House Dick hcc-54

by E. Howard Hunt

  “Naw,” the voice came back. “Long-distance calls are bad news anywhere. That makes it interstate and something for the G-boys.”

  “Maybe there’s a local rep. Check the yellow pages and give them a buzz tomorrow.”

  “No interest, Novak?”

  “A bare thimbleful.”

  Silence, while the line hummed indifferently.

  “Make it three gees, then. And tonight.”

  “Look,” Novak snarled, “I’m not in the old gold business, and I don’t keep three, four thousand dollars in my sugar jar. If you made it five yards the answer’d still be no sale. I’ll contact the party tomorrow, or if you’re in a hurry, call her tonight. All she has to do is write a check. The hotel’ll cash it.”

  “There’s an idea,” the voice mused. “Only suppose Fat Fanny rings the law?”

  “That’s the chance you take. And not a small one. If the stuff’s too hot, mail it to the cops. Your problems couldn’t interest me less.”

  The voice grew more urgent. “One grand, Novak. Last chance.”

  “For what?” he sneered. “Glory for old Pete Novak! No dice, pal. Fumble the merchandise yourself.” He hung up, draped his legs over the side of the bed and lighted a cigarette. He could call Julia Boyd and tell her about the offer, or he could forget it. He could call Morely for the same reason, but Morely had only a secondary interest in the jewelry, and the chances were against its recovery providing any clues to the murderer.

  That revived the question of whether the murderer and the theft were directly related. It was reasonable to assume that they were, but jewel thieves rarely drew blood. Of course the jewels could have come as a windfall after Boyd had been murdered. The caller didn’t even have to be the original thief. He could have been a stage-one fence panicking on learning the murder connection.

  Novak ran one hand through his hair, knocked ash into a tray and dialed the Tilden. He asked for Paula’s room and waited until the operator had rung eight times. Then he hung up. Out on a midnight stroll, probably, or in a saloon huddle with her ex-husband.

  He thought again about calling Morely and discarded the idea. Morely would have other things on his mind tonight. It was something to mention the next time they got together.

  Beside him the telephone sounded. Automatically he reached for it and heard the voice of Julia Boyd.

  She said, “I have just received a very interesting telephone call. And I was given to understand that the caller had phoned you as well.”

  “Possibly,” Novak said. “What was the subject?”

  “Stolen jewelry. The man said he had offered them to you for a price—a very low price—and that you had declined to become involved.”

  “That’s an accurate summary,” Novak said. “Anything else, Mrs. Boyd? These are the hours I try to dedicate to rest and freedom from worry. I told the man to get in touch with your insurance company, the police, or you.”

  “Novak, I want that jewelry back. I’ll pay for it.”

  “How much?”

  “Very little really. One thousand dollars. I have the sum in my room. But in my state of health I obviously am in no condition to venture out at night and deal with jewel robbers.”

  “And murderers.”

  “Oh? Yes. Of course there’s that possibility.”

  Novak laughed shortly. “I like the casual way you finessed that, Mrs. Boyd. Yes, there’s always that possibility, isn’t there? I suppose you want your gems back and to hell with Chalmers’s murderer.”

  Her voice grew frosty. “You know my attitude toward Chalmers. He died painlessly, if I am to believe the police physician. Who killed him is a matter for the police to discover.”

  “Quite. Although you harbor your own suspicions.”

  “Indeed I do,” she snapped. “I’m a stranger in this city. I know no one I can trust. That is why I am calling you. I have agreed to pay one thousand dollars for the return of my jewelry tonight. What is needed is a man to make contact with whoever has it, pay him and bring the jewelry to me.”

  “Tell the Doc. He’s a good dark-alley type, and you seem to trust him.”

  “Doctor Bikel is not in his room,” she said sharply; “therefore I am willing to pay you the sum I originally promised you for the return of the jewelry. One thousand dollars.”

  “We seem to get back to that same round figure. We keep batting it back and forth, and I haven’t yet seen even a glimmer of green. A grand for me for running a simple errand? You wouldn’t mind if I brought in a little police assistance, would you?”

  “You can’t,” she protested. “That was part of the bargain.”

  “And you feel bound to treat thieves honorably.”

  “Listen, Novak, my ethics aren’t under examination. I’ve got a job for you. It might take two hours of your time. In return I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars.”

  “Cash,” he said. “I get awfully weary of endorsing large checks.”

  “Very likely,” she said coldly. “The instructions are for you to proceed to the corner of Connecticut Avenue and Bradley Lane—wherever that may be—leave your car there, and walk down Bradley Lane until contact is made.”

  “Yeah. One if by land and two if by sea. That’s a pretty dark and deserted part of town this time of night.”

  “I didn’t think you were short on courage.”

