House Dick

by E. Howard Hunt

  “A thousand dollars buys a few. Well, the driver had a damaged nose plugged with gauze. When he got the light on his face he got mad and drove away. Fast.”

  “Get the license number?” Morely had his pencil poised.

  “Plate hidden by cloth. Dark blue sedan. Fifty-eight Chevy.”

  “Ever see the driver before?”

  “No. But last night in the alley I kneed a guy in the face. His partner called him Tags.”

  “That’s something,” Morely mused. “Can’t be too many hoods with that call-name. And you said Barada sent the two of them around. All out-of-towners probably.”

  Novak flicked cigarette ash at the spittoon, reached over and rolled up the jewelry.

  Morely said, “Hey, that’s material evidence.”

  “Of what, Lieutenant? Anybody find it at the scene of a crime? Anybody even know for sure it was ever there?”

  “It had to be. Hell, look how you got it back. The guy who drilled Boyd copped them and sold them back.”

  Novak restored the cloth roll to his pocket. “That thought occurred to me, Lieutenant. It’s so obvious that maybe we ought to sleep on it.” He stood up. “Not many hours from now I may be richer by a thousand dollars. And you’ll have only half as many things to look for. One murderer. Size and shape unknown.”

  Morely butted his dead cigar and wiped his face. “Barada gets more interesting by the hour. Think I’ll ask the ex-wife where he can be reached.”

  “Think she’ll tell you? If Barada’s smart he’s staying outside your jurisdiction. Even if you knew he was holed up, in say, Maryland, you couldn’t follow him across the line except in hot pursuit.”

  “Legally,” Morely said thinly.

  “We’re talking legality. Hell, this is Police Headquarters. To do it legally you’d need a competent judge and damn near a writ of extradition. And you haven’t got anything resembling grounds that any reasonable judge would listen to.”

  “Dream on,” Morely said smoothly. “You finger him for me anywhere between the Pennsy border and South Carolina, and we’ll see how much time I waste breaking a judge out of bed to keep things nice and legal. Judges are fine; some folks think they’re even necessary. For me they’re guys you tell the story to after all the action’s over. And even then most of the bastards couldn’t tell a crook from a Congressman.”

  “And that’s not always easy. Any word from Winnetka on the late Chalmers Boyd?”

  Morely lifted a sheet of yellow teletype. “Owned a bank, couple of loan companies and a factory that makes chemicals used in plastics. The name’s here, but I can’t pronounce it. Chamber of Commerce type, active in local charities—hell, you know those butter-and-egg men. More dough than sense. Paid his club bills on the day due, shot mid-eighty golf and had no known enemies. In short, a model citizen.” He glanced up at Novak. “Except for the floozy he kept in Chicago.”

  “That make him unique?” Novak rattled the jewelry in his pocket. “I may sleep a little late in the morning, Lieutenant. Walking in the dark tends to tire me.”

  Morely shrugged, pulled a sheaf of papers from the corner of his desk and began looking through them. Novak went out the same way he had come.

  In the hall he stopped at a pay phone and dialed the Tilden. Paula’s phone rang three times and then she answered sleepily. “Pete Novak,” he said and heard a quick gasp of relief.

  “Pete, what on earth....? It’s after three o’clock. Don’t you ever—?”

  “Hardly ever. Called earlier but you were out. Thought I’d see if you got back. No problems?”

  “No new ones. You were worried about me—is that why you called?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I think that’s rather nice, but good God, what a time to do it.”

  “I’ll sleep better knowing you’re sleeping well.”

  “And in my own bed.”

  “That, too. Oh, Lieutenant Morely may visit you in the morning. He’d like to get in touch with Ben Barada.”

  “I’ll have to disappoint the Lieutenant. Ben checked out of that motel. For all I know he’s gone back to Chicago.”

  “Even that much will interest him. We’ll meet tomorrow, pumpkin.”

  He heard a kiss breathed close to the receiver, and then the line clicked off.

  Novak walked down the echoing corridor and out into the night.

  What little moon there was had come from behind the clouds, and there was a ring around it. Bad weather tomorrow. Or maybe just bad luck. He got into the Pontiac, started the engine and drove home.

