House Dick

by E. Howard Hunt

  “It seemed like the thing to do.”

  She nodded slowly. “I let you go—a big mistake. How big you’ll find out. Anyway, I called you and when you didn’t answer I couldn’t stand being cooped up here with my conscience and the four walls. I decided to go out for a walk. I looked up the vet’s address and went over there—to see Toby, I told myself, but it was really to get away. Do some thinking.” In the hollow of her throat a nerve fluttered lightly. Her tongue darted out, moistened her lips. “I don’t know how long I walked—an hour maybe—and when I came back here I had company.”

  “Barada?”

  One hand gestured at the dark bedroom doorway. “In there.”

  Novak levered himself off the sofa and trudged to the doorway. He groped for the wall switch, pressed it. White light flooded the room.

  There was a mirrored dressing table, a jade-green bureau, a stool, a laden luggage rack, two chairs and twin beds. One of them had been turned back, exposing the pillow and the undersheet. The other bed had a jade green cover with white piping.

  On it lay a man.

  His eyes stared at the ceiling light as though they had never seen. His mouth was open but it would never speak. His arms lay slackly alongside his large body, the empty hands slightly curled. Light glinted from buffed nails.

  Across his dark vest lay a golden chain, a charm of carved ivory. The cheeks of the once-hearty face had a waxy, caved-in look.

  Novak moved closer.

  The hair was rumpled. In the dark material of Chalmers Boyd’s vest was a small hole, the edges singed black, close enough to the heart to have been instantly fatal. Novak lifted the left arm and flexed it. Then he turned the body over. No exit hole in Boyd’s back. A low-power weapon. Possibly as low-caliber as a .25 pistol.

  He let the body roll onto its back again. Turning off the light he went back to the girl.

  “The Big Noise from Winnetka,” he said hoarsely. “It’s been a day full of surprises. Let’s see your pistol.”

  She got up unsteadily, walked to the writing desk and brought back a cloth-covered purse. Opening it, she held it toward Novak.

  He covered his hand with a handkerchief and lifted out the chrome-plated pistol. Removing the magazine he ejected the chamber cartridge and sniffed the muzzle. Then he tilted it toward the light and peered down the barrel. It was dusty; months probably since it had been fired. Novak bent over, cringed, picked up the cartridge and dropped it in his pocket. Then he slid the magazine into the butt, locked it and put the pistol in his pocket. Her eyes questioned him.

  “Some towns you don’t need a license to carry an iron,” he said. “This is one where you do. I’ll take that drink now.”

  The bottle was where he had left it. He built two strong ones and carried one over to where she was standing. “Don’t just sip it,” he said. “Belt it down.”

  As she tilted the glass Novak eased himself into a chair and fished out a cigarette. Before lighting it, he emptied his glass and set it down. “Mr. Chalmers Boyd,” he said musingly. “He was going to write me a letter of commendation. Too late now.” He sighed.

  Her eyes glinted like pellets of ice. “So you knew him,” she said tautly.

  “Enough to figure him for the mark you were putting the bite on.”

  She nodded slowly, made her way to the sofa and sat down. Her hands opened and closed emptily.

  “Maybe it wasn’t Big Ben who called when I was here. Maybe it was Mr. Boyd.”

  “It was Boyd,” she said wearily. “He wanted the jewels tonight. But I’d better tell you about that. Could you spare a cigarette?”

  He lighted one for her, reached over and placed it between unsteady fingers. She sucked at it deeply, her cheeks hollowing. Gray smoke drifted toward the ceiling. “Boyd was the man I met while Ben was in Joliet,” she said in an uneven voice. “I’m not particu larly proud of him but he did well by me. Before we broke it off he gave me some jewelry: a sapphire ring, a diamond bracelet and an emerald brooch. He told me they were insured for ninety grand. He didn’t tell me they were his wife’s. That came later—when he wanted them back. By then Ben had seen them, wanted me to sell them. I told him I couldn’t...that all Boyd had to do was put in a robbery beef and the jewels would be traced back to me.” She drew in on the cigarette and the end glowed hotly. “So I told Boyd he could have them back for their insured price. He had to come here for his convention and we arranged to stay in the same hotel. Ben knew the arrangement, and showed up too—in case I changed my mind.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “You saw how he was bucking up my morale. Well, I was ready to go through with it until we talked earlier this evening. A girl like me takes what she can get and shoves off. Thinking’s too much trouble. But something changed me. Maybe the beating-up Ben gave me, maybe talking with you. Anyway, when Chalmers called me I was undecided. I thought about it after you left and then I called you. Nobody answered.”

