Hard Case Crime: House Dick (3 page)

“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.”

“No need to overdo it, Mr. Boyd. I’m only the House Security man and I impress pretty easy,” Novak snapped. He sat down at his desk and lighted a cigarette.

Boyd gazed at him warily, one hand closed and opened and he said, sighing, “Mrs. Boyd is in a delicate nervous condition, Mr. Novak. Brought on, no doubt, by her obesity. Orthodox medicine failed to find a cure so I consented to her consulting Dr. Bikel, whom, I gather, you met. He seems to have found means of checking her recurring hysteria. Whatever my feeling concerning his personality, I must admit that Dr. Bikel has done Julia a world of good.”

Novak blew smoke at the desk lamp. It purpled, faded into gray and drifted away. “Yes,” he said. “When I saw Mrs. Boyd she was as relaxed as a milch cow. And after a ninety-thousand dollar loss.”

Boyd cleared his throat. His eyes flickered and he said, “That’s the point I want to get across. Julia suffers frequent delusions. There was no loss of jewelry. It was never in this hotel.” He coughed nervously. “Tell me, have you reported anything to the police?”

“I was leaving that to Mrs. Boyd—or you.”

A smile grew until it covered Boyd’s face. Like a flash flood over barren desert. Heartily he said, “Then there’s no problem at all.” He stood up and wiped the side of his neck. “I appreciate the tactful way you’ve handled the incident, Mr. Novak, and I’ll be happy to write a letter of appreciation to your superiors.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Novak said dryly. “All I did was not make a phone call.” He stood up and watched Boyd walking toward the door. “If the jewelry never got to Washington, where is it now?”

Chuckling, Boyd turned as he reached for the doorknob. “Where it is always kept, Mr. Novak. In my office safe. In Winnetka, Illinois.”

Then the door opened and Mr. Chalmers Boyd went out. The Big Noise from Winnetka. Novak stepped back, opened a section of the window and sniffed cold night air. For all his money Mr. Chalmers Boyd needed to see a dentist. He had a breath like a polecat.

After a while Novak moved to his file safe and twirled the dial combination. He opened a drawer filled with 3 × 5 cards and thumbed them expertly. When he found the name he was looking for, he pulled the card and studied the typed notations. Then he returned it, locked the safe and walked out.

Pausing at the end of the reception counter, Novak beckoned the clerk over. “Percy,” he said, “I checked that 515 complaint and it was baseless. No loss, no robbery. Not even any jewelry. According to Mr. Boyd it’s safe in his office in Winnetka. Just a woman with high blood pressure and occasional delusions. So let’s not be hollering for me every time a waiter loses a napkin, eh, Perce? And another thing. In this business you got to be able to screen a phony from the real article.”

The clerk said nothing.

Novak said, “I’m talking about the herb doctor you booked into 522, Percy.”