“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.”
“And that’s not always easy. Any word from Winnetka on the late Chalmers Boyd?”
Morely lifted a sheet of yellow teletype. “Owned a bank, couple of loan companies and a factory that makes chemicals used in plastics. The name’s here, but I can’t pronounce it. Chamber of Commerce type, active in local charities—hell, you know those butter-and-egg men. More dough than sense. Paid his club bills on the day due, shot mid-eighty golf and had no known enemies. In short, a model citizen.” He glanced up at Novak. “Except for the floozy he kept in Chicago.”
“That make him unique?” Novak rattled the jewelry in his pocket. “I may sleep a little late in the morning, Lieutenant. Walking in the dark tends to tire me.”
Morely shrugged, pulled a sheaf of papers from the corner of his desk and began looking through them. Novak went out the same way he had come.
In the hall he stopped at a pay phone and dialed the Tilden. Paula’s phone rang three times and then she answered sleepily. “Pete Novak,” he said and heard a quick gasp of relief.
“Pete, what on earth....? It’s after three o’clock. Don’t you ever—?”
“Hardly ever. Called earlier but you were out. Thought I’d see if you got back. No problems?”
“No new ones. You were worried about me—is that why you called?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I think that’s rather nice, but good God, what a time to do it.”
“I’ll sleep better knowing you’re sleeping well.”
“And in my own bed.”
“That, too. Oh, Lieutenant Morely may visit you in the morning. He’d like to get in touch with Ben Barada.”
“I’ll have to disappoint the Lieutenant. Ben checked out of that motel. For all I know he’s gone back to Chicago.”
“Even that much will interest him. We’ll meet tomorrow, pumpkin.”
He heard a kiss breathed close to the receiver, and then the line clicked off.
Novak walked down the echoing corridor and out into the night.
What little moon there was had come from behind the clouds, and there was a ring around it. Bad weather tomorrow. Or maybe just bad luck. He got into the Pontiac, started the engine and drove home.
12
The alarm broke him out at seven-thirty. For a little while he sat numbly on the edge of the bed, beating back an impulse to indulge himself in more sleep, then his mind began to function, reason took over, and he remembered the details of what he had to do.
The cold shower etched a plan in his mind. Toweling himself he turned on the coil under the coffeemaker and listened to the early news as he got dressed. Spring floods near Lancaster, plane crash at Richmond, a busty screen star married for the fourth time, some Congressman spouting on the German problem. Novak dunked the last piece of toast in his coffee, finished it and went down the staircase to a brilliant spring morning.
Instead of walking directly to the Tilden he cut over to Connecticut and went into a store. He was the only customer, and what he wanted took less than ten minutes. From there he strolled to K Street, crossed a nearly empty lobby and rode the elevator to the fifth floor.
Paula answered the door sulkily, and when he was inside she said, “God, what a nervous life you lead. Do you go without sleep entirely?” Knuckling her eyes, she turned and drew her dressing gown around her as she walked toward the sofa. “Don’t mind me. I’m still in dreamland.”
He shook out a cigarette, lighted it and gave it to her. Then he lighted one for himself and sat down in a chair. “I’d treat you to coffee,” he said, “but I’d just as soon the help didn’t know we were on intimate terms.”
“For my reputation or yours?”
“Skip that one. I want to make this fast because Morely may be stopping by, and I wouldn’t want him to think there was any collusion here.”
Paula stretched her feet, yawned and said, “I’m listening.”
Novak rested his cigarette on an ashtray and leaned forward. Slowly he told her what had happened the night before. As she listened her eyes widened, and the flesh seemed to shrink to the bones of her face. When he had finished she said, “You’ve given the jewelry back to Mrs. Boyd?”
He drew the cloth roll from his pocket and opened it on the sofa. She reached toward it, but he moved her hand aside. Quietly, he said, “Look like the real thing?”
“Of course.” She stared at him. “Pete, let me have it. I can make a deal with her. There’ll be plenty for both of us.”
He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, beautiful. I take on only one customer at a time.”
“You’re crazy,” she said quickly. “You’d let this go for a thousand when I could get you twenty.”
“I’d be doing Ben Barada a favor. And I’m in the wrong mood for that.”
“What would put you in the right mood?” she said suggestively.
He shrugged, reached out and rolled the cloth together. Then he put the roll in his pocket. Her eyes were still fixed on his face. “Small-time,” she hissed.
Novak stood up, straightened his coat and looked down at her. “Guess so,” he said. “And too old to change. I get scared when people talk big money to me. It scares me even when I don’t believe it. So I’m taking this back to the only person who can legally claim it. Boyd’s widow.”
“Damn you,” she said bitterly.
“Look at it another way. The stuff’s hot. Any place it shows up except with the owner it’ll cause trouble. Maybe you could fence it successfully, maybe not. You’d be using Barada’s connections, and they could go sour awfully fast. He’s a prime suspect in a murder case, remember? And however we split the proceeds he’d be getting his share from you. There’s also the likelihood that you could be identified as the seller. Then there’d be a tidy circumstantial case against you as Boyd’s killer.” He butted his cigarette in the tray. Her eyes held a cold glint.
Novak said, “I’m glad you haven’t a gun, sweetheart. The mood you’re in I’d be lucky to leave in one piece.”
“You said it, not me.”
“Chances are you’ll thank me one day.”
“I doubt it like hell.”
Novak laughed, turned and crossed to the door. Letting himself out he saw that she was still staring at him. “Don’t bother to come back,” she called harshly. Novak shrugged and closed the door.
Crossing the corridor he squared his shoulders and rang the bell. It was nearly nine o’clock, the time Julia Boyd had specified.
It took several rings to bring her to the door. Her hair was untidy, her face marked with sleep lines. She was still in her nightgown, a puffy, powdery bulk with large sagging breasts. As he followed her into the sitting room she said, “You’re on time, I’ll say that. Did you get it back?”
Opening the cloth on the coffee table he stood back. Julia Boyd reached for the bracelet first, pressed it lovingly to her breast, then fitted on the ring and admired the brooch in the light of the window. Turning she said throatily, “I’ll get your money.”