  “I figured it was Barada.”

  “Then I went out, took my walk and came back.” Her head turned slightly. “That’s what I found.”

  “Cold company,” Novak said.

  Paula Norton shivered. “I couldn’t bring myself to touch him. The way his eyes stared at the ceiling told me all I needed to know. What are you going to do now? Call the police?”

  Novak said nothing.

  Her hands knotted. “They’ll hang me. They’ll find out I was his fancy woman and claim I killed him. They’ll never give me a chance.”

  “It’s not as simple as that,” Novak said and stood up. “The law has to prove motive, opportunity and intent. Boyd was shot through the heart—but not by your little toy. He could have been shot anywhere—there’s no exit wound, no blood on your bed.” His cigarette tasted like wet straw. He butted it and stared at her. “You mentioned some jewelry. Let’s have a look at it.”

  She got up dumbly and walked into the bathroom, her slippers making little scuffling noises on the carpet. The light went on and in a moment she brought back a small bag of watered silk with a drawstring. “I keep it with my makeup,” she said and opened the drawstring. As she peered into it her face went blank. Frantically one hand scrabbled around the inside and came out empty.

  “They’re gone!” she shrilled and threw the little bag at the sofa. Then she covered her face with her hands and sobbed. Novak watched her from his chair. She drew a small handkerchief from the slash pocket of her slacks and dabbed at her cheeks. When she could speak she said, “Ben did it, the bastard. He shot Chalmers and stole the jewels!”

  “Sit down, sweetheart. We may have to do a little thinking.”

  As she obeyed, her eyes narrowed. “A little thinking? A hell of a lot of thinking, I’d say.”

  “My skull’s a little battered. I don’t know how much sense we can squeeze out of it.” He leaned foward. “What you don’t know is that Julia Boyd—your late friend’s overweight widow—reported her jewels missing earlier this evening. I listened to her story and told her to report it to the police. I was barely back in my office when her husband rushed in to tell me it was all a big mistake—the jewels were back in his office safe in Winnetka. Boyd added that his wife suffered delusions and hysteria. He told me what I had already learned—that she was being treated by an herb doctor named Bikel who checked in here with the Boyds. So when you told me what you planned to do it didn’t take integral calculus to identify Boyd as the turkey and the jewels as the ones his wife had reported missing.” He leaned back and stared down at her white face. “Maybe Julia Boyd really thought she’d brought the jewels to Washington. People with mental twists have far crazier ideas. On the other hand, maybe she knew damn well the jewels were in the hotel. I haven’t talked with her since Boyd cooled me, but it occurs to me that if she had any idea that her husband’s sweetie had her jewelry, she might very well have taken wifely steps to protect her own interests: report them as stolen—nullifying their use to you, and enabling her to collect their insured value. Or maybe she’d come to some sort of
an understanding with her husband—get the jewelry back from you at any cost.” He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “How much did Julia Boyd know?”

  “He never mentioned her.”

  “Fastidious, huh? That fits.” He got up heavily. “Well, the sparklers are gone. What we’ve got in exchange is a body. I don’t like cleaning up after Ben Barada but I can’t see any other way.”

  Her eyes had widened. There was a little color in her cheeks. Enough to show the flesh was alive.

  “Hotel work,” he muttered and blew a soft raspberry.

  Turning, he left her and went out of the door, locking it behind him. He crossed the corridor quietly and listened in front of 515. The widow Boyd. Tomorrow would be a big test for Dr. Bikel.

