“Same date.”
Novak fished a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it with one hand and blew smoke at the writing desk. “What’s Boyd in town for?”
“There’s a convention of Building and Loan Association presidents. I’ve seen him wearing a blue badge with his name on it.”
“That’s pretty clever,” Novak conceded. “Mrs. Boyd go out much?”
“I saw her cross the lobby earlier this evening—just before she called about her jewelry. Other than that no.” He tittered. “Must take a power of calories to move bulk like hers.”
“Yeah. And all from raw carrots.” He hung up, wiped his prints from the phone out of habit and crossed to the door. From the hallway no sound. Novak opened the catch and slipped out. At the end of the corridor Anna was gathering things from her wagon and carrying them into an open doorway. When she saw Novak she waved all-clear.
He walked on down the corridor, passed 516, slowed and turned back. Cupping the cigarette in his hand he took a long drag and let the smoke filter out of his nostrils. Maybe Ben Barada was still there, maybe not. Why Big Ben? Hell, he was only five-ten, a hundred sixty. A pushover in a light breeze. Novak’s hand slid up along his tie, adjusted the knot, patted his lapels and settled on the door button. He jabbed it, heard the distant response and waited. No soft footsteps padding toward the door. No lilting female query. Novak poked the button savagely. Still no response.
Stepping back he looked up and down the corridor. Anna was out of sight in the make-up room. Novak pulled the master key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock. Opening it quickly he stepped inside.
The room was lighted. It was also occupied.
Paula Norton was sitting up on the sofa. Light glinted from the chrome-plated gun in her right hand. As Novak elbowed the door shut he heard breath whistle between her teeth. The gun arm dropped listlessly and she lay back. Coolly, she said, “Mandrake the Magician. He goes through doors, walks on ceilings. Now you see him, now you don’t.” One hand fumbled for an ice pack beside her thigh, lifted it against the side of her face. Her eyes closed. “You’re crowding your luck a little, Novak. Anyone but you and I might have pressed the trigger. I’m that jittery tonight.”
“Don’t tell me why,” Novak said and walked toward her. “Let’s keep it a big secret, take our lumps and suffer in silence.” He reached down, picked up the pistol and extracted the magazine. Seven copper-point slugs plus one in the chamber. He slid the magazine back and flicked the safety on. Then he laid the pistol on the coffee table. “You weren’t kidding,” he said thoughtfully.
A short laugh answered him. “The crowd I played with used blanks once a year, Novak—on the Fourth of July.”
“Barada’s crowd?”
One hand shifted the ice pack to the other side of her face. Novak sat down at the end of the sofa and lifted her feet across his lap. He pulled off her slippers and began massaging the arch of one foot.
“Hey,” she called, “that tickles, you oaf.”
Novak grinned. “Endure it, beautiful. It’s a great relaxer. A hockey trainer taught me about feet.” His strong fingers kept up a regular pulsating pressure and when he felt the tenseness leave her leg he shifted to the other foot.
After a while Paula said, “Okay, coach, why the subtle entrance with the master key?”
Novak shrugged. “Last time I came in you were on the floor. I wondered where you’d be this time.”
“With my face the way it is, you knew I’d be here.”
“Yeah. But alive or dead—that was the question.”
She turned on one side, facing the back of the sofa. “You came at a good time at that,” she said huskily. “God knows what he’d have done if you hadn’t come when you did.”
Novak slid the slippers back on her feet and straightened the crease in his trousers. “By then you’d taken your beating,” he said. “Why stop me from slapping him around a little?”
“Maybe I found myself liking you. Guys who slap Ben Barada around don’t live long enough to tell the story in the corner saloon.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Barada copped five spaces at Joliet. The right contacts got him out early on clemency and a floating parole. Armed robbery.”
“Ben’s a gambler,” she said tunelessly. “He drifted into a brace game in Moline, it was a packed deal. Afterward Ben came back for his money. Someone called the cops.” She turned around and sat up. “I thought you never heard of Ben.”
“I’ve done some research, sweetheart, but there wasn’t anything on you. Want to tell me?”
She looked at him for a long time. Then she said, “What for, Novak? I’m checking out tomorrow. You’ll never see me again.”
“Friends call me Pete,” he said cheerfully. “Let’s say it’s for the record—my files. The story of Mrs. Ben Barada.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “It’s a lonely life around the Tilden. Other guys with a wife and a TV set go home. Me—I got my files. For those long winter nights.”
She gave him a thin smile. “We were married—you know that. I was a hoofer doing a specialty in a Jackson Park spot when I met Ben. We got along pretty good—he shaved anyway, and he dressed well. I guess I don’t have to tell you what the hoofer’s grind is like, doing the four-and-dirty bit. Sure, my legs don’t look too much like tree stumps and I’ve got a good body but so have ten thousand other shuckers. And no Hollywood agent ever propositioned me.” She breathed deeply. “Ben did. And he added a ring.” One hand opened slowly. “We made out for a while, then he got sent to Joliet for five years.” She leaned forward. “In Illinois a felony sentence is grounds for divorce. I waited a year, two years. Then I met a man. He took me out, sent expensive presents, but that was all. Finally he hired a lawyer and arranged the divorce.”
One hand lifted, her teeth sank into a knuckle. “I didn’t know Ben would get clemency. Three months ago he walked out. By then I’d had enough of the other guy, but Ben heard about him.”
“So he came here to beat you up.”
“Ben wanted a stake,” she said dully. “He figured I’d saved a pile from...from the guy. Well, I hadn’t. Life’s short, Pete. Why stick your green in a clay pig and watch life slip by?” One hand ran through her ash blonde hair. “I’ve got an apartment in Chicago, a car and the clothes on my back. Nothing more.”
Novak reached up and covered her right hand. It felt smooth and cool against his palm. “I don’t much care for the divorce part,” he said quietly, “but twisting your arm for money is worse. What made him think you had any?”
“I told him so. I told him I was collecting it here. In Washington.”
“Have you?”
“Not yet.” Her hand drew away from his. “If you didn’t like the other part, you’ll like this even less: I’m here for a shakedown, Novak. I’ve got something a guy wants. Something he has to pay for. A hunk of dough.” Her eyes found his and her chin lifted aggressively.
“How much?” Novak asked.
“Ninety grand.”
4
“Ninety grand,” Novak murmured and got up. From his coat he pulled a fresh cigarette, offered it to her. She shook her head.
Novak lighted the cigarette, dropped the lighter into his pocket. “That ought to keep Ben Barada in green baize for quite a while.”
Her eyes lifted slowly. “You don’t know Ben. All right, you’ve heard the Norton story. You asked for it. Any comment?”
Novak peered around the room. “Any whisky handy?”
“There’s a pint in the bedroom.”
He walked away from her, turned on the bedroom light and carried the pint into the bathroom. He broke the seals on two glasses, poured amber fluid into them and added ice cold water from the tap. He carried the drinks back to the sofa and handed one to her.