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.