Hard Case Crime: House Dick (11 page)

Novak got up and opened the window. When he went back to his chair Morely was squinting at the ceiling. “Wonder if you noticed something about the Boyd killing that jumped up and shouted at me.”

“Afraid I haven’t had your years of experience, Lieutenant.”

Morely smiled indulgently. “When a gun goes off it makes a loud noise—even a small-bore pistol. Think anyone can convince me Boyd was shot in the sitting room and his drowsy missus never heard it?” He made a sour face. “Someone’s lying. Either that or Boyd was shot elsewhere and taken back to his own place. If that’s what happened it took not only strength but nerve. And I figure Boyd wasn’t moved overly far.” He shifted in his chair and stared at Novak. “The Barada dame’s holed up across the hall and the Doc’s down the way. I doubt the little lady coulda lugged him but the Doc might have. Or Barada himself.”

Novak’s face had grown cold. He flexed his fingers and stared at them. White scars showed where skates had slashed them years ago. Lighting a cigarette, he propped his heels on an old leather hassock. An old cop and a damn shrewd one.

Morely murmured, “I wouldn’t mind a lengthy chat with Barada. And I’d like to know more about the Doc than I do. He’s done time, by the way. Runs some kind of an herb store in Chicago now.”

“Yeah, I ran credit traces on him.”

Morely nodded musingly. “Any of the maids mention hearing a shot last night?”

“Not to me. There was only one floor maid working after eight last night. She was on change at the far end and unless Boyd was gunned in the hallway she couldn’t have heard a shot.”

“Neither did the neighbors,” He sighed. “Spill me a little more java, Pete. I got a long dark night ahead.”

Novak filled his cup and slid the brandy bottle across the table. Morely shook his head, “I can’t waltz in singing
Sweet Barbara Allen.
Not that I wouldn’t like to one night. There’s a college-boy desk sergeant the captain dotes on, and the day I turn in my badge I’m busting his snotty nose for him.”

“When’s that?”

“Too damn long away.” He drank the coffee steadily, then lowered the empty cup. “I hear Barada’s dame is a looker. Enough mink to stuff a trunk and a snappy little toy dog she sports around.”

“Skye terrier.”

“Maybe. Whenever I see a sub-rosa cutie like her I do the old-fashioned slow burn. If my wife’s lucky this year she gets the old squirrel wrap reconditioned at Hecht’s on a summer fur special. If we can’t scrape up the dough she wears it another winter the way it is. But Boyd’s kept woman can swirl into the Tilden in a cloud of silver mink and French perfume, never mind where the dough comes from or how.” He shook his head disgustedly. “No wonder hoods figure police are squares. Hood kids get chauffeured cars to take them to private schools and riding academies; police kids hop a trolley or a crowded bus, rain, snow or shine. And carry their own lunches to save two bits every noon. But the public howls for a cop’s blood when he takes a Christmas fiver from a bartender. They never figure the patrolman has been wrestling drunks out of the bar all year long and saving the mirrors and the furniture from getting busted. Some quiz genius grabs a hundred grand the clever way and the whole country dissolves in tears. Boo hoo. Ahhhhh, the hell with it. If I’m in the wrong game I’ve been in it too long to change.” He stood up and reached for his hat. “Don’t suppose you’d like to lend me your passkey so I could shake down the Doc’s place. And the dame’s?”

Novak got up. “Not without a search warrant, Lieutenant. It’d be my job. You know that.”

“No harm asking.”

“No harm.”

He laid the crown of his hat in his right palm and squashed it on the top of his head. “The net’s out for Barada, Pete. If you see him first, holler down the rain barrel.”

Novak nodded.

“And thanks for the coffee and the California sauce.”

“Any time.” He followed Morely to the door, switched on the staircase light and waited until Morely was in the alley before turning it off. An honest, hardworking cop. Poor bastard. Within an hour he’d probably be following the meat wagon downtown to collect a throat-slit corpse; at three he might be poking around a Vermont Avenue rooming house, pulling prints off the windowsill of a room where an old lodger had been strangled by a prowl thief or rapist. And so on until well past dawn. With the Boyd murder still unsolved.

Novak loosened his tie, collected the used coffee gear and washed it in the kitchenette. Then he refilled the globe with water and measured coffee into the filter to save time in the morning.

He went into his bedroom, pulled off his shirt and shoes and lay down on the bed. For a while he smoked, thinking, and then he pulled over a half-finished crossword puzzle from the Sunday supplement and filled a few more squares. “A dealer in textile fabrics” in six letters turned out to be
mercer,
a revelation which made him frown. Maybe the thing would flow from there.

The telephone rang and he lifted the receiver before the ring had ended. It was a harsh gutter voice that spoke: “Novak—never mind who’s talking. You been prowling around for some missing jewelry—well, I got it. What’s the ante?”

“A grand was mentioned.”

A hoarse guffaw. The voice sounded as though the man had a cold, as though his nose was stopped up. “Pal, that ain’t even ten per cent.”

“Five’s the usual around Washington.”

“Okay, five gees does it. Only it has to be tonight.”

“Put aside the hop,” Novak said. “Even if anyone was interested, who the hell could raise five gees at midnight? The stuff’s insured. Get yourself a better deal with the company—Midland. In Chicago. They’ll jump at the chance.”

“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.

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.