As he walked down the corridor he shook out a cigarette, moistened dry lips and lighted it. So Julia Boyd had known about Paula and her hubby. That was a small item Morely had neglected to pass along. Already Paula was under a degree of suspicion.
Paula thought she had the jewelry safely hidden, then found out it was missing. Maybe Boyd had waited until Paula went out, opened her door somehow and searched for the jewelry. Maybe he had found it, then later got himself killed. For what? For the jewels? Or maybe the murder of Boyd and the theft of the jewels were two unrelated happenings. Barada had been in a wild mood last night. He had plenty of reason to resent Boyd. Suppose he came back for another chat with Paula and found Boyd there, with or without Paula. Maybe Barada had pulled a gun and shaken down Boyd for the ninety grand payoff money, drilled him and waltzed away with the jewels to boot.
So far he had been accepting Paula’s version as close to the truth. Of what other things she might be guilty he didn’t care. He had believed her last night, believed her enough to move the corpse from its compromising location. But Julia Boyd had pushed her into a hot skillet anyway. Before Morely did anything he would take a hard look at the evidence, at where the threads wound. Then, if he were convinced, he would move in ruthlessly.
“What if she killed him?” he said half-aloud, and thought, how far would you go to save her?
Not a centimeter, a voice said coldly. Then another voice: You’d want to find out why she did it. Then make up your mind.
“Yeah,” he said to the empty hall. “That’s what you’d do.”
Back in his office Novak phoned the Credit Central and asked for traces on Bikel. Lighting a cigarette he stared through the Venetian blinds at the sunny street. Whir of traffic, click of heels, chatter of voices. The outside world.
A grand from Julia Boyd to get back jewelry from Paula Norton who no longer had it. Who, then? The murderer, probably, but no long odds on that, either. Or had Paula staged a little act for his benefit? In the normal course of events Boyd would have gone to her room with the payoff money and walked out with the jewelry. Suppose he had gone there and tried to strong-arm the jewels from Paula. Novak could see her shooting Boyd, hiding the gun and the jewels and phoning him. Hell, he should have searched Boyd’s body when he had the chance. For jewels or money or both. Now it was too late.
He dialed Paula’s room, heard the phone buzz a dozen times and hung up.
Mary carried over some morning registrations that had been credit-checked. Novak initialed them and dropped them in his OUT box. A new day at the Tilden. New faces, new names. Traveling men, lobbyists, grifters, old folks seeing the Nation’s Capital. A city of overnight guests. The largest floating population in the country. A city of parks and highways and museums. With marble and granite buildings that looked as hospitable as a county jail.
The phone rang. Mary answered and buzzed Novak.
The caller was Lieutenant Morely. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said in a voice frayed with fatigue. “We scooped a sample of the widow’s sleepy tonic. Whattaya know—under the cherry flavor it’s loaded with mescaline. No wonder fatty gets hallucinations. I guess we wouldn’t have to look far to find the source of supply.”
“No,” Novak said. “About as far as the luggage of a certain nature doctor. You figure she was asleep last night when the shooting took place?”
“Well, the syrup’s got a high enough percentage to make her crazy as a dancing bear. Of course, we don’t know when Boyd caught his bullet or when Mrs. Boyd went to bed. Or whether she really took that syrup last night. Or—if she did, how much?”
Novak said, “Bikel’s from near the Mex border where the Indians brew mescaline from peyote buttons. For the Rain Dance or whatever the hell they celebrate these days. Picking him up?”
“Not just yet. Any sign of either one checking out, let me know. I’m going home to grab me some shut-eye but the desk can reach me.”
“Will do,” Novak said. “Any other leads?”
“Yeah, that hood Barada’s wife is a guest at the Tilden. A looker. Signed in as Miss Norton.”
Novak’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “You don’t say.”
Morely yawned. “There was something steamy between her and the dear departed. With Barada around, looks like it could have been the badger game. Work hard, pal.”
The phone went dead.
Novak replaced the receiver and wiped his palms on his thighs. Morely had worked fast. He had Bikel where he could squeeze him if the need arose. Even homebrew mescaline was on the list of controlled narcotics.
He thought about visiting Paula’s room and shaking it down. But if she had a second gun it was gone by now. The same with any jewelry. Too late for that now. Hours too late.