  “It comes and goes. Like a phony Harvard accent. What hour was mentioned, if I’m not too inquisitive?”

  “Two o’clock.”

  “And the payoff money?”

  “I’ll seal it in an envelope and have it left at the desk for you. You can pick it up on your way out. I expect you to follow instructions implicitly and provoke no difficulties.”

  “Suppose they lift your money and neglect to give me anything in return?”

  “It’s a chance I’m willing to take. There isn’t much time left. You may bring the jewelry to me in the morning. After nine o’clock.” The line went dead, and Novak replaced the receiver slowly.

  He thought for a while and then he dialed Police Headquarters and asked for Morely. The Lieutenant was out, the desk man told him. No telling when he’d get back. Where he was was police business. Novak left his name and hung up.

  From a bureau drawer he took Paula Norton’s chrome-plated pistol and slid it into his right hip pocket. Then he fitted on his holster rig, spun the cylinder of his .38 and stuck it loosely in the holster.

  When he had laced his shoes he pulled on a coat, got his hat and walked down the dark staircase to the alley.

  11

  The envelope had been at the desk as Julia Boyd had said. Now it was in his right inside coat pocket. When he moved the steering wheel his arm brushed the envelope’s slight bulge, reminding him of what lay ahead.

  Connecticut Avenue traffic was scanty. A few cruising taxis, late trolleys rattling down the rails, and tourist cars with out-of-town licenses groping toward the center of the District. The black asphalt was slick with night dew, and he had to use the windshield wiper to clear off moisture.

  Not a night to take long walks in the dark. He could have used some support from Morely, but the dice had rolled the other way. He wondered where Paula was. And Doc Bikel.

  Chevy Chase Circle, with the bus station and the Chinese restaurant on the left. Now dark and inhospitable. Out of the District and into Maryland. Maryland, My Maryland. Let all the swains adore thee. Shoot if you must this old gray head, but spare your country’s flag, she said. A highly unlikely incident. Eat Barbara Frietchie Bagels, Pretzels, Marmalade, and Crab-burgers. Someone was coining dough off her old gray heroic head. American Enterprise.

  Less than a mile to go. Not more. And no cars in a long time. Only lighted diners and beer taverns and shy on business at that. Barbara Frietchie’s Vitamin Pastrami will keep the teeth pegged in your jaw long after your neighbor’s have dropped out.

  The pistol in his hip pocket prodded naggingly. He shifted on the seat, found a new position. In the
rear view mirror no trailing headlights, no car parked at the roadside ready to edge out and follow. Not even highway police. Hell, they’d be in a diner dunking crullers and cracking dusty jokes with a bored waitress. Seldom around when you needed them. Like obstetricians.

  A sapphire ring, a diamond bracelet and an emerald brooch. Together they shouldn’t make a parcel larger than a woman’s fist. Concentrated wealth. Ninety thousand dollars worth. Sold for a thousand cash along a dark road. By someone who didn’t have time to negotiate with the Midland Company. Someone who needed cash badly. Someone who would settle for a grand tonight in place of forty-five thousand next week. Not the most logical sort of deal. Unless the seller wasn’t planning on turning over the jewels.

  Only two more blocks to the intersection. Novak slowed the Pontiac, let it idle toward the curb. He turned off the ignition, dropped the key in his pocket and turned off the lights. A southbound truck zoomed past. Food for Washington’s central market from the lush fields of southern Maryland. The dash clock showed ten minutes to two. His right hand slid inside his coat pocket, nudged the revolver and let it drop back into the holster. His license was good for the District, not Maryland. Now that he was over the line they could jug him for carrying concealed weapons. Two of them. He grinned at the darkness and got out of the car.

  Locking it, he started up the road.

  Streetlights flooded the intersection. He felt as conspicuous as a fly on vanilla icing. Not even the sound of traffic to cheer him. A lonely road, lighted at far intervals. Dark houses set far back from the road. Five minutes to two. Turning he looked back at the intersection. A car whizzed down Connecticut, tail-lights twin cigarettes in the darkness. Novak plodded on, stumbled on a stone and caught himself against a telephone pole. Ahead in the distant darkness the glow of headlights coming toward him. Novak moved farther to the right. The shoulder grass was high enough to wet his cuffs. He could hear the car’s engine now coming at a measured, unhurried pace. He wondered if this was it.

  It would be smart strategy to get him alone in headlights that could pick out any police covering him.

  The car was closer now, only ten or twelve yards away. Novak strode along the shoulder, drainage ditch at his right. He could hear gravel crackle under the car’s tires. Then a spotlight blinded him.

  Novak covered his eyes with his left hand and kept walking.

  He heard the car crunch to a stop. A voice barked, “Close enough. Let’s have the dough.”

