybe she won’t like my killing Big Ben.”

“She could get over it,” Novak said in a strained voice. “Take her on a long trip, Pike.”

His lips pursed. “I could ask her,” he said in a distant voice. Then one eyebrow lifted. “Unless you staked out a claim?”

Novak swallowed. “I couldn’t keep her in perfume,” he said dully, turned and searched for the two ejected shells until he found them. By then Paula’s eyes were open. She was staring up at Pike Hammond who was seated beside her. Novak heard her say, “I don’t know you.”

Novak dropped the empty shells in his pocket, blew into the pistol barrel. “Meet Pike Hammond from St. Louis. Owner and proprietor of the Stallion Club. The guy who banks what the suckers lose.”

Hammond pulled off his tweed hat. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Norton,” he said gravely. “We ought not stay around here too long.”

Novak said, “What happened to the guy who was supposed to come through the doorway?”

Hammond turned slightly, and a smile played over his lips. “He faded early. How long he’ll sleep is anyone’s guess.”

Paula extended one arm, and Hammond helped her sit upright. She closed her eyes, swayed and opened her eyes again. “I had some bags,” she said quietly. “In the other room, I think.”

Hammond nodded. One hand went inside his coat pocket, pulled out the ostrich wallet and the gloved thumb riffled a deck of crisp bills. Nothing under a hundred. He said, “You’ve earned something. Name it.”

Novak’s mouth twisted. “You shot Barada, not me. I ought to be paying you.”

“I mean it,” Hammond said levelly.

“So do I. Anyway, it’s crook money.”

Hammond’s face darkened. The wallet disappeared inside his coat. His dark eyes held Novak’s. Hammond said, “We’ll let that one pass. Money’s money. It has no race, sex or politics. Money isn’t right or wrong. Not by itself. For a peeper you’ve got too damn much pride.”

“That’s why I stay a peeper.”

Hammond turned and spoke to Paula. “My car’s a couple of blocks away. Shall we get going?”

Her eyes were larger than he had ever seen them before. She walked to Novak and laid her arms on his shoulders. Her fingers laced behind his neck. “Just like that,” she said bitterly, “you’d let me walk away.”

His stomach was achingly hollow, his arms leaden as he drew her against him. “I’ve got a walk-up flat,” he said in a voice that wavered, “a TV set and an electric toaster. Sometimes there’s hot water and sometimes not. I keep long hours, and when I get back to the flat I’m usually too tired to do more than mix a drink and stagger off to bed. That’s no life for you, beautiful. It’s no life for anyone.” He bent his head and caressed the bruised lips gently. “Thanks for thinking of me, beautiful. Buy me a drink next time you breeze through town.”

“I’ll have money,” she whispered. “Half of Chalmers’ fortune.”

He shook his head slowly. “After you told me about the call I checked the switchboard operators. No longdistance calls had gone to your room. It was a fake. Tags or Al impersonated the lawyer. To get you out of the hotel. Sorry, beautiful.”

Her head drew back, her face was dazed. Her eyes stared at him unbelievingly.

Hammond cleared his throat. “Let’s shove off. No telling who heard the shooting.” He picked up Paula’s bags.

The gray eyes had misted. Novak drew her arms apart and kissed the side of one cheek. Shakily she turned and began pulling on her coat.

Hammond said, “Need my gun for a prop?”

“Registered?”

Hammond nodded.

“No good then. I’ll set enough of a scene to satisfy cops who don’t get feverish over hood killings.”

“Any time you get to St. Louis, look me up,” Hammond said as he moved past Novak. “The Stallion Club. Ask any cabbie.”

“Sure. You’ll stand me a drink. We’ll have a cigarette and chat for half an hour trying to remember what the hell it was all about.” He lifted his hat, ran one hand through his hair and saw Paula turn and breathe a kiss. Her cheeks were moist. The amber light plated them with burnished gold.

He heard their footsteps going along the passageway to the kitchen. The screen door opened, closed softly, and then there was silence.

Novak got out a cigarette with unsteady fingers, lighted it and heard a cracked voice saying, “Take good care of her, Pike.” He felt terribly alone. He drew one hand across the side of his face, shook himself and went over beside the writing table. He gathered his pen from the floor, crumpled the sheet of paper he had written on and shoved it in his pocket. His eyes searched the wall until he found the hole drilled by Barada’s derringer. A small hole, .22 maybe. And a close miss. The derringer was for under-the-table work, not a gunfight. Barada had learned the lesson too late.