As he passed Mary’s desk he said, “If Connery wants me I’m following up a request by Mrs. Boyd. Be back in an hour.”
Walking across the lobby he signaled Jimmy Grant and said, “If you see Miss Norton come back, make a note of the time and leave it on my desk.”
“Sure, Pete.” His face was mystified. “Worried about a skip?”
“That would be the least of my worries,” he muttered, and went out to the street.
The air was as crisp and cool as mountain mint. Novak gulped it down, tossed away his cigarette and bought a morning paper. The Boyd death was a page 18 paragraph. No details were given and the Tilden was described only as a downtown hotel. He folded the newspaper and dropped it in the corner trash basket. Another block and the cement and glass brick front of Robinson’s Veterinary Hospital. The reception girl went through an inner door and Novak could hear the yapping of assorted pets. The door closed. After a while Doc Robinson came out wearing a white hospital gown.
Novak said, “I sent you a client last night, Doc. A little toy Skye terrier.”
Robinson pulled off rubber gloves, wiped his rimless glasses and consulted a register. “Named Toby,” he said.
“His mistress got worried about him last night and came down here. Would you have a record of the time?”
“We admitted an Angora kitten and a Dalmatian last night but no visitors came by.”
“You were here how long?”
The vet frowned. “Oh, maybe eleven-thirty.”
“And Miss Norton—the Skye’s owner—didn’t stop by?”
“Not according to my records. She didn’t mention it when she came here a little while ago, either.”
“Oh?”
“She collected her pup and took him out for a stroll. Hasn’t returned yet.”
“Any ideas where she might have gone?”
“I suggested Farragut Park.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“No trouble, Pete.”
The door opened and a woman entered, tugging at a boxer on a heavy chain. “Well, well,” the vet said in a cheery professional voice, “What seems to be the trouble today, Mrs. Tannenbaum?”
Novak eased himself out of the closing door. Setting his teeth he strode toward Farragut Square.
She was there, all right, hatless and in her mink coat, sitting on a park bench. The Skye was chasing pigeons nearby. Her head was tilted back and her eyes were closed. As Novak sat down beside her the Skye yapped protectively. He said, “Got a light, lady?”
“Dust, buster,” she said coldly, then opened her eyes. “You!” she said with a little gasp. “One thing about this town—half the men are on the make.”
“Any town.” Novak lighted a cigarette and gave it to her.
“Is this a chance encounter or were you looking for me?”
“A little of each. You said you went out to the vet’s last night.”
“I did.”
“Doc Robinson says you didn’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I said I went out to see Toby. I didn’t say I’d seen him. When I got to the hospital there was an awful fuss going on. An animal yapping and the owners carrying on. So I didn’t go in. I just walked around for a while and went back to my room. Anything else?”
“A small thing: Boyd’s widow called me in a while back. Seems she’d had detectives following the late Chalmers for quite a while. Long enough to learn about your connection with the dear departed.”
She sat forward, breath hissing inward between set teeth. “What else did she know?”
“She knew you had her jewelry and that her husband was trying to get it back. She knows you’re here.” He crossed his legs and leaned back, blinking from the sun. “And she’s offered me a thousand dollars to get the gems back from you. Even if I have to break your pretty arms.”
Her face was frozen. “That’s a lot of money in your league, Novak.”
“Some weeks I don’t see the half of it, gray-eyes. Not only that, she’s told the police about you and hubby and suggested strongly that you were responsible for his death.”
The cigarette dropped from her fingers. The Skye bounced over, but she told him to go away. Moistening her lips she said huskily, “Pete, I’ve got to get out of here.”
He shook his head slowly. “Absolutely the worst idea I’ve heard today. If you didn’t shoot him you’re in no danger.”
“You think I did?”
“It’s at least a possibility. I can visualize Boyd going to your room and jumping you for the jewels. I can see you grabbing a gun and shooting him to protect yourself. Then calling Sunny Jim to cart off the corpse.”
“And paying you off with my smooth white body,” she said bitterly. “What a lovely mind you have, Mr. Novak. I suppose keyhole peeping breeds thoughts like that.”
“Possibly,” he said, “but we aren’t discussing me at the moment. We’re talking about a murder and some missing jewelry. We both know where the corpse is. What I don’t know is where the jewelry is.”
“And you think I do,” she said dully. The Skye jumped onto her lap and she held it between folded arms.
