She made a shorthand note under the man’s name. “Wouldn’t mind one myself.”
“He’s got four kids,” Novak said. “The chain can afford it and a lot more. I wouldn’t like to try to feed a family of six on what a fire inspector draws from the District.”
“No,” she said soberly. “You sound a little mellower today. Any special reason?”
“I just had a drink with a bill collector. I guess there’s tougher jobs than mine.”
“I should think so. Bill collectors work on a percentage, don’t they?”
“The house percentage. And the house always wins.” He laid the teletype message on her desk. When she had read it she glanced up. “That kind of a bill collector,” she said breathily.
“With the trouble boys there’s not a live case of failure to collect. This one’s so tough he doesn’t have to strut to prove it. Very cool and silky and muscled like a bull gorilla. College education, by his grammar, and probably knows what spoon to use. The rackets don’t pick their personnel off the cattle boats any longer. It’s big business now, and the accent’s on brains. Congress and TV have given old-fashioned hoodlums a negative public image, so the syndicates employ muscles that can pass in a crowd without old ladies shrieking and fainting away.” He walked back to his desk and sat down. “The law tries to compete, but the pay’s too low. Competent prosecutors are playing to the voting public, and their working assistants are kids just out of law school who couldn’t connect with an established firm. Not much competition against the talent the syndicates can afford to hire. Hell, there’s hardly a big law firm in the East without one or more syndicate clients.”
“You don’t see their names in the papers. The law firms, I mean.”
“They work those things out over brandy at the club with the guys who own the newspapers,” he said tiredly. “Besides, the prosecutors are so busy grabbing space that when a defense attorney isn’t highlighted, nobody notices. The best people,” he said sourly. “Ah, the hell with them.”
The office door opened, and Lieutenant Morely came in. He nodded at Mary, took off his hat and sat down near Novak. He was shaved, but his eyes were reddened, and his face looked haggard. He said, “Thanks for the tip on Paula Norton. Unfortunately she hasn’t been located yet.” He sat forward and smiled thinly. “You fooled me, boy. I thought you was maybe sweet on her, and here you turned her in like a little soldier.”
“All in the spirit of cooperation.”
Morely leered at him. “I’ll bet. The truth is she probably wouldn’t lay for you, and you got sore.”
Novak’s hand shot out and jerked Morely’s tie forward. “Little plump pal,” he snarled, “who lays for me and who doesn’t isn’t a matter for police speculation.” His fingers released the tie and Morely’s flushed face bobbed up. Novak’s fist tapped Morley’s chin lightly. “The lady checked out. I notified the police as requested. Leave it at that, Lieutenant.”
Morely’s right hand had gone for his belt gun, but it stopped short, the fingers opened and closed stiffly, a nerve fluttered in his mottled face. Slowly the back of his hand ran across his lips, fingers straightened his knotted tie. “Jesus, you take chances,” he said hoarsely. “Last guy who did that ain’t around to tell it.”
“I’m chilled to the bone.” Novak bit off the words. “You were just kidding, and I’m edgy today. Want to write it off?”
Morely was sitting deep in his chair, hands flat on his thighs, eyes staring at Novak. After a while he said, “Hell, I didn’t know you were so touchy.”
Novak got out the box of hotel cigars. Morely took two and stuck them in his coat pocket without looking at them. The color of his face was nearly normal. His voice was still unsteady when he spoke: “We got a call from Mrs. Boyd. All upset and bitter. She wanted someone to come right over and arrest Norton for murdering her husband. By then we’d got your message, and when they told her Norton had checked out she yelled and foamed at the muzzle.”
“What kind of evidence was she suggesting you arrest Norton on?”
“Said she had detective agency reports that they were lovers.” He made a sound of disgust. “If we arrested every dame who was kept by a married guy we’d have jails in every block.” He heaved a long sigh. “I stopped by Bikel’s room before coming here, wanted to get a detailed account of his movements the night Boyd was shot. But he wasn’t around.”
“Maybe Julia could find him.”
“Maybe. And I’d just as soon not be the one to ask her. She treats policemen like wetbacks, and I haven’t slapped a dame in a couple of years. Yeah, Bikel’s an interesting fellow. You said they were planning to kneel at the altar?”
“They’re already bundling.”
Morely’s eyebrows lifted. “How would you know that?”
“They were in pajamas when I went up to her suite this morning.”
Morely chuckled lecherously. “Some guys will do anything for dough. But of course Bikel couldn’t marry her so long as her husband was alive. Yeah,” he said thoughtfully, “I sure want a long interview with Doctor Edward Bikel.”
“Boyd wasn’t the only obstacle.” Novak opened his drawer and took out the newspaper clipping. He reached it over to Morely who read it and handed it back, shaking his head. “An old dame conks out in a fleabag hotel—so what’s that got to do with the business at hand?”
Novak pulled out the dusted telegram and laid it under the desk lamp. Morely got up and peered down at the block letters. Then his face lifted slowly. “What’s the connection?”
“Yesterday I saw a woman answering the newspaper description run from Bikel’s room. I was close enough so that I could hear they’d been having emotional words. When I got the chance I shook down Bikel’s room and pulled this off the top of the telegram pad.”
Morely scanned the message again. “There doesn’t have to be a connection,” he said slowly.
“Checking’s easy. He sent this to a Mrs. Edward Bikel in Chicago at the address given. The message tells her not to come to Washington and spoil everything. It promises he’ll work everything out and be back in a few days.” Novak lighted a cigarette and let smoke drift over the desk. “You could call Chicago and see if Bikel’s wife is at this address, or if not where she’s gone. It’s worth the try, anyway. And there ought to be somebody around the neighborhood who could give you a description of Mrs. Edward Bikel.” He lifted the clipping and let it flutter onto the desk. “If the dead woman and Mrs. Bikel turn out to be the same person, the Doc might have to postpone his wedding.”
“Yeah,” Morely growled, “while we sweat the truth out of the son of a bitch.”
15
Mary had gone home, and except for the light on Novak’s desk the office was dark. The blinds were partly open, showing moving forms hurrying along the sidewalk. Through spaces between people he could glimpse the slow crawl of traffic. The windows were closed and what sounds penetrated were muffled and detached. He had been smoking in the near darkness, isolated and alone, sipping Irish whisky and turning things over in his mind.
In the lobby it was the time after the check-out hour bustle and before the evening business began. The time when the help changed shifts, when the dining room opened and the muted sounds of the string trio drifted through the hotel. No raucous page boy bellowing the name of an out-of-town visitor. No slurred chatter of idle women leaving the cocktail lounge. No slapping of convention hands on convention backs or shouts of merry recognition. No drunks fighting the potted palms. All that came later. For now everything was hushed, suspended. Waiting for the night to come.