her bare feet. A heavy cotton brassiere showed through the lacy white blouse. “Well,” she demanded, “did you get it from her?”
Novak shook out a cigarette and lighted it. “Not yet,” he said slowly. “She was out all morning, just got back a little while ago. I moved in on her then.” He smiled wolfishly. “A hard baby,” he purred. “Took plenty of punishment.”
Julia Boyd’s face broke into a lustful smile. “You really beat her up, huh?”
“She’s huddled up on the sofa sobbing like a baby.” He blew smoke at the chandelier. “Look, Mrs. Boyd— Julia, I mean—I don’t think she has the stuff. Either that or she’s the toughest pigeon I ever pummeled.”
“Nonsense. You can’t handle her kind with velvet gloves. She’s tough, all right—tough enough to kill my husband. Now go back there and get my jewelry.”
Novak let himself down on the sofa and stared up at her. “Her ex-husband is in town—Ben Barada. That mean anything to you?”
“It means you’ll have to work fast.”
He shook his head slowly. “Barada’s a factor we ought to consider. He’s not long out of Joliet, and broke, the way she tells it. I figure he followed her here, latched onto the jewelry and blew town. Maybe he killed your husband in the process.”
Her eyes were slits in an unbaked pie. “You gone soft on her?” she hissed.
“No, ma’am. I’m trying to find a logical answer—and your jewelry. Shoving her around didn’t get us anywhere. Maybe there’s another way.” He let his voice trail off doubtfully.
“What?”
“Tell the police about Barada, let them haul him in and squeeze out what they can.”
Her face seemed in deep thought. Finally she said, “No. I don’t want that.”
“Don’t you want your husband’s murderer caught?”
“I mainly want my jewelry back before she has a chance to cash it in and hire defense attorneys with my money.”
Novak leaned back and gazed up at the cool green ceiling. “I don’t think they’ll arrest her,” he said thoughtfully. “The body was found here and there’s nothing to suggest she was ever in here, and logic’s against your husband inviting her in. Alive he was a heavy man; dead he would be even heavier. Think a jury would believe a girl as slight as Paula could wrestle his dead weight through two doors and onto this sofa?”
Her face was the color of a ripe grape. “You fool,” she wheezed, “I tell you that woman killed my husband. I insist you search her rooms and baggage. The evidence is there. It must be. That’s not much to do for a thousand dollars.”
Novak stood up. “Suppose I told you I’d searched her room and her bags—and found nothing.”
Julia Boyd swore. “She’s bought you off, that’s what’s happened. Damn, who can a helpless widow turn to?”
“Ed Bikel,” Novak said. “He’s about the size and build for a prowl job. And he can probably pick a lock as good as the next follow. Sorry we didn’t make out as a team, Mrs. Boyd, but all this has been pretty far out of my usual line. You’re a sturdy figure of a woman. Why not charge over there and take up where I left off?”
“You’re walking out on me?”
“Guess so.” He moved toward the doorway. “Oh, one thing, Mrs. Boyd. If you didn’t know it before, that pink mixture Bikel doses you with is loaded with mescaline. Nightmare juice. No wonder you’ve been getting hallucinations. That’s what the stuff’s for.”
“Mesca...mesca—
“Mescaline. Where the Doc comes from, the Indians make a brew of buds from a special cactus plant. That’s how they do those crazy stunts with snakes and hot coals. Their medicine men take it for visions. It stops time, turns the world green, purple and gold. Dangerous stuff, Mrs. Boyd—in non-professional hands. Now might be the time to change to something milder.”
One hand clawed a roll of fat around her throat.
“The Doc’s hanging by a thread. The law around here is all federal, and even possession is a crime. You might mention that to him the next time he ambles up with a teaspoon.”
Opening the door he went out.
His hands felt clammy but his face wore a smile. As he walked along the corridor he saw Bikel’s door jerk open. Novak stopped, half-turned and fussed with his cigarette. The sound of angry voices reached along the corridor. A door slammed and Novak turned.
Someone was running toward the elevators.
Novak jogged, slowed and saw a woman pressing the DOWN button. As he strolled quietly toward her he heard a sound of sniffling, saw her fumble a handkerchief from her purse, dry her eyes and blow her nose. She was breathing in quick gasps. A little birdlike woman in an old blue rayon dress, a black straw hat with a half-veil and scuffed black walking shoes. The elevator door opened and they entered together. Her shoulders moved jerkily and she kept her face covered with the handkerchief. Once he thought he heard a stifled moan, but it could have been only a strain on the elevator cable.
When the doors slid apart she straightened and buried the handkerchief in her purse. Her thin lips were almost colorless but her cheeks were flushed. Gray streaks threaded her hair. The skin of her hands was roughened, the knuckles large. A woman who was no stranger to hard labor. As she left the elevator Novak followed her through the lobby and out to the street. She hesitated for a moment, then turned and walked up Seventeenth Street.
Novak expected her to hail a taxi or head for a streetcar stop but she crossed the intersection with quick, determined steps and Novak followed. The light held him and when he could cross she was nearly a block away. At Rhode Island she turned left and scurried around to the side door of a brownstone Gothic church. When Novak reached the door he saw a legend above it in old English script:
He felt sorry for the little woman. There had been strong, bitter words between her and Bikel and now she was in the chapel seeking consolation and strength. As he thought about her kneeling in the dimness, he felt a surge of dislike toward Bikel. That smug fraud. What right did he have to bring unhappiness to anyone? Novak weighed going in and talking to her, but being approached by a stranger might upset her even more.
Moodily he walked back to the Tilden.
The Cuban challenger sported a cut right eye and a bloody ear. The Negro danced around him, grinning and worrying his face. The Cuban’s legs got wobbly. He threw a wild left at the Negro, missed and staggered against the ropes. As he bounced off, the Champ primed him with a short right to the chin. A stiff left doubled the Cuban and a right cross tumbled him. He rolled over, got one elbow on the canvas and conked out. The referee jumped into the ring and grabbed the Negro’s arm. The Champ was still Champ. On a TKO. Novak got out of his chair, turned off the TV and lighted a table lamp. The fights were getting worse every year. What with the tax bite, the incentive was dropping away. The Champ made most of his dough from Harlem and Detroit real estate, not fighting. And a chain of soft drink stands. Not that you ever found the Champ in one. He was off sipping tall cool ones in the better cabarets and sobering up in Turkish baths. But even on skis the Champ could have atomized the Cuban.
Novak built himself a short drink in the kitchenette and carried it back to his living room. Not even eleven yet; the waltz had lasted only five rounds of the scheduled fifteen.
Novak sipped his drink and yawned.
The phone rang jarringly. Novak got up and answered.
The voice said, “Morely. You doing anything special?”
“Fighting off boredom.”
“Good. I’m not too far away. I’ll drop by.” The line clicked off. Novak went into his kitchenette, set a globe of coffee water on the electric range. He measured coffee carefully into a filter cone and assembled the apparatus. By the time he had finished, the door buzzer was sounding. He pressed the lock-release button for the alley door and Morely’s footsteps trudged upward.
He was clean-shaven and his suit had been pressed within the month. He dropped his hat on a chair and rubbed his hands together. “Not a bad set-up you got here.”
“It’s cheap, anyway. Coffee’s making.”