  12

  The alarm broke him out at seven-thirty. For a little while he sat numbly on the edge of the bed, beating back an impulse to indulge himself in more sleep, then his mind began to function, reason took over, and he remembered the details of what he had to do.

  The cold shower etched a plan in his mind. Toweling himself he turned on the coil under the coffeemaker and listened to the early news as he got dressed. Spring floods near Lancaster, plane crash at Richmond, a busty screen star married for the fourth time, some Congressman spouting on the German problem. Novak dunked the last piece of toast in his coffee, finished it and went down the staircase to a brilliant spring morning.

  Instead of walking directly to the Tilden he cut over to Connecticut and went into a store. He was the only customer, and what he wanted took less than ten minutes. From there he strolled to K Street, crossed a nearly empty lobby and rode the elevator to the fifth floor.

  Paula answered the door sulkily, and when he was inside she said, “God, what a nervous life you lead. Do you go without sleep entirely?” Knuckling her eyes, she turned and drew her dressing gown around her as she walked toward the sofa. “Don’t mind me. I’m still in dreamland.”

  He shook out a cigarette, lighted it and gave it to her. Then he lighted one for himself and sat down in a chair. “I’d treat you to coffee,” he said, “but I’d just as soon the help didn’t know we were on intimate terms.”

  “For my reputation or yours?”

  “Skip that one. I want to make this fast because Morely may be stopping by, and I wouldn’t want him to think there was any collusion here.”

  Paula stretched her feet, yawned and said, “I’m listening.”

  Novak rested his cigarette on an ashtray and leaned forward. Slowly he told her what had happened the night before. As she listened her eyes widened, and the flesh seemed to shrink to the bones of her face. When he had finished she said, “You’ve given the jewelry back to Mrs. Boyd?”

  He drew the cloth roll from his pocket and opened it on the sofa. She reached toward it, but he moved her hand aside. Quietly, he said, “Look like the real thing?”

  “Of course.” She stared at him. “Pete, let me have it. I can make a deal with her. There’ll be plenty for both of us.”

  He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, beautiful. I take on only one customer at a time.”

  “You’re crazy,” she said quickly. “You’d let this go for a thousand when I could get you twenty.”

  “I’d be doing Ben Barada a favor. And I’m in the wrong mood for that.”

  “What would put you in the right mood?” she said suggestively.

  He shrugged, reached out and rolled the cloth together. Then he put the roll in his pocket. Her eyes were still fixed on his face. “Small-time,” she hissed.

  Novak stood up, straightened his coat and looked down at her. “Guess so,” he said. “And too old to change. I get scared when people talk big money to me. It scares me even when I don’t believe it. So I’m taking this back to the only person who can legally claim it. Boyd’s widow.”

  “Damn you,” she said bitterly.

  “Look at it another way. The stuff’s hot. Any place it shows up except with the owner it’ll cause trouble. Maybe you could fence it successfully, maybe not. You’d be using Barada’s connections, and they could go sour awfully fast. He’s a prime suspect in a murder case, remember? And however we split the proceeds he’d be
getting his share from you. There’s also the likelihood that you could be identified as the seller. Then there’d be a tidy circumstantial case against you as Boyd’s killer.” He butted his cigarette in the tray. Her eyes held a cold glint.

  Novak said, “I’m glad you haven’t a gun, sweetheart. The mood you’re in I’d be lucky to leave in one piece.”

  “You said it, not me.”

  “Chances are you’ll thank me one day.”

  “I doubt it like hell.”

  Novak laughed, turned and crossed to the door. Letting himself out he saw that she was still staring at him. “Don’t bother to come back,” she called harshly. Novak shrugged and closed the door.

  Crossing the corridor he squared his shoulders and rang the bell. It was nearly nine o’clock, the time Julia Boyd had specified.

  It took several rings to bring her to the door. Her hair was untidy, her face marked with sleep lines. She was still in her nightgown, a puffy, powdery bulk with large sagging breasts. As he followed her into the sitting room she said, “You’re on time, I’ll say that. Did you get it back?”

