House Dick

by E. Howard Hunt

  “Legit?”

  The hop shrugged. “Could be. No ring and not a society broad.”

  “Why not?”

  “She slipped me two bucks. Them’s that really got it don’t paper the streets with the stuff. Not this year.”

  Novak tapped his cheek lightly. “You might make an investigator at that.”

  Jimmy grinned. “Boy, did you look funny holding that pup she shoved at you. I didn’t hear no fast comeback, neither.”

  “There’s a time for throwaway dialogue and a time to hold silence. That’s life, kiddo.” He moved on and out to the sidewalk. He turned down K Street, bought a Star from the kid on the corner and flagged a passing cab.

  Between courses at the ristorante italiano out on New York Avenue he thumbed through the evening paper. Mama brought over a chianti bottle wrapped in straw and said, “I like you to try, Pete. Just offa the boat.”

  “I don’t go much for wine, Mama. Been kicked in the belly too much.”

  “Si, but this different.” Uncorking it she filled a small glass, poured another for herself. It had the thin clear taste of good red house wine. Novak said so. Mama smiled. “Beats anything French, Pete. Here, you keep the bottle.”

  “Some other night, Mama.”

  “Okay.” She corked it. “This your bottle, remember.”

  “I’ll remember.”

  “And bring a girl.” Her eyebrows furrowed. “Alla time you come alone. Why you never bring girl? Food not good enough?”

  Novak managed a laugh. “Hell, it’s the best food in town. A girl? I had a girl once. Maybe once was enough.”

  Mama frowned. Her lips opened to say something but a waiter hurried up with a steaming plate of scaloppine. Novak tucked a napkin under his chin and started in. When he looked up again Mama was back at the cash register watching the bartender thoughtfully.

  No movies he wanted to see, no fights in town. Not even an automobile show at the Armory. Too early in the year for open-air concerts at Watergate. Nothing to do but go back to his apartment and read, or clean his .38. As he walked along the sidewalk he decided he ought to return to the hotel and write a file memorandum on Murky MacDonald for circulation to the hotel protective association. Mary could cut a stencil and have it mailed by mid-morning. Then he could sleep late and to hell with the Tilden.

  A legless bum was propped against a lamppost, formless as a battered trash can. Novak dropped a quarter in the reaching hand and passed on, setting his lips at the husky thanks. A hustler strolled furtively in the shadows, shiny patent-leather purse, a ruby glow tipping her cigarette. He shrugged her aside and walked on. From a bar came raucous laughter, the drone of a TV program turned up too loud, the stench of stale beer hugging the spring night.

  At the corner he piled into a cab and rode back to the Tilden. Percy was still at the desk. When he saw Novak he waved his pen like a conductor’s baton and shrilled, “Thank goodness you’ve come, Mr. Novak. The most terrible thing has happened!”

  Novak pushed back his hat. “Beetles in the flower shop, Percy?”

  The clerk flushed and made a distracted gesture with one hand. “Please, Mr. Novak, this is no time for joking.”

  “For me it is,” Novak said sourly. “I went off duty hours ago.” He turned and scanned the lobby. “See? I’m not even here.”

  “Of course you’re here. And the guest in 515 needs your services. Oh, very badly. All of her jewels are missing.”

  2

  Suite 515 drew thirty-five dollars a day plus District tax and it had been redecorated at a time when Mayan motifs were all the rage among the decorator set. The furniture was angular wood-and-metal, and around the rust-colored carpet crawled a feathered serpent calculated to resemble a frieze of gray volcanic stone. What the place lacked in fireside comfort it made up in tony design.

  Mrs. Chalmers Boyd was a tinted brunette in the mid-forties with bon-bon jowls and arms like rolls of biscuit dough. Her fleshy feet were jammed into pointed slippers two sizes too small and her face was heavily powdered to improve an uncertain complexion. The registration card put her and her husband from Winnetka, Illinois, with a double-A rating marked by the credit office. For a lady who was missing a small fortune in jewels, Mrs. Chalmers Boyd had herself under perfect control. No smelling salts, no house physician administering sedatives. Nothing. She looked as placid as a brewer’s wife.

  Novak said, “Suppose you tell me what happened, Mrs. Boyd.”

  The button nose wrinkled and she said, “They’re all insured. Everything. I guess it doesn’t matter, does it?”

