Novak rasped, “A girl like you—and a bolo like him. Baby, in case you didn’t know it, he was beating you up.”
Her eyes opened and for a brief instant something seemed to cloud their grayness. Then her shoulders slumped. One hand brushed hair back from her forehead. “Maybe I had it coming, Novak. Whatever happened was my affair, not yours. Leave it at that. You’re well out of it. Believe me. Thanks and all that and now get the hell out.”
“Jesus,” Novak exploded, “if he was only playful before, now he’ll be in a mood to twist your neck off.”
The pistol lifted slightly. “You could call him a moody guy,” she said bitterly. “Big Ben Barada. I guess there’s worse.”
Novak moistened dry lips, croaked, “Anything you say, Miss Norton. I’ll be as far away as your phone.”
“Thanks,” she said and made an effort at a smile. “Everything’s under control.”
Novak toed the moving body. “Know him long?” he asked.
Her lips parted for a reedy laugh. “Know him? I was married to him.” Suddenly she turned, her arms folded across her waist and her shoulders began to shake soundlessly. Novak stared at her for a moment, spun around and strode for the door. From the hall he slammed it shut. The things you learn about people. The girl with the Skye terrier packed a chrome-plated .25. Ben Barada—the name meant nothing to Novak. Apparently somewhere it did.
In cold fury he rode the elevator down to the lobby and jogged to his office. From the locked drawer he pulled the Irish and drank two long gulps. Then he put the bottle away and mopped his forehead. The neck of his collar was limp with perspiration. Miss Paula Norton, once Mrs. Ben Barada—whoever the hell he was—taking a working-over from her ex-husband without a squawk. And pulling a gun on her defender. Too screwy to figure. Like the lady said, none of your business, Novak. Relax. Get with it. Develop the long view. Punch the timeclock and wait for retirement to roll around. Don’t mix in other peoples’ brawls. Play it smart. Pick up the hood’s tenner and bow out gracefully like any smart cookie. Pocket hoodlum money and let him spit in your face. Big Ben Barada...
He was starting to turn the dial combination when the office door opened. Whirling, he saw a heavyset man outlined in the dimness. “The office is closed,” he barked.
“Mr. Novak?” the voice inquired. “I’m Chalmers Boyd. You were kind enough to talk with my wife and I’d appreciate a word or two with you.”
Novak ran his finger around the inside of his wet collar. “Have a seat, Mr. Boyd.” He poked the ceiling lamp button and light flared through the office.
The man who walked toward him was two inches shorter than Novak and forty pounds heavier. There was a lodge button in his coat lapel. From pockets in his double-breasted vest swung a thick-linked gold chain. On it hung a small carved ivory ball. Mr. Chalmers Boyd had a slightly receding hairline, teeth the color of dusty ivory and meaty jowls that wobbled as he walked. Settling himself ponderously in the chair, he passed one hand across his forehead and blinked at Novak. “I want this to remain confidential between us,” he said in a deep voice. “Can I have your assurance on that point?”
“Sure,” Novak said. “Unless breaking the law is involved.”
Boyd frowned, then said officiously, “I can assure you that I am not a lawbreaker, Mr. Novak. I am a wealthy man and a man in my position cannot afford to take chances with the law. I’ll have you know that my reputation is spotless.”
“No need to overdo it, Mr. Boyd. I’m only the House Security man and I impress pretty easy,” Novak snapped. He sat down at his desk and lighted a cigarette.
Boyd gazed at him warily, one hand closed and opened and he said, sighing, “Mrs. Boyd is in a delicate nervous condition, Mr. Novak. Brought on, no doubt, by her obesity. Orthodox medicine failed to find a cure so I consented to her consulting Dr. Bikel, whom, I gather, you met. He seems to have found means of checking her recurring hysteria. Whatever my feeling concerning his personality, I must admit that Dr. Bikel has done Julia a world of good.”
Novak blew smoke at the desk lamp. It purpled, faded into gray and drifted away. “Yes,” he said. “When I saw Mrs. Boyd she was as relaxed as a milch cow. And after a ninety-thousand dollar loss.”
Boyd cleared his throat. His eyes flickered and he said, “That’s the point I want to get across. Julia suffers frequent delusions. There was no loss of jewelry. It was never in this hotel.” He coughed nervously. “Tell me, have you reported anything to the police?”
“I was leaving that to Mrs. Boyd—or you.”
A smile grew until it covered Boyd’s face. Like a flash flood over barren desert. Heartily he said, “Then there’s no problem at all.” He stood up and wiped the side of his neck. “I appreciate the tactful way you’ve handled the incident, Mr. Novak, and I’ll be happy to write a letter of appreciation to your superiors.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Novak said dryly. “All I did was not make a phone call.” He stood up and watched Boyd walking toward the door. “If the jewelry never got to Washington, where is it now?”
Chuckling, Boyd turned as he reached for the doorknob. “Where it is always kept, Mr. Novak. In my office safe. In Winnetka, Illinois.”
Then the door opened and Mr. Chalmers Boyd went out. The Big Noise from Winnetka. Novak stepped back, opened a section of the window and sniffed cold night air. For all his money Mr. Chalmers Boyd needed to see a dentist. He had a breath like a polecat.
After a while Novak moved to his file safe and twirled the dial combination. He opened a drawer filled with 3 × 5 cards and thumbed them expertly. When he found the name he was looking for, he pulled the card and studied the typed notations. Then he returned it, locked the safe and walked out.
3
Pausing at the end of the reception counter, Novak beckoned the clerk over. “Percy,” he said, “I checked that 515 complaint and it was baseless. No loss, no robbery. Not even any jewelry. According to Mr. Boyd it’s safe in his office in Winnetka. Just a woman with high blood pressure and occasional delusions. So let’s not be hollering for me every time a waiter loses a napkin, eh, Perce? And another thing. In this business you got to be able to screen a phony from the real article.”
The clerk said nothing.
Novak said, “I’m talking about the herb doctor you booked into 522, Percy.”
The clerk snorted, consulted a registration card and twittered, “Dr. Bikel’s bill is being taken care of by the Boyds. So there.”
Novak’s teeth made a sucking sound. “Sorry, Perce,” he muttered and angled over toward the newsstand. He bought a pack of cigarettes from the cutie behind the counter and lighted one. She laid her arms on the counter and put her weight on them. The strain pushed her breasts up and she gave Novak a thoughtful stare. “Working kind of late tonight, Pete,” she murmured.
“Tonight and every night.”
“My name’s Sylvia, you know.”
“Yep. I got your card on file. Sylvia Riordan. Age: twenty-six, divorced. Got a kid in school. Education: secretarial school. Plays house with a couple of regular customers.”
“Gumshoe,” she hissed. “Remind me to slit your throat some dark night in Lafayette Park.”
“There’s a line of volunteers ahead of you, gorgeous. Anyway, your next night off give me a growl. We could sip a glass of schnapps up at my place. One thing could lead to another.”
“Sorry,” she snapped. “I seem to have lost interest.”
His face looked pained. “Did I say something? About the middle-aged boyfriends? Hell, I’m the last guy in the world to get jealous.”