“Let’s say I’m wondering if you’ve been entirely frank with me. At the moment the jewels are sort of a key item. If you’ve got them, get rid of them in a way that won’t lead back to you. If you haven’t, then you’ve no reason to worry.”
One hand ran back through her ash-blonde hair. She laughed thinly. “God, what a fool I was. I let myself think you were...” Her voice trailed away. “The hell with that. Well, I don’t have the jewels and I didn’t kill Chalmers—despite any ideas you may have to the contrary. Now would you mind leaving me alone with my thoughts, Novak? I’ll try to dryclean them here in the sun and fresh air.”
He got up from the bench. The Skye twitched its tail and stared up at him balefully. Novak said, “Where’s Big Ben Barada hanging out?”
Her lips clamped together and she shook her head. He thought he could see tiny, moist diamonds in her lashes.
“Answer the man,” he said roughly. “Don’t be a sucker all your life. Your ex-husband’s been playing a part in this from the beginning. From just the little you’ve told me, he was desperate for money. To him money or jewels would have equal value. That’s enough for motive. I can see him letting himself into your empty room and waiting for Boyd to show, killing him and lifting the payoff roll and the jewelry as well. He’d lived with you long enough to know where you’d be likely to hide something valuable. I want to know if he’s left town. If so the police would be glad to have the information. There are a few questions he could answer.”
Her head lifted and she stared dumbly at him, eyes foggy with tears.
Novak said, “Why make me do it the hard way? If he’s still here he’ll be calling you. I can have the hotel switchboard trace all calls to your room.” He shrugged. “All right, go on taking his lumps. You’re in a tough spot, beautiful. The cops aren’t in any mood to write off this one.”
Suddenly her chin dropped, her shoulders shook. The terrier licked her cheek. After a while she dabbed her eyes and said unevenly, “He’s in a motel on the road to Alexandria. The Vernon.”
“Room number?”
“Thirty-seven.”
“That’s better,” Novak said. “And let’s not make any calls before I get there. I’d hate to have to shoot my way in.”
“But you would,” she said tightly.
“After what his punks fed me last night I’d welcome the chance. Meanwhile, give doggie a nice long airing and think wholesome thoughts.”
Bitterly she said, “You really put your heart into your work. A thousand dollars is cheap for what you’re willing to do. From now on I’ll bolt my door at night.”
Turning, he walked away from her. As he crossed toward the Army and Navy Club he glanced back and saw her staring vacantly at the sidewalk. He hung a cigarette in his mouth, but it did nothing for the bitter taste, and he flicked it away savagely.
His mouth took on a crooked set, he squared his shoulders and muttered, “You’re hell with the ladies, killer. Ought to finish off the morning slapping around a white-haired old mom for kicks.”
He walked two blocks rapidly and turned into a bar with flaked English script on the windows: The Hunters’ Lodge. The inside was dark and musty with a permanent odor of stale peanuts and potato chips. “Irish,” he snapped at the bartender.
“Hold on, buddy, there’s plenty of time. Water or soda?”
“Ice, pal. I skate better than I swim.”
At the far end, a waiter mopping down the floor, chairs upended on tables. A couple arguing in a side booth. Married probably. You don’t develop subjects for sustained argument until you’ve been married awhile.
The bartender shoved an Old Fashioned glass at him, covered chipped ice from a metal jigger. Novak stirred it with one finger, lifted it and tossed it off. “Encore,” he said and gripped the round bar edge with his hands.
As the bartender sloshed more whisky over the ice he said, “Whassa matter? Trouble with the girlfriend?”
Novak stared at him. “You could say that and have a fifty-percent chance of being right. Anyone could.”
“Yeah, the other being money. That’s what it all boils down to here at the bar: dames or dough. I see plenty of it. The things I hear from this side would make a novel a day. Trouble is I don’t know any writers. You know one, send him around, I’ll collaborate cheap.”
“Facts aren’t good enough,” Novak said and downed the drink. “The writing guys always have to gaudy them up.” He pulled out five dollars and waited for change. The bartender rang up two whiskies and slapped the change on the counter. “Drop by any time,” he said. “Glad to have the business.”
Novak pushed out to the sidewalk, blinked at the sunlight and covered the last two blocks to his garage. He unlocked the door, backed out the Pontiac and turned south for the Fourteenth Street Bridge.
On the road to Alexandria.