  “The insurance company might be glad of any assistance you could render.”

  “Oh, yes, I suppose so. Well, I reported the theft to the desk as soon as I discovered it. I’d been shopping, you know—Garfinckels, Rizak’s, the usual places. Then when I came back here to dress for dinner I had a sort of a funny feeling about them. Normally I wouldn’t have opened the box until I was dressed and ready to select something to wear, but this time I went straight for the jewel box.”

  “It was kept where, Mrs. Boyd?”

  “Why, in one of my suitcases. There, on the luggage rack.” A fat arm gestured indifferently.

  “Locked?”

  The pudgy face moved slowly, negatively. Little eyes glinted mischievously. “I’m afraid not. No...I always tell Chalmers, what’s the use of having jewels if you have to keep them locked up all the time? So they’re insured. Heavily insured. Why, the annual premiums are a disgrace.”

  “I can well imagine.” Novak got up and walked over to the luggage rack where a heavy rawhide suitcase lay open. One side held frilly nightclothes, the other, twenty or thirty pairs of stockings. As he rumpled through the nylon, Mrs. Boyd said, “Would you care for a drink, Mr. Novak?”

  “Thanks, no. You go ahead, though. I bet you could use a bracer about now, Mrs. Boyd.”

  “Julia,” she purred. “Yes, I think I could. All the makings are in the fridge, Mr. Novak. Would you mind terribly?”

  “Promise not to tell the bartenders’ union,” he said and walked into the kitchenette. From the refrigerator he extracted ice cubes, a split of ginger ale and a badly abused bottle of rye. Her voice called, “Not too much ginger.”

  Novak frowned, built a two-ounce highball and carried it back. Fingers like pale cigars curled around the glass. Her tongue dipped tentatively, Julia Boyd nodded in satisfaction and she suggested that Novak sit down.

  He said, “Lost jewelry isn’t really my line, Mrs. Boyd, so I won’t shake down the place. Naturally the Tilden wants you to have your jewelry back, and if one of our employees is involved we’ll do all we can to have it returned. The hotel is insured, of course. By the way, what coverage have you got?”

  “Around ninety thousand dollars. The Midland Company in Chicago. Chalmers—that’s my husband—is on the board of directors so I don’t think there’ll be any difficulty about the claim.”

  Novak nodded. “As a matter of form you’ll have to report the loss to the District Police.”

  “Oh, will that be necessary?” she pouted.

  “I’m afraid so. Otherwise the Midland Company might not be obligated to cover your loss. It all depends on the terms of the policy.”

  She sipped from her glass, rubbed a pudgy finger along the chair arm and said, “It’s all so unpleasant, isn’t it?”

  Novak got up. “Robbery usually is. But the police here are fairly civilized. They shave and brush their teeth and most of them don’t swear in mixed company. When you call, mention the Theft Squad. They’ll send someone around.”

  One finger trailed around the rim of her glass. “Couldn’t you do that for me, Mr. Novak?”

  “I could, but the police would prefer to hear from you personally.”

  “Oh. And the insurance company?”

  “Your husband will know how to report the loss.”

  Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Chalmers? Oh, yes, he’ll know. But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to involve him.
”

  Novak blinked at her. “My contacts with the moneyed classes have been limited, but I sort of figure Mr. Boyd would be interested in anything affecting his billfold to the extent of ninety grand—taxes being what they are these days.”

  Her face had gone as blank as white porcelain. “Yes,” she said vaguely, sucked at her rye and worried her diamond engagement ring with her thumb. “Thank you, Mr. Novak.”

  The door buzzed.

  Novak looked back at Julia Boyd. She gestured to open the door. Novak clicked the latch free and pulled back on the handle.

  The man who stood there wore a suit of ministerial serge, a high glossy collar and a preoccupied expression on his ruddy face. He blinked and craned past Novak’s shoulder.

  “Mr. Boyd?” Novak asked.

  “By no means. My name is Bikel. Dr. Edward Bikel. Where is Mrs. Boyd?” he demanded pompously.

  “On the parlor rocker, Doctor. I was just leaving.”

  Dr. Bikel stared hostilely at Novak. “Who might you be?”

  Novak returned the stare.

  “Doctor of Medicine, is it?”