  Opening the cloth on the coffee table he stood back. Julia Boyd reached for the bracelet first, pressed it lovingly to her breast, then fitted on the ring and admired the brooch in the light of the window. Turning she said throatily, “I’ll get your money.”

  “I think I’d like a witness.”

  Her penciled eyebrows lifted questioningly. “What for?”

  “Humor me, Julia. It wasn’t a restful night.”

  “You’re being paid for it,” she snorted. “Witness to what?”

  “That I returned the jewels to you. That you paid me for services rendered. Doc Bikel would do nicely.”

  Shrugging she laid down the jewelry and walked to the bedroom door. “Eddie,” she barked, “come on out.”

  Novak grinned. “Wasting no time,” he murmured and saw her angry glance.

  Bikel trudged into the sitting room. He wore white pajamas piped in royal blue and his face was unhappy. When his eyes fixed on Novak his upper lip drew back over his teeth.

  Julia Boyd said, “This man has brought my jewelry back to me, Eddie. He wants you to witness that fact. Why I don’t know. I promised to pay him a thousand dollars for them.” Her gaze turned toward Novak. “I don’t have that much in cash here. You asked for cash as I remember.”

  Novak nodded. “A thousand dollars would just complicate my tax return, Mrs. Boyd. I’ll settle for a yard— one hundred dollars. Ten percent of what you offered me.”

  Her eyebrows drew together. “You crazy?”

  “Maybe. But basically I’m just a small-timer. In my world a hundred’s what a thousand is in yours. Getting the jewels back took not over two hours of my time, and the risks weren’t heavy. I’ll settle for a hundred dollars.”

  Julia Boyd looked wonderingly at Bikel. “I wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t heard it,” she murmured and disappeared into the bedroom. She was rummaging through her purse when she came back. From it she took a fifty, two twenties and two fives. She laid them on the table beside the jewelry. Novak got up and went over to the writing table. On a sheet of hotel stationary he wrote: “I, Julia Boyd, acknowledge receipt of three pieces of jewelry from Mr. Novak, an employee of the Hotel Tilden, Washington, D.C. The items consist of a diamond bracelet, a sapphire ring and an emerald brooch. In consideration of his services I have rewarded Mr. Novak with the sum of one hundred dollars.” Novak dated the statement and carried it over to Julia Boyd. When she had read it she shrugged and passed it to Bikel. “See anything wrong with this, Ed?”

  Bikel studied it carefully. He fingered his thin mustache, then shook his head. “Looks all right to me,” he said uneasily.

  Novak gave his pen to Julia Boyd who signed, followed by Bikel. Novak capped his pen, folded the statement into his wallet and picked up the bills. “Thanks, folks,” he said. “You can hit the kip again. Sorry about the hour, but a hotel is a small city, and the trash collectors start pretty early.”

  Bikel smiled sardonically, toyed with the neck of his rumpled pajamas.

  Novak grinned back. “One advantage in marrying Eddie is not having to change the initial on your linen.” Then he turned and went out the door.

  Crossing the corridor he punched Paula’s button and waited until she called, “Who is it?”

  “An old friend,” he said. “Just wanted you to know she’s got the rocks, and I’ve got a signed receipt. Witnessed by Bikel.”

  “Damn you,” her voice came through the door.

  “You said that before. Well, I wanted you to know that part’s over. Tied up in satin. You can forget the jewelry the boyfriend unwisely lent you.”

  “Lent, nothing. It was a gift.”

  “Next time, get a bill of sale.”

  She swore at him. Novak left the door and walked on down the corridor.

  Stopping in front of Bikel’s room, he used his passkey and went in. The blinds were drawn, and the room was dark. Novak turned on the ceiling light and strode to the writing table. The Western Union pad was where he had last seen it. Peeling off the top sheet he carried it back to the door, went out and heard the spring lock click shut.

  Back in his office he laid the telegram blank on his desk and took Julia Boyd’s receipt from his wallet. He beckoned Mary over and showed it to her. When she had read it she gave it back to him. “How’d you manage that, Pete?”

  “It’s a fairly complicated story. One for a rainy afternoon and a thermos of coffee.”

