known about Paula and her hubby. That was a small item Morely had neglected to pass along. Already Paula was under a degree of suspicion.
Paula thought she had the jewelry safely hidden, then found out it was missing. Maybe Boyd had waited until Paula went out, opened her door somehow and searched for the jewelry. Maybe he had found it, then later got himself killed. For what? For the jewels? Or maybe the murder of Boyd and the theft of the jewels were two unrelated happenings. Barada had been in a wild mood last night. He had plenty of reason to resent Boyd. Suppose he came back for another chat with Paula and found Boyd there, with or without Paula. Maybe Barada had pulled a gun and shaken down Boyd for the ninety grand payoff money, drilled him and waltzed away with the jewels to boot.
So far he had been accepting Paula’s version as close to the truth. Of what other things she might be guilty he didn’t care. He had believed her last night, believed her enough to move the corpse from its compromising location. But Julia Boyd had pushed her into a hot skillet anyway. Before Morely did anything he would take a hard look at the evidence, at where the threads wound. Then, if he were convinced, he would move in ruthlessly.
“What if she killed him?” he said half-aloud, and thought, how far would you go to save her?
Not a centimeter, a voice said coldly. Then another voice: You’d want to find out why she did it. Then make up your mind.
“Yeah,” he said to the empty hall. “That’s what you’d do.”
Back in his office Novak phoned the Credit Central and asked for traces on Bikel. Lighting a cigarette he stared through the Venetian blinds at the sunny street. Whir of traffic, click of heels, chatter of voices. The outside world.
A grand from Julia Boyd to get back jewelry from Paula Norton who no longer had it. Who, then? The murderer, probably, but no long odds on that, either. Or had Paula staged a little act for his benefit? In the normal course of events Boyd would have gone to her room with the payoff money and walked out with the jewelry. Suppose he had gone there and tried to strong-arm the jewels from Paula. Novak could see her shooting Boyd, hiding the gun and the jewels and phoning him. Hell, he should have searched Boyd’s body when he had the chance. For jewels or money or both. Now it was too late.
He dialed Paula’s room, heard the phone buzz a dozen times and hung up.
Mary carried over some morning registrations that had been credit-checked. Novak initialed them and dropped them in his OUT box. A new day at the Tilden. New faces, new names. Traveling men, lobbyists, grifters, old folks seeing the Nation’s Capital. A city of overnight guests. The largest floating population in the country. A city of parks and highways and museums. With marble and granite buildings that looked as hospitable as a county jail.
The phone rang. Mary answered and buzzed Novak.
The caller was Lieutenant Morely. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said in a voice frayed with fatigue. “We scooped a sample of the widow’s sleepy tonic. Whattaya know—under the cherry flavor it’s loaded with mescaline. No wonder fatty gets hallucinations. I guess we wouldn’t have to look far to find the source of supply.”
“No,” Novak said. “About as far as the luggage of a certain nature doctor. You figure she was asleep last night when the shooting took place?”
“Well, the syrup’s got a high enough percentage to make her crazy as a dancing bear. Of course, we don’t know when Boyd caught his bullet or when Mrs. Boyd went to bed. Or whether she really took that syrup last night. Or—if she did, how much?”
Novak said, “Bikel’s from near the Mex border where the Indians brew mescaline from peyote buttons. For the Rain Dance or whatever the hell they celebrate these days. Picking him up?”
“Not just yet. Any sign of either one checking out, let me know. I’m going home to grab me some shut-eye but the desk can reach me.”
“Will do,” Novak said. “Any other leads?”
“Yeah, that hood Barada’s wife is a guest at the Tilden. A looker. Signed in as Miss Norton.”
Novak’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “You don’t say.”
Morely yawned. “There was something steamy between her and the dear departed. With Barada around, looks like it could have been the badger game. Work hard, pal.”
The phone went dead.
Novak replaced the receiver and wiped his palms on his thighs. Morely had worked fast. He had Bikel where he could squeeze him if the need arose. Even homebrew mescaline was on the list of controlled narcotics.
He thought about visiting Paula’s room and shaking it down. But if she had a second gun it was gone by now. The same with any jewelry. Too late for that now. Hours too late.
As he passed Mary’s desk he said, “If Connery wants me I’m following up a request by Mrs. Boyd. Be back in an hour.”
Walking across the lobby he signaled Jimmy Grant and said, “If you see Miss Norton come back, make a note of the time and leave it on my desk.”
“Sure, Pete.” His face was mystified. “Worried about a skip?”
“That would be the least of my worries,” he muttered, and went out to the street.
The air was as crisp and cool as mountain mint. Novak gulped it down, tossed away his cigarette and bought a morning paper. The Boyd death was a page 18 paragraph. No details were given and the Tilden was described only as a downtown hotel. He folded the newspaper and dropped it in the corner trash basket. Another block and the cement and glass brick front of Robinson’s Veterinary Hospital. The reception girl went through an inner door and Novak could hear the yapping of assorted pets. The door closed. After a while Doc Robinson came out wearing a white hospital gown.
Novak said, “I sent you a client last night, Doc. A little toy Skye terrier.”
Robinson pulled off rubber gloves, wiped his rimless glasses and consulted a register. “Named Toby,” he said.
“His mistress got worried about him last night and came down here. Would you have a record of the time?”
“We admitted an Angora kitten and a Dalmatian last night but no visitors came by.”
“You were here how long?”
The vet frowned. “Oh, maybe eleven-thirty.”
“And Miss Norton—the Skye’s owner—didn’t stop by?”
“Not according to my records. She didn’t mention it when she came here a little while ago, either.”
“Oh?”
“She collected her pup and took him out for a stroll. Hasn’t returned yet.”
“Any ideas where she might have gone?”
“I suggested Farragut Park.”
“Thanks, Doc.”
“No trouble, Pete.”
The door opened and a woman entered, tugging at a boxer on a heavy chain. “Well, well,” the vet said in a cheery professional voice, “What seems to be the trouble today, Mrs. Tannenbaum?”
Novak eased himself out of the closing door. Setting his teeth he strode toward Farragut Square.
She was there, all right, hatless and in her mink coat, sitting on a park bench. The Skye was chasing pigeons nearby. Her head was tilted back and her eyes were closed. As Novak sat down beside her the Skye yapped protectively. He said, “Got a light, lady?”
“Dust, buster,” she said coldly, then opened her eyes. “You!” she said with a little gasp. “One thing about this town—half the men are on the make.”
“Any town.” Novak lighted a cigarette and gave it to her.
“Is this a chance encounter or were you looking for me?”
“A little of each. You said you went out to the vet’s last night.”
“I did.”
“Doc Robinson says you didn’t.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I said I went out to see Toby. I didn’t say I’d seen him. When I got to the hospital there was an awful fuss going on. An animal yapping and the owners carrying on. So I didn’t go in. I just walked around for a while and went back to my room. Anything else?”