  Bikel drew himself together huffily. “Doctor of Naturopathy,” he said in a chilly voice. “I happen to be attending Mrs. Boyd.”

  Novak glanced back and chuckled. “I’d say you got your work cut out for you. Compulsive eater, looks like. Block that thyroid.”

  Bikel’s lips set. “You are impudent, young man. I do not like impudence. You may expect to hear from me.”

  “Fine,” Novak said. “Mrs. Boyd can tell you where I hang out. Staying in the hotel?”

  “Room 522.”

  “Don’t run the bill too high. The Tilden’s allergic to medicine men with mail order diplomas.” He pushed past Bikel and down the hall. Goddamn whatever desk clerk registered Bikel into the Tilden. The guy looked as phony as a three-dollar bill. You must eat only natural foods, dear lady. Psyllium seed is a natural aid to the elimination of bodily wastes. And your thoughts must be as pure as rainwater. Well, at least he didn’t seem to be a needle man from Dream Street. To get a Narcotics license you still needed more than a clawhammer coat, a celluloid collar and a five-buck diploma.

  A sound knifed through his thoughts, halting him suddenly. Turning, he glanced down the hall and heard it again. Not from inside the Boyd suite, but not far away. Muffled by a thick door. A woman’s scream.

  Novak sprinted down the corridor, halting in front of 516. The room directly across from Julia Boyd’s. One hand fingered the master key in his pocket as he pressed an ear against the door panel. From inside, a man’s voice snarling indistinguishable words, a woman whimpering. Then the hard crack of flesh on flesh. The woman sobbed.

  Novak set his jaw and thumbed the door button. He stepped slightly back from the door and his hands folded into fists. He rolled his sloping shoulders and waited.

  The door opened.

  A man peered out. His face was mottled, his voice unsteady. “Yeah?” he bristled.

  “What seems to be the trouble?”

  “Trouble?” The man laughed unpleasantly. “Wouldn’t know what you’re talking about. Beat it.”

  He made an effort to slam the door but Novak’s foot blocked it. Leaning forward, Novak heaved his shoulder and the door burst inward. The man staggered back cursing.

  His hair was flint-black, making his sallow skin look even paler. His upper lip sprouted a thin mustache that added some years to a handsome, weak face. His narrowed eyes were the milky-blue of hard-frozen water. He wore a shirt of sky-blue silk, cuffs peeled back. The open collar was yoked by a black tie lightly figured with maroon darts. “What the hell...” he blurted.

  “I’m Novak. Hotel Security. Where’s the woman?”

  To see her, all he had to do was glance sideways and down. Her back was braced against the edge of a chair, her legs folded under her thighs. She wore a filmy white dressing gown, one sleeve ripped. Her cheeks showed ugly patches of red, the rest of her face was bloodless. When she looked up, Novak saw that her eyes were wide and gray. One hand worked aimlessly through her ash blonde hair. Paula Norton’s puffed lips opened and closed again.

  Novak turned to Silk Shirt, snapped, “Pick her up.”

  The man called him something obscene. Novak took a step toward him. “This is a single room. Only the lady’s registered.”

  Paula Norton was getting groggily to her feet.

  The man stared at her and his lips formed a warped grin. “Wanna make a complaint, honey? So tell the man.” He swaggered toward her.

  Paula Norton wet her lips. One hand delicately touched the red patch on her right cheek. Slowly, dazedly, she said, “I fell down, that’s all.”

  Novak blinked.

  Silk Shirt guffawed. “Shove off, hero. No company wanted. Just friends here. See? Just friends.” His hand darted into his pocket and pulled out a wad of folded bills. Without looking at the top one, he peeled it off and tossed it at Novak. “You made a mistake, peeper. The ten squares it. Now dust.”

  Novak looked down at the bill on the carpet and a slow grin twisted his lips. “I needed that,” he said softly, leaned forward and slapped the man’s left cheek. Hard. The man gurgled and his eyes went wild. From the hips up his body started to shake. Novak slapped the other cheek. Harder and a little lower. A drop of blood appeared on the man’s upper lip. His face was scarlet now, jaw muscles working like a skein of worms. The pupils of his eyes had contracted. His tongue darted out, licked away the drop of blood. Another took its place. Suddenly he dropped his head and lunged at Novak.

  Novak shifted his body to the left and took the man’s head into chancery. The arms flailed wildly.

