disarranged dress, a pair of shoes and some cheap stockings and underwear. Nothing more.
Novak went back to the bed, pulled down the covers and stared at the body’s left hand. The third finger held a plain gold wedding band, not new. He rearranged the covers and stared around the room. Yesterday the little woman had carried a handbag. Now there was no trace of it. The bag would have held cards, a driver’s license, perhaps, or a Social Security card. Without them there was no easy way of identifying her.
Turning off the wall light he felt death hovering close, like a smothering fog. He went out of the doorway leaving the door as he had found it, walked quietly along the hall and down the stairway.
The old man was sitting in a rocker, eyes closed, chin on his chest, sleeping the shallow sleep of the very old.
Novak went behind the counter and opened the thick registration ledger. The cover was bound in frayed blue buckram, corners worn down to the original cardboard. Novak thumbed the wide pages until he found a place where a page had been torn out. The registrations ended the month before. Closing the book he moved softly to the door, opened it carefully and went out to the porch. Bikel hadn’t missed a trick. He’d taken the handbag and the identifying registration as well.
Novak’s throat was tight, constricted. He moistened his lips and gulped a deep breath as the steps creaked under his weight. Then down the uneven walk, past patches of starving grass and out to the street. He walked south as far as a sagging grocery store and stepped into a phone booth. The tattered directory gave him Police Headquarters, and when the duty sergeant answered Novak said, “First Street, the Jensen Hotel. Room Four.”
“Yeah? What’s your name? And what’s in the room?”
“A corpse,” Novak rasped and hung up.
Near Armstrong Tech there was a cab stand. Novak got into one and rode back to the hotel.
From the house phone he called Bikel’s room, let the phone ring a long time and hung up. Then he went into his office. His secretary was at the file safe checking names. Novak slid behind his desk, turned on the lamp and opened the center drawer. He laid the telegram blank on the blotter and got out the bottle of graphite powder and a small camel’s hair brush. Working carefully he distributed the fine black powder over the surface of the blank, brushed gently and blew away the surplus. Where there had been nothing but blank impressions, block letters had formed. Most of the message was legible, including the address.
Mary was looking over his shoulder. “Reading other people’s mail?”
“I had to.” He slid the developed message into his desk drawer and locked it. Mary said, “Must be important.”
“Evidence.” He reached into a lower drawer, felt for the bottle and set it on the blotter. Unscrewing the cap he lifted the bottle and let a good two ounces wash down his gullet. Then he capped the pint and put it back in the drawer. Mary said, “I don’t see how you can drink it like that—without water or ice or anything.”
“You get used to it.”
She snorted disapprovingly and went back to the card files.
Novak loosened his collar, stared around the room. It was clean at least, and reasonably comfortable. Not like the flophouse where the little woman had gasped out her life. Closing his eyes he saw again the speckles of light across the rumpled bed, the hook of her hand, the spittle-covered blue lips and the empty brown bottle. He rubbed the edge of one hand over his eyelids and opened them. It was a scene to forget, not one to engrave in your memory. He shivered, reached for the box of goodwill cigars and bit the end from one. The door opened, and Connery came into the office. He walked rapidly to Novak’s desk and sat down opposite him. He pushed a banquet plan across the desk, and then his nostrils quivered. He sniffed, and his lips pursed. “You’ve got a whisky breath,” he said accusingly.
Novak lighted the cigar, drew in and blew smoke across the desk. Connery coughed and drew back. Novak smiled winningly. “What’ll we do about it, Ralph? Give me the balloon test?”
Connery jumped up, fanning cigar smoke aside. “A roughneck like you has no place in a refined hotel like this,” he shouted. “I’m going to take it up with the Manager.”
Novak smiled. “Okay. But the Manager knows damn well I’ve saved his job on at least two occasions. Now what about the banquet?”
Connery whirled and darted out of the office. As the door closed Mary turned and said, “I’d hate to lose you as a boss, Pete. Can’t you go easy on Connery? Or was it true what you said about the Manager?”
“Not entirely,” Novak said calmly. “Last year he had a floozy stashed away in a room on the sixth floor, and the hotel wasn’t collecting any rent. We had a quiet talk, and the lady agreed to move out of the low-rent district. So don’t worry about Connery busting my corset stays. When I quit it’ll be because I’m sick of the place.”
Jimmy Grant hustled in, glanced nervously at Mary and went to Novak’s desk. Leaning over he said in a low voice, “She checked out, Pete. The Norton dish.”
Novak said nothing. His eyes had narrowed, staring at a letter opener on his desk.
Jimmy said, “You wanted to know, didn’t you?” He sounded crestfallen.
Rousing himself Novak pulled over the phone.
“Yeah,” he said huskily. “I wanted to know.”
Then he dialed Police Headquarters.
Novak ate lunch in the coffee shop and spent a couple of hours going over the hotel with a fire inspector on a periodic inspection tour. When the inspector left, Novak turned back from the front entrance and started walking to his office. As he neared the reception counter he saw the clerk beckoning at him. “May I trouble you a moment, Mr. Novak?” he chirped.
Novak angled over and saw a man resting an elbow on the marble counter. He wore a houndstooth coat, flannel slacks, moccasin shoes and a stitched-brim tweed hat. His green challis tie was figured with trout flies, mostly concealed by a beige corduroy vest. A very sporty customer, Novak decided and looked at the face.
It was a face that would have been overly handsome but for a nose bridge that might have been broken and set repeatedly. As Novak neared him, the man’s elbow left the counter, and he straightened the lapels of his coat. The shoulders had the powerful roll of an athlete, and the eyes that surveyed Novak were cool and steady. To Novak he looked like a man who had seen the collegiate light-heavyweight ring within the last ten years.
Novak laid one hand on the counter and looked at the clerk. The clerk coughed nervously. “This gentleman was inquiring for someone, Mr. Novak. I thought you might be able to provide the information.”
Novak turned his glance to the other man.
The man reached a gloved hand into his coat, extracted an ostrich wallet and selected a card. He gave it to Novak and put away the wallet. The card was good quality stock, engraved with a name: Pike Hammond, St. Louis. There was a telephone number over the lower right-hand edge. Novak dropped the card in his pocket, said, “What was it you wanted, Mr. Hammond?”
The man’s smile was casual. He spread his gloved hands and said, “Looking for an old friend. Seems I may have missed her. The clerk thought you might have more information.”
“Who’s the friend?”
Almost indifferently the man said, “Name of Barada—but I understand she’s using her maiden name, Norton.”
“Miss Norton checked out before noon.”
Hammond nodded. “It occurred to me she might have left a forwarding address.”
Novak gave the clerk a long stare. The clerk swallowed hard and fluttered away. Then Novak said, “She left no forwarding address, but something was mentioned about Winnetka, Illinois. Too bad you missed her, Mr. Hammond.”
He shrugged. “That’s how the ball bounces.” His eyes moved over Novak. “She stayed here alone?”
“Single reservation.”
“Too bad,” he said musingly. “Thought I might be able to connect up with her husband. Actually he’s the one I needed to see.”
Novak drummed his nails on the counter. “What’s your line of business, Mr. Hammond?”
The man’s lips pursed slightly, then resumed their even smile. “We could call it the entertainment business,” he said smoothly. “How’s that sound?”
“Passable,” Novak said. “Which end, Mr. Hammond?”
Hammond’s smile showed white, sturdy teeth. “The collection end. But we weren’t talking about me.”
