across the desk to Morely. “Too many straw bosses.”
“Yeah,” Morely grunted, selecting two cigars. He stowed one in his upper coat pocket, slicked cellophane from the other with a broad thumbnail, bit off the end and lighted up. He straightened his legs and eased back into the chair. A gust of blue smoke issued from his mouth.
Novak said, “How’s the widow taking it?”
“The way a fat woman takes anything. Her story is she took some sleep syrup last night and turned in. Next thing she heard was the maid screaming. Boyd was supposed to have been at a convention banquet downstairs from eight-thirty on. But so far nobody remembers seeing him.” He made a sour face. “Three hundred half-soused loan sharks scooping up filet mignon and French fries wouldn’t notice a Cape Buffalo charging down the table. Much less a missing colleague.” He stared down at his scuffed shoes. “We ought to be getting stuff on Boyd from Winnetka sometime today. The way the fat lady talked he pulled his share of weight around there.” Squinting at Novak he muttered, “That guy Bikel’s a weirdie. Another ten minutes and he’d have had me on a diet of stewed acorns and papaya seeds. Calls himself a doctor.”
“A much-abused title,” Novak said. “When I was a freshman I called a professor Professor. He got pretty mad—told me the only professors he knew about were musicians, acrobats and mountebanks. So I called him Doctor after that. Brickyard Charley Bates, the campus rock king.”
Morely drew the cigar from his lips, patted a wrapper leaf into place and shrugged. “Know anything about Boyd I’m not likely to?”
“Well, the Boyds checked in three days ago bringing Bikel as a retainer. Then last evening the lady reported a quantity of jewels missing. Insured value ninety gees. I told her to report it to the Theft Squad.”
Morely’s eyebrows lifted. “Did she?”
“Not as far as I know. Her late husband hurried down here to explain the whole thing as a big mistake; wife subject to hysterical delusions. He credited Bikel with having had some success in treating her.”
“What about the dazzlers?”
“Locked in his office safe in Winnetka.”
Morely drew a frayed brown notebook from his coat, made a brief note and put it away. “We can check that when the safe’s opened by the state tax people. Sounds interesting. Anything else?”
“Nothing relating to Boyd’s death.”
Morely shifted his weight, scratched his right ankle and stared at Novak. “Give, buddy,” he snapped.
Novak sighed. “When I was leaving Mrs. Boyd last night I ran into a Chicago gambler—Ben Barada. The Tilden’s conservative about floating dice games so I booted him out. Ben didn’t like it. Not at all. In fact he later sent around a pair of punks to work me over. They jumped me in the alley and got the point across. I’ve got a scab on my scalp and my chest looks like a bad job of tattooing.”
Morely grunted. “Making a complaint?”
Novak shook his head. “I’ll settle with Barada—if we ever meet again.”
Morely’s mouth made a thoughtful sucking sound. “There wasn’t any gun, Pat. That’s what I don’t like. Not even an ejected shell. Nothing to show Boyd was killed where he was found. Close to a contact wound, by the singed cloth and only internal bleeding. Heart penetration. The ME says he must have dropped like an elephant. Because of the warm room the ME can’t fix death within three hours.” He shook his head disgustedly. “Any time from eight last night until five this morning. That’s what I got to work with.” He stood up. “Oh, yeah. One of Boyd’s business partners is a Congressman—Representative Barjansky. So I can expect federal pressure on this one.” His fingers rotated the cigar between his lips. “Naturally I’d appreciate any help you can manage.”
Novak stood up. “You know Tilden policy—complete cooperation with law enforcement authorities.”
Morely’s eyes regarded him humorously. “Except when we find a nest of hustlers operating in one of your fancy suites. Then cooperation’s the last thing we get.”
“We’ve got three hundred and forty rooms here. I can’t shake down every one on the hour. Hell, this is a city within a city.”
“Keep it clean,” Morely murmured, and went out of the office.
Novak waited until the door closed and then he blotted his forehead with a handkerchief. Morely was an old- school cop, not one of the bright young crimelab detectives. He hoped he had said enough to satisfy Morely. And if Morely stumbled onto Paula later he couldn’t accuse Novak of not mentioning the Barada run-in.
Mary got up from her desk and brought over a typed letter. Novak signed it standing. “Seal the package with red wax,” he told her. “Send the envelope registered, insured, return receipt requested. Just in case the blonde’s left Cleveland by now.”
Mary nodded. “A shame you don’t get a reward, Pete.”
“Well, I get the inner satisfaction of a job well done.”
“There’s always that.” She went to the safe, took out the jewels he had recovered from Murky’s room and carried the letter and the envelope to her desk. Novak went into the coffee shop and sat down at the counter. The waitress had a starched cap perched above her auburn hair, hazel eyes and a turned-up freckled nose. “Well, well,” she said, polishing the counter in front of Novak. “God’s gift to the weaker sex.”
“Middle-aged members only,” Novak bantered. “Coffee, Jerry. Hot and black as sin.”
“And sweet as secret seduction?” She turned around, drew a cup and put it in front of him.
Novak grinned. “Young love. It’s been years since I even thought of it. How’s art school, kid?”
“Fashion design,” she corrected. “Pretty good. One more term and Manhattan, here I come. And will I be glad—no more dirty plates and tarnished dimes.”
Novak sipped the coffee. It was hot enough, but weak. He told her so. “Argue with the management,” she said saucily. “Or take up Postum and mix your own.”
“I might at that. Haven’t been sleeping too well.”
“Couldn’t guess why,” she said wickedly. “You and that young-old face of yours. That’s something I’ll miss on the Big Island.”
Novak shook sugar into the cup and stirred lightly. “Sounds like pillowtalk, redhead.”
“Not to me it doesn’t. I’m holding out for a ring.”
“The lonely crowd,” Novak sighed. “Just pass me the check.”
She made a mock-mad face. “Just try and get one.” Then she flounced off to another customer.
A good kid, Jerry. Looks, spirit and maybe even talent. She might just make a go of it in New York. In one of those houses featuring fruity young men in pipestem velvet and skullfaced women with voices like stevedores. At least she was making her try. And on her own.
Jimmy Grant was patting his sleeve. “Pete, front office wants you. Right away.”
“What’s the beef?”
“The dead guy, I guess. Mr. Boyd—the one who got murdered last night.”
Novak slid off the stool. “Murder, was it? Is Mr. Connery all nervous and upset-like?”
“They oughta diaper him today.”
Novak chuckled, pushed through louvered walnut doors and crossed the lobby to the Assistant Manager’s office.
Ralph Connery was in his late forties, a neat dresser with thin fingers and lips. Hairline deeply scalloped and a narrow bony nose that gave his voice a nasal quality. He was wearing a heather herringbone suit and a tab collar shirt and his eyes looked desperate.
“Where the hell have you been, Novak?”
“Out milking the pigeons.”
Lips drew back showing brittle white teeth. “That’s a wisecrack, I suppose. Well, we don’t pay you for vaudeville chatter, as you’ve been told before.”
Novak leaned forward slowly. “Hold down the aggressive impulses, Ralph,” he said softly. “Where I’ve been is in my office listening to Detective Lieutenant Morely describe the morning’s unpleasant discovery.”
Connery’s eyes shifted. “You weren’t around,” he complained. “I had to handle the police myself.”
“Nobody notified me. And the police don’t take much handling. They know their business. They get a pretty steady workout on DOA’s.”
“Even so,” Connery muttered, “it was damned unpleasant. I understand you know Mrs. Boyd—the widow.”
“Met her last night. Lost and found matter.”