  “Let’s have the jewels.”

  “This ain’t your play, pal. Pull it out, and toss it over. Stay where you are. You’re covered and plenty.”

  Novak drew the envelope from his pocket and sailed it at the car. It landed ten feet from the door. The door opened, someone got out, scooped up the envelope and got back in.

  The spotlight went out and the voice snapped, “Here it comes.”

  Something sailed from the car window. Blinking, Novak snatched at it, let it land in the ditch behind him. Turning he knelt, grabbed his pencil flash and swiveled around. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminated the face of the driver.

  The man’s face twisted, the mouth gritted a curse, and the car spun away. A cloth was bound over the rear license plate.

  There had been another man in the rear seat of the sedan, a man whose face he couldn’t see. He had never seen the driver’s face before, but he would remember it. The nostrils bulged grotesquely. They were packed with rolls of gauze to support the bridge of a broken nose.

  Through the night came the squeal of tires as the car turned down Connecticut.

  Novak played the light over the grassy ditch, reached down and brought back a roll of cloth tied with string. He stood up, brushed moisture from his knees, wiped sweat from his face and put the cloth roll into his coat pocket. Then he moved onto the road and began walking back toward Connecticut, whistling tunelessly as he went.

  When he was behind the wheel he flicked on the map light and took the cloth roll from his pocket. Untying the string he unrolled the cloth across his knees. Suddenly fire sparked through the car: green white and milky-blue. A bracelet, brooch and a ring.

  Just like the man said.

  He covered them carefully, separating each piece with a fold of cloth, and then he slid the roll into his pocket again.

  Driving back into the District he stopped at a diner, ate a minute steak with French fries, a slab of peach pie and sloshed it down with black coffee. The cook rang up NO SALE, and took a dime from the register and dropped it in the counter tune selector. Fast pulsing jive flooded the diner. Novak wiped his mouth with a paper napkin, left money beside his plate and got back in his car.

  He stayed on Connecticut as far as Massachusetts, turned down Sixth and drove over C as far as Police Headquarters.

  Morely was typing a report when Novak went into his office. He glanced around and said, “You get up early these nights.”

  “I never really go to bed.” Novak sat down in a wall chair, tilted it against the wall and watched Morely fill in and sign the last part of the report form. Morely got up, said, “Back in a minute,” and took the report out of the office. Novak stared at the scarred desk, the tarnished spittoon, the chipped gooseneck lamp on the desk, and lighted a cigarette. After a while Morely came back.

  “Not much of a place,” he said sourly. “I always figured it’s to keep us on the street and out of Head quarters.” He sat down, lighted a half-smoked cigar and stared at Novak. “What’ll it be, Pete?”

  Novak leaned forward and laid the cloth roll on Morely’s desk. Morely glanced at him and unrolled the cloth. Under the desk bulb the stones seemed to shine with life of their own. Morely raised his head slowly. “Jesus!”

  Novak said nothing.

  “How’d you come by them?”

  “An hour or so after you left, a nameless voice called me. Said he had the jewelry and would trade it for five grand. I told him to lay off hophead schemes. We sparred back and forth, and I finally suggested he send the jewels to the police, the insurance company or Mrs. Boyd, their owner. Then I rang off.”

  Morely rolled the cigar slowly between his thumb and index finger. “Funny the guy’d call you.”

  “Thought so myself. Anyway, it wasn’t long before Julia Boyd called with much the same story. The agreed price was one grand, with another for me when I return the stuff to her in the morning.”

  “So you went out and made the switch,” he said unpleasantly. “With never a care in the world.”

  “I like money as well as the next fellow,” Novak said evenly. “If you’d check your phone messages you’d find my name among them. It occurred to me you might like to have a lad or two nearby. To identify the sellers.”

  “Oh, you thought of that, did you?” Morely said a little wildly. “That shows great powers of reasoning. But of course the switch couldn’t wait until I could be found.”

  “I didn’t make the arrangements, Lieutenant. Mrs. Boyd did. Leaving me with barely time to get to the rendezvous before the car showed up.”

  Morely restrained himself with difficulty. “Mind telling me what happened then?”

  “That’s why I’m here, Lieutenant. The time was two o’clock, the place, down Bradley Lane. Outside your jurisdiction, I might add.”

  “That makes me feel tons better,” he said acidly. “Go on.”

  “Well, after I was a couple blocks from Connecticut —long blocks in the darkness, Lieutenant—this car came creeping toward me. When it was close it fanned a spot on me and a man told me to throw the money envelope at the car. When I’d done that they tossed this cloth roll at me. I let it go over my head, got down to look for it and put my pencil light on the driver’s face.”

  Morely rubbed his hands together. “I was beginning not to like you. But you take chances, pal.”

  “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.”