His head tilted back, and he stared at the shadowed ceiling. A hotel is like a prison, he thought. The rooms are cells hiding secrets and passions. Then something happens, the smallest thing, and doors fly open. The explosion goes off. Panic. And fragments of truth.
He shook himself, forced his eyes to the empty desk. He began to think about Paula, wondering where she was. He thought of the teletype from the St. Louis house security man and wondered if Pike Hammond had found the trail of Ben Barada. Hammond and the boss who seldom smiled.
He picked up the long steel letter opener, toyed with it. The end stabbed little nicks in the smooth green blotter. He wondered if Morely had found Bikel and what their talk had disclosed. He thought of a horrid old fat woman in a fifth-floor suite and wondered what was on her devious mind.
Stubbing out his cigarette he got up heavily and pulled on his coat. One hand buttoned his collar, slid the tie knot into place. The pint bottle was empty. He dropped it in the wastebasket and heard it bounce against the metal sides. Then he turned off his desk lamp and went out.
A few guests reading newspapers in the lobby. A couple in evening dress left an elevator and strode sedately to the revolving door. Another girl behind the tobacco counter. Sylvia would be home now, fixing dinner for her kid and thinking about things she had to do before eight o’clock. Tough being a divorcée with a kid to care for. Maybe it was tougher staying married to a man who cheated on you or drank too much or couldn’t hold a job. Or beat you up for laughs. Like Ben Barada. I don’t know which is tougher, he said to himself. I’ve got only the male angle, but it’s not always the woman who cops the raw deal.
He walked slowly toward the elevators and the bell captain came over to him. “Bikel hasn’t showed, Pete. Everybody’s got the word. If he comes in we’ll spot him.”
“Thanks, Andy.” He stepped into the open elevator and said, “Five.”
The doors hummed shut, the cage lifted smoothly on its purring cable.
As the doors opened the operator said, “Everything okay, Pete?”
“Everything’s okay.” He walked down the hall and turned into the corridor. There was a light in the service closet, a maid fussing inside. As he walked he could see the luggage dolly leaning where he had left it after transferring Boyd’s corpse. Only two nights ago? It seemed like half a year. His head was buzzing. He stopped, shook himself, walked on. Too much liquor, or not enough sleep. Or the combination. Not young anymore, Novak. Can’t drink like a horse and kick like a mule much longer.
He stopped in front of Bikel’s door, used the passkey and went in. Turning on the light he saw that Bikel’s bag was packed. The bed was smooth. Nothing in the closet. Or in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Seals on all the glasses. Turning off the light he let himself out and locked the door. He thought, I wonder how far you’ll get tonight, Eddie. Then he moved a few doors down the corridor and pressed the button.
It took a long while for her to come to the door and when she did she looked older than he had ever seen her. Even in the dimness of the room her face was pale. A depression on the sofa showed where she had been sitting, staring out of the window at the vanishing light, watching night seep into the room.
One hand touched the hollow of her throat. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I have my rounds to make,” he said, closing the door and walking further into the room. “Like the alley dog and the milkman.”
Her laugh was artificial. “I didn’t know the Tilden provided such personal service.”
Novak sat down and stared up at her. “Relax, Julia,” he said. “We’ve done business together. Before I went home I thought I’d make sure you were satisfied.”
She placed one palm on the table, eased part of her weight onto it. The arm looked as sturdy as a piano leg. “Why...of course I’m satisfied.”
“With the jewelry.”
“Of course,” she snapped. “Why shouldn’t I be?” Her eyes narrowed. “However, since this morning I’ve thought things over, and I’m not at all sure my signing that receipt was a good idea.”
Novak said nothing.
Julia Boyd cleared her throat. “I said I don’t think I was wise to sign that receipt of yours. I was half-asleep, or I’m sure I wouldn’t have.”
Novak placed his fingertips together and shrugged. “Seemed routine to me. If an insurance company had recovered the jewelry you’d have had to sign a receipt.” He squinted up at her. “It was a business transaction, Julia. Jewelry and money changed hands. A receipt was in order.”
Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips quickly and disappeared.
Novak said, “What was it you had in mind?”
Nervously she said, “I’d like to have it back.”
Novak looked down at his hands. “I need it, Mrs. Boyd.”
“Why do you need it?”
“To protect myself.”
She laughed shortly. “From what? Not me, surely?”
His hands spread. “From anything. In case any question should ever arise regarding the disappearance of the jewels and the circumstances surrounding their return.” One of her hands was worrying a pleat in her skirt. He said, “Suppose someone got the idea I wasn’t entirely honest—that I’d stolen the jewelry myself and sold it back to you. It might be a hard thing to make a case against me, but on the other hand, without your receipt I’d have a hell of a time disproving it.” His head moved to one side. “See what I mean? Through you I had early knowledge that the jewels were in the hotel. It could be claimed that I decided to steal them and killed your husband in the process.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Mrs. Boyd. What you ask isn’t possible.” He stood up and moved past her.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for it,” she said quickly.
He halted and stared at her. “It’s worth that much to me.”
“How much?” she yelled.
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you could give me. You’ve got your jewelry, and I’ve got the receipt. That ends the transaction. Sorry I can’t oblige.”
“You son of a bitch,” she snarled.
A crooked grin twisted his mouth. “Yeah, I’m a son of a bitch. I was useful last night when I took that dark walk down the country lane, but I’m a son of a bitch now. Think I don’t know what made the difference?” He walked past her and put his hand on the doorknob. Glancing back he saw her rigid as a pillar of salt. He said, “Bikel ever tell you he was married, Julia? Well, that’s no problem anymore. He’s a widower now.”
A long sigh escaped her lips. One hand was working in the folds of flesh around her throat.
“A pitiful little woman,” he said leadenly. “Pathetic as a frozen sparrow, lying on a cheap bed in a cheap flophouse in a cheap part of town. Not everyone gets to die in the Tilden, Mrs. Boyd. Little people die where they can. When Eddie comes by, ask him what went through his mind when he walked in on her this morning. I’d like to hear it myself—whether he felt a twinge of remorse over what he’s done or whether the only feeling was relief.” His hand opened the door. Julia Boyd had not moved. Novak said, “Yesterday she went to a chapel because that was the only place she could go. By this morning she wasn’t human any longer. Just something for the refuse heap.” He went through the opening and pulled the door shut. Leaning against it he wiped his face slowly. His throat was tight, constricted. He swallowed hard and walked down the corridor.
Whatever Julia Boyd had been thinking before, she had other things to think about now. None of them very pleasant. He stabbed the elevator button and rode down to the lobby.
There was a stir of activity at the reception desk, guests checking in, bellhops scurrying off with baggage, snap of the bell captain’s fingers. The revolving door turning steadily, swallowing, disgorging people. A place to spend the night. A room at the inn.