  Mary went back to her desk. Novak folded the receipt into an envelope and dropped it in a safe drawer. Then he sat down at his desk and tilted the telegram blank under the desk lamp. He was reaching into a desk drawer for a brush and a bottle of graphite powder when the door opened and Lieutenant Morely came in.

  Mary’s typewriter was making little spattering sounds like hail on a cardboard roof. If they were still making roofs out of cardboard. As Morely advanced toward him Novak slid the telegram blank into the top drawer.

  Morely’s face showed a night’s growth of beard, and his eyes were veined. Before he reached the desk Novak had the cigar box open. Morely took two and lighted one. When the end was glowing he said, “By God, you’re a working man at that! Thought you planned an extra hour in the sack.”

  “Conscience booted me out. Busy night?”

  “Two calls after you left. A bum hung hisself in Rock Creek Park, and an oyster boat fished a stiff out of the channel.” He grinned. “Wow, nothing stinks like an old corpse.”

  “Or an unsolved murder.”

  “That, too.” He knocked ash from the cigar. “Thought I’d check with you before I went up to see the Barada piece. Professional courtesy.”

  “I’d do the same for you. And she’s calling herself by her professional name: Paula Norton.”

  Morely smiled lewdly, “What profession?”

  “Give her a break if you can.”

  Morely whistled. “Must be quite a dame if she’s gotten under your hide.” He stood up. “She’ll get all the breaks she’s entitled to as a citizen. Nothing more. That’s how we play it in the District.”

  “Unless she happened to be some Senator’s sweetie. Don’t feed me burnished morality so early in the day. Anyway, I can save you a trip. As of yesterday Barada was in the Vernon Motel this side of Alexandria—outside your jurisdiction. He’s not there now.”

  Morely’s eyes narrowed. “How the hell would you know all that?”

  “She told me.”

  “And you held back the information from me?”

  “I don’t recall being asked the question.”

  Morely’s face reddened. “I asked for your cooperation, Novak. I expected to get it. You say Barada’s skipped out? Well, I’ll remember how you helped him.”

  “You’ve gotten the cooperation you’re entitled to as an officer of the law. That and nothing more—to quote your own words. I’ve got my own grudge against Barada, but I’d be glad to have you s
ettle it for me. Where he was yesterday you couldn’t touch him.”

  “And I’ve got a big fat chance of tracing him today.” Morely’s lips curled. “I’m not so crazy about you as I used to be. I didn’t like the jewelry caper last night, and I like it even less right now.”

  “The widow’s got it now. And there’s no law against a person buying back his own stolen property. Insurance companies do it as a matter of course. If it was stolen.”

  “If it was stolen? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?” Morely roared.

  “Kick it around a little, Lieutenant. You have Julia Boyd’s unsupported word that it was stolen. Nothing more. In legal terms I did her a favor last night. She’s got her stuff back, and she’s satisfied. I’ve got a signed receipt to prove it.”

  “And you let a possible murderer slip away in the darkness. Buddy, you got a funny way of looking at things.” His voice was hard, his face taut with anger. “The hell with you, pal. I’m going to talk to Mrs. Barada, anyway. Maybe she’ll be a little more helpful than you’ve been.” He stormed out of the office.

  Novak stood up and looked at his secretary. “Apparently I’m a son of a bitch,” he said slowly.

  “He didn’t say so.”

  Novak shrugged. “The cops have a name for everything. Either you do the whole job for them or you’re a dirty name.” He shook his head. “Morely had a bad night. By the time he gets upstairs maybe he’ll simmer down.”

  “I thought he was a friend of yours.”

  “Cops have no friends. The nature of the work’s against it. They’ll guzzle a beer with you, work out in the gym with you or shoot a round of practice targets, but that’s as far as it goes. The world’s full of thievery, bribery and violence. They can only hope to tackle a part of it. A few years on the job and they suspect everyone. Then they turn bitter. Talk to a cop’s wife for an hour. Find out what kind of a home life she has.”

  Mary said nothing.

  Novak walked past her, around the lobby wall and into the coffee shop. As he settled onto a stool Jerry came over, drew a glass of water and placed it in front of him. “Coffee, Pete?”