  Silently he slipped the key in the lock and entered. The room was totally dark. He took out his pencil flash and played it around. The furniture hadn’t moved. On tiptoes he moved toward the bedroom doorway and heard a guttural snore. Good. The widow was asleep. Retracing his steps he left the room, crossed the corridor and unlocked the girl’s door. She was sitting where he had left her, eyes remote, body shrunken. He went to the bedroom, bent over and tried to lift Boyd’s body from the bed. The effort dizzied him and his bruised ribs slashed razors of pain through his body. His right arm was next to useless. Wincing, he lowered the dead weight and went back to where Paula was sitting. “Too heavy,” he rasped. “When a guy’s over forty he ought to watch his weight.”

  He left the room again, went down the corridor to the service closet and opened it. Propped against the wall was a dolly for heavy luggage. He wheeled it out, closed the door and pushed it back to 516 and into the bedroom. By the time he had lifted and pushed Boyd’s body onto it his face was strained and he was gasping from the pain of tortured muscles. To Paula he called, “Here we come, beautiful,” and began wheeling the body out of the bedroom. Glancing toward her he saw that she had turned away.

  At the doorway he waited, listening, and then he pushed the dolly quickly across the corridor. Behind him Paula’s door snapped shut.

  Novak trundled the corpse through the darkness until the dolly hit the side of the sofa. He stood still and listened. The snores were rhythmic now. Julia Boyd was light-years away.

  Using his thigh as a lever he got the heavy body onto the sofa. Theatrical arrangement wasn’t important. He blinked his flash at the late Chalmers Boyd and wheeled the dolly out of the room. Closing the door he wiped his prints from the knob and hurried the dolly back to the service closet.

  For a while he leaned weakly against the wall, breathing deeply until the dizziness left him. Then slowly he walked toward Paula’s door.

  6

  “God,” she breathed. “I thought you’d never get back. What’d you do with him?”

  “You’ll hear about it in time. The less you know the better. When the body’s found there’ll be more cops here than dogfaces on D-Day.” He slumped into a chair. “You bring the bottle this time—with a couple of fresh aspirin on the half-shell.”

  She did as she was told. Novak washed down four aspirin with Scotch whisky. Cold out of the bottle it tasted like the edge of a knife.

  Standing beside him, she stroked hair back from his forehead. Her hands were cool. Closing his eyes he felt her mouth brush his cheeks. “Kissing’s nice,” he murmured sleepily.

  “Very nice. But what about your condition?”

  “I’ve had worse nights. And I could use a shower.”

  After a while he got up, went into the bathroom, stripped and braced himself under a hot shower until the pain dulled. Then he toweled himself, pulled on his shorts and went into the sitting room.

  The only light came from a table lamp by the far wall. He had to squint to see her, and when he did she was an indistinct swirl of white gauze on the sofa. “Hello, Novak,” her voice came throatily across the room. “Feel better?”

  “Some. Room for two there?”

  “Let’s try.”

  He sat beside her and kissed the tip of her nose. Her hands moved around his body, kneaded the flesh behind his neck.

  They were warm hands now. He put his arms around her and drew her close. She nibbled his lip and said, “You’re built like a buffalo, Novak. Including the pelt.”

  “Only pansies and actors shave their chests.”

  She laughed lightly. “I suppose you’re thinking I do this with all the boys.”

  “It would be a waste of talent.”

  Her hands framed his face. “You’re a kick,” she murmured. “Tough as elephant hide and laying your neck on the block for a girl you’ve known barely six hours.”

  “Seven.”

  “Ummmmm. What did you do before you got into the hotel business?”

  “A lot of things. Too many. And very few things I liked.”

  “You’ve got a funny job.”

  “Well, you get to know a lot of drunks. And upper crust lushes.”

  He felt her face wrinkle. “I guess I hadn’t better leave tomorrow, had I?”

  “Stay around a few days. Act innocent.”

  “Be sensible. What about Ben?”

  “He’ll have to find a new girl.”

  “Uh-huh.” Then her mouth covered his hotly. He felt her flimsy gown slide apart, the fullness of her breasts. Her eyelids fluttered shut.

  The last thing he saw was the table lamp, an orange eye in the distant darkness.