  From behind him Paula Norton gasped, “Let him go.”

  Novak said nothing. He tightened the pressure on the man’s neck until he felt the body start to sag. Then something jabbed his back just above the right kidney. Slowly his head turned and he looked around.

  The pistol was a chrome-plated stocking model, no better than a .25 caliber, but pointed where it was, it could ruin a kidney or worse.

  Novak shrugged, unlaced his fingers and lifted his elbow. The man fell free, crumpling onto the carpet. Novak didn’t look down. He could hear gurgling sounds, the rasp of nails as fingers clawed the carpet.

  Very slowly he faced her. “What the hell,” he said. “We forgot to choose up sides.”

  Along her nose lay the silvery trails of tears. She shook her head and bit her lips. The gun arm went limp and dropped along her thigh.

  She must have been in the shower when the guy came in because the dressing gown was all she wore. The legs were nicely muscled and they melted into slim thighs. Her stomach was taut and she had never been a nursing mother. From the floor came moaning, half-formed words.

  Novak rasped, “A girl like you—and a bolo like him. Baby, in case you didn’t know it, he was beating you up.”

  Her eyes opened and for a brief instant something seemed to cloud their grayness. Then her shoulders slumped. One hand brushed hair back from her forehead. “Maybe I had it coming, Novak. Whatever happened was my affair, not yours. Leave it at that. You’re well out of it. Believe me. Thanks and all that and now get the hell out.”

  “Jesus,” Novak exploded, “if he was only playful before, now he’ll be in a mood to twist your neck off.”

  The pistol lifted slightly. “You could call him a moody guy,” she said bitterly. “Big Ben Barada. I guess there’s worse.”

  Novak moistened dry lips, croaked, “Anything you say, Miss Norton. I’ll be as far away as your phone.”

  “Thanks,” she said and made an effort at a smile. “Everything’s under control.”

  Novak toed the moving body. “Know him long?” he asked.

  Her lips parted for a reedy laugh. “Know him? I was married to him.” Suddenly she turned, her arms folded across her waist and her shoulders began to shake soundlessly. Novak stared at her for a moment, spun around and strode for the door. From the hall he slammed it shut.
The things you learn about people. The girl with the Skye terrier packed a chrome-plated .25. Ben Barada—the name meant nothing to Novak. Apparently somewhere it did.

  In cold fury he rode the elevator down to the lobby and jogged to his office. From the locked drawer he pulled the Irish and drank two long gulps. Then he put the bottle away and mopped his forehead. The neck of his collar was limp with perspiration. Miss Paula Norton, once Mrs. Ben Barada—whoever the hell he was—taking a working-over from her ex-husband without a squawk. And pulling a gun on her defender. Too screwy to figure. Like the lady said, none of your business, Novak. Relax. Get with it. Develop the long view. Punch the timeclock and wait for retirement to roll around. Don’t mix in other peoples’ brawls. Play it smart. Pick up the hood’s tenner and bow out gracefully like any smart cookie. Pocket hoodlum money and let him spit in your face. Big Ben Barada...

  He was starting to turn the dial combination when the office door opened. Whirling, he saw a heavyset man outlined in the dimness. “The office is closed,” he barked.

  “Mr. Novak?” the voice inquired. “I’m Chalmers Boyd. You were kind enough to talk with my wife and I’d appreciate a word or two with you.”

  Novak ran his finger around the inside of his wet collar. “Have a seat, Mr. Boyd.” He poked the ceiling lamp button and light flared through the office.

  The man who walked toward him was two inches shorter than Novak and forty pounds heavier. There was a lodge button in his coat lapel. From pockets in his double-breasted vest swung a thick-linked gold chain. On it hung a small carved ivory ball. Mr. Chalmers Boyd had a slightly receding hairline, teeth the color of dusty ivory and meaty jowls that wobbled as he walked. Settling himself ponderously in the chair, he passed one hand across his forehead and blinked at Novak. “I want this to remain confidential between us,” he said in a deep voice. “Can I have your assurance on that point?”

  “Sure,” Novak said. “Unless breaking the law is involved.”

  Boyd frowned, then said officiously, “I can assure you that I am not a lawbreaker, Mr. Novak. I am a wealthy man and a man in my position cannot afford to take chances with the law. I’ll have you know that my reputation is spotless.”