“Put aside the hop,” Novak said. “Even if anyone was interested, who the hell could raise five gees at midnight? The stuff’s insured. Get yourself a better deal with the company—Midland. In Chicago. They’ll jump at the chance.”
“Naw,” the voice came back. “Long-distance calls are bad news anywhere. That makes it interstate and something for the G-boys.”
“Maybe there’s a local rep. Check the yellow pages and give them a buzz tomorrow.”
“No interest, Novak?”
“A bare thimbleful.”
Silence, while the line hummed indifferently.
“Make it three gees, then. And tonight.”
“Look,” Novak snarled, “I’m not in the old gold business, and I don’t keep three, four thousand dollars in my sugar jar. If you made it five yards the answer’d still be no sale. I’ll contact the party tomorrow, or if you’re in a hurry, call her tonight. All she has to do is write a check. The hotel’ll cash it.”
“There’s an idea,” the voice mused. “Only suppose Fat Fanny rings the law?”
“That’s the chance you take. And not a small one. If the stuff’s too hot, mail it to the cops. Your problems couldn’t interest me less.”
The voice grew more urgent. “One grand, Novak. Last chance.”
“For what?” he sneered. “Glory for old Pete Novak! No dice, pal. Fumble the merchandise yourself.” He hung up, draped his legs over the side of the bed and lighted a cigarette. He could call Julia Boyd and tell her about the offer, or he could forget it. He could call Morely for the same reason, but Morely had only a secondary interest in the jewelry, and the chances were against its recovery providing any clues to the murderer.
That revived the question of whether the murderer and the theft were directly related. It was reasonable to assume that they were, but jewel thieves rarely drew blood. Of course the jewels could have come as a windfall after Boyd had been murdered. The caller didn’t even have to be the original thief. He could have been a stage-one fence panicking on learning the murder connection.
Novak ran one hand through his hair, knocked ash into a tray and dialed the Tilden. He asked for Paula’s room and waited until the operator had rung eight times. Then he hung up. Out on a midnight stroll, probably, or in a saloon huddle with her ex-husband.
He thought again about calling Morely and discarded the idea. Morely would have other things on his mind tonight. It was something to mention the next time they got together.
Beside him the telephone sounded. Automatically he reached for it and heard the voice of Julia Boyd.
She said, “I have just received a very interesting telephone call. And I was given to understand that the caller had phoned you as well.”
“Possibly,” Novak said. “What was the subject?”
“Stolen jewelry. The man said he had offered them to you for a price—a very low price—and that you had declined to become involved.”
“That’s an accurate summary,” Novak said. “Anything else, Mrs. Boyd? These are the hours I try to dedicate to rest and freedom from worry. I told the man to get in touch with your insurance company, the police, or you.”
“Novak, I want that jewelry back. I’ll pay for it.”
“How much?”
“Very little really. One thousand dollars. I have the sum in my room. But in my state of health I obviously am in no condition to venture out at night and deal with jewel robbers.”
“And murderers.”
“Oh? Yes. Of course there’s that possibility.”
Novak laughed shortly. “I like the casual way you finessed that, Mrs. Boyd. Yes, there’s always that possibility, isn’t there? I suppose you want your gems back and to hell with Chalmers’s murderer.”
Her voice grew frosty. “You know my attitude toward Chalmers. He died painlessly, if I am to believe the police physician. Who killed him is a matter for the police to discover.”
“Quite. Although you harbor your own suspicions.”
“Indeed I do,” she snapped. “I’m a stranger in this city. I know no one I can trust. That is why I am calling you. I have agreed to pay one thousand dollars for the return of my jewelry tonight. What is needed is a man to make contact with whoever has it, pay him and bring the jewelry to me.”
“Tell the Doc. He’s a good dark-alley type, and you seem to trust him.”
“Doctor Bikel is not in his room,” she said sharply; “therefore I am willing to pay you the sum I originally promised you for the return of the jewelry. One thousand dollars.”
“We seem to get back to that same round figure. We keep batting it back and forth, and I haven’t yet seen even a glimmer of green. A grand for me for running a simple errand? You wouldn’t mind if I brought in a little police assistance, would you?”
“You can’t,” she protested. “That was part of the bargain.”
“And you feel bound to treat thieves honorably.”
“Listen, Novak, my ethics aren’t under examination. I’ve got a job for you. It might take two hours of your time. In return I’m willing to pay you a thousand dollars.”
“Cash,” he said. “I get awfully weary of endorsing large checks.”
“Very likely,” she said coldly. “The instructions are for you to proceed to the corner of Connecticut Avenue and Bradley Lane—wherever that may be—leave your car there, and walk down Bradley Lane until contact is made.”
“Yeah. One if by land and two if by sea. That’s a pretty dark and deserted part of town this time of night.”
“I didn’t think you were short on courage.”
“It comes and goes. Like a phony Harvard accent. What hour was mentioned, if I’m not too inquisitive?”
“Two o’clock.”
“And the payoff money?”
“I’ll seal it in an envelope and have it left at the desk for you. You can pick it up on your way out. I expect you to follow instructions implicitly and provoke no difficulties.”
“Suppose they lift your money and neglect to give me anything in return?”
“It’s a chance I’m willing to take. There isn’t much time left. You may bring the jewelry to me in the morning. After nine o’clock.” The line went dead, and Novak replaced the receiver slowly.
He thought for a while and then he dialed Police Headquarters and asked for Morely. The Lieutenant was out, the desk man told him. No telling when he’d get back. Where he was was police business. Novak left his name and hung up.
From a bureau drawer he took Paula Norton’s chrome-plated pistol and slid it into his right hip pocket. Then he fitted on his holster rig, spun the cylinder of his .38 and stuck it loosely in the holster.
When he had laced his shoes he pulled on a coat, got his hat and walked down the dark staircase to the alley.
The envelope had been at the desk as Julia Boyd had said. Now it was in his right inside coat pocket. When he moved the steering wheel his arm brushed the envelope’s slight bulge, reminding him of what lay ahead.
Connecticut Avenue traffic was scanty. A few cruising taxis, late trolleys rattling down the rails, and tourist cars with out-of-town licenses groping toward the center of the District. The black asphalt was slick with night dew, and he had to use the windshield wiper to clear off moisture.
Not a night to take long walks in the dark. He could have used some support from Morely, but the dice had rolled the other way. He wondered where Paula was. And Doc Bikel.
Chevy Chase Circle, with the bus station and the Chinese restaurant on the left. Now dark and inhospitable. Out of the District and into Maryland. Maryland, My Maryland. Let all the swains adore thee. Shoot if you must this old gray head, but spare your country’s flag, she said. A highly unlikely incident. Eat Barbara Frietchie Bagels, Pretzels, Marmalade, and Crab-burgers. Someone was coining dough off her old gray heroic head. American Enterprise.
Less than a mile to go. Not more. And no cars in a long time. Only lighted diners and beer taverns and shy on