  “We could send out for something to drink.”

  He was tying his tie. “Too late. This is a scissorbill town. You can’t buy a drink after midnight. Legitimately.”

  “The law worry you a lot?”

  “Just worries me enough.”

  “What are you going to do about...Chalmers?”

  “Give the police full cooperation. They don’t pay me to solve murders. Not the Tilden chain.”

  “No ambition, Pete?”

  Turning, he saw the glow of her cigarette from the sofa. “It’s a disease I went through long ago.”

  “Along with a woman, maybe?”

  “Along with a woman.” He pulled on his coat, patted the holster into place.

  “Married?”

  “We were married,” he said quietly. “She tired of it. She wanted bigger things—more than a mortgaged bungalow with time payments on the appliances.”

  He saw gray smoke drift into the arc of light near the bathroom door. Huskily she said, “I wish I’d known you then—before her.”

  “Hell, I haven’t changed much. A little older and grayer, but they say the richer years come later.”

  “Not to a woman they don’t. That’s what I told myself. We’re a couple of characters, you and I—and not out of fairy tales. Me, looking for a guy to keep me in furs and caviar, you—wrestling drunks and hopheads out of lobbies. Or is there more to life than that?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” He straightened his lapels. “The job buys whisky and clean sheets. In today’s world only a sap would complain.” He crossed the room, bent down and kissed her forehead. “See you tomorrow, beautiful. Thanks for the tender care.”

  Her arms arched upward, her hands lowered his lips against hers. It was a long kiss. And a long time since he had known a kiss like that. Finally he parted her arms, patted the back of her hand and let himself out of the door.

  Across the corridor only a closed door: Suite 515. Thirty-five bucks a day plus District Tax. Rate about to be lowered for single occupancy. He turned and made for the service elevator.

  When the doors opened he saw the night watchman nodding in his chair. My alert security force, he thought, and eased around the corner and out to the street.

  In the early dawn the trees were bony arms with fingers like ancient women. A newspaper truck whizzed around the corner, a heavy stack of newspapers bounced against the lamppost. Like a lazy black beetle a prowl car crawled down K Street. Lighting a cigarette, Novak coughed and turned up his coat lapels. The cold new morning was as gray as smoke. As he walked toward Seventeenth t
he streetlights flickered out. The night was over, a new day beginning.

  A woman with a cloth bundle shuffled toward him, kerchief around her head. Sagging brown cotton stockings, palms whitened from years of alkali soap. As she passed he heard tuneless humming. Something to ease the loneliness.

  Getting into his car he thought: she could have had another gun. Maybe she shot him after all.

  7

  At eight o’clock a maid with a passkey opened the door of Suite 515, took one startled look at the sofa and ran shrieking down the hall. In the confusion that followed, no one thought to call Novak. He strolled into his office at nine-thirty. By then the black bag boys had photographed the body, dusted the room for prints and trundled the remains of Chalmers Boyd away in a mortuary basket. By a rear door, according to standard procedure. The prints found on the doorknob were those of the semi-hysterical maid who kept screaming she was used to walking in on sleeping drunks, not murdered corpses.

  The man who brushed past Novak’s secretary wore a brown suit, not new, not old; a gray hat, stained around the band, a maroon tie and a big gold and zircon ring of some fraternal order. He was a short man with the serious face of a hungry beagle. The frizzle of gray-black beard on his face showed that he had gone on duty sometime during the night. Novak had done business with him before. He was Detective Lieutenant Morely, District Homicide.

  As he eased into a chair across from Novak, he said, “I get all the dirty ones. I oughta grab my retirement and hire out on a job like this. Nice clean office, chic secretary, readable files and nothing to do but collect saddle boils.”

  “You wouldn’t like it.” Novak took a box of hotel cigars from a desk drawer, opened it. He pushed the box across the desk to Morely. “Too many straw bosses.”

  “Yeah,” Morely grunted, selecting two cigars. He stowed one in his upper coat pocket, slicked cellophane from the other with a broad thumbnail, bit off the end and lighted up. He straightened his legs and eased back into the chair. A gust of blue smoke issued from his mouth.