“Excuse the detour. Where’d you know Ben Barada? Northeast Illinois?”
“Chicago?”
“I was thinking of Joliet.”
The smile thinned. “A fellow like Big Ben does a lot of traveling. In the course of a year you could spot him in twenty or thirty places: Hialeah, Hot Springs, New Orleans, Vegas...”
“And St. Louis.”
“Wherever the fast money moves.” One hand made a fist and hit the gloved palm of his other hand. “Time’s a-wasting,” he remarked. “Thanks, fella. This has been a big disappointment.” He started to move past Novak. Novak’s elbow blocked him.
“Down, boy,” Hammond said icily. “Playtime’s over.”
“Relax,” Novak said. “You’ve come a long way to see Barada. No need to go away thirsty.”
Hammond’s eyebrows lifted. “I’m not a drinking man,” he said, “but I don’t object on principle.”
Novak took his arm and steered him into the bar. They sat on a curved corner seat and ordered Irish and a Coke. Hammond took off the tweed hat and smoothed dark brown hair. Just above the hairline there was a white scar that could have been a bullet crease. He pulled off his gloves slowly, and Novak saw the battered knuckles of a fighter. The gloves were Italian peccary at about thirty bucks a pair.
Hammond waited until Novak had lighted a cigarette and said, “You’ve got quite a line on old Ben. How come?”
“He got into trouble a couple of nights ago.”
Hammond eased forward. “What kind of trouble?”
“Slapping his wife around.”
Hammond picked a wooden match from the ashtray box and rubbed one end against an upper incisor. “You blew the whistle?”
Novak nodded.
Hammond smiled unevenly. Novak lifted his right elbow and eased it casually against Hammond’s coat. There was something hard and bulky under the well-tailored houndstooth. Hammond’s eyes flickered. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m rodded. So what?”
“I like to know what I’m talking to,” Novak said. “Sorry about the crude frisk.” He took his glass from the waiter and waited while Hammond’s Coke was poured. Hammond wet his lips and lowered the glass slowly. “I got a thing on about guys who beat up dames,” he said harshly. “Barada would be about right for that—on top of everything else.”
Novak sipped some of his drink and knocked ash from his cigarette. “Ben was padded outside town, on the road to Alexandria. A motel called the Vernon. You could maybe pick him up from there, but I doubt it.”
“Anyone try?”
“The police maybe.”
Hammond’s face paled slightly. “I don’t like that. Ben can’t afford to mix with the coppers. Not now. Not until we finish a little business matter. After that he’s up for grabs.” He swallowed some Coke and stared at Novak. “Any chance he headed for Winnetka with Paula?”
“It’s possible. She’s lately been remembered in a rich man’s will. She seems to think she owes something to Ben. He may have gone along to protect her interests—and his own.”
“What rich man?”
“Fellow name of Boyd. Died here the other night.”
Hammond nodded reminiscently. “Paula’s sugar-daddy. Yeah, I heard of Boyd before. From Ben. She was to put the bite on Boyd and Ben was to have his cut by yesterday. When he didn’t call the boss, I caught a plane east.” He stared at the end of Novak’s cigarette. “The boss is holding a fistful of worthless paper. If he lets Ben get away with it, other guys will try and I’ll be busier than I like.” He picked up his glass, finished the Coke. “Used to be Ben signed an IOU and made it good next morning when the banks opened. Maybe Joliet sours a guy. I imagine it could.”
“How much paper did Ben leave behind?”
“Sixty-five grand. Too much to write off with a grin. And the boss rarely grins.” He glanced down at a thin gold wristwatch. “Think I’ll hire a car and drive out to the motel. I might just get lucky.” Pulling a bill from his pocket he covered the check and stood up. “I never did business with a hotel peeper before. And not even a harsh word.”
Novak looked up at him. “What business?” he asked and saw Hammond move away toward the bar door.
No wonder Barada had been frantic to get his hands on a chunk of money. A guy like Hammond could pick him up and bang him against a wall until his toenails dropped off. Novak took Hammond’s card from his pocket and studied it. Discreet and tasteful. Telling nothing. A name and a telephone number. Like a high-price bordello.
Novak fitted the card into his wallet, finished his drink and left the bar. Crossing the corner of the lobby he went out to the sidewalk and waited while the doorman helped a woman from a cab. Then he went over to him and said, “Art, not long before noon a Miss Norton checked out. Gray fur, gray luggage and maybe a small dog on a gray leash.”
“No dog,” Art said, brushing lint from the sleeve of his coat. “I’d remember her anyway because she didn’t take a cab. There was a car waiting for her. Couple of guys in it. She got in, and they drove away.”
“What kind of a car?”
“It was new enough to be rental. I didn’t pay much attention to the plate numbers, but it was a District plate.” He squinted at Novak. “She skip?”
Novak shook his head. “A fellow was asking for her,” he said and walked slowly back into the hotel. Crossing to the reservation desk he went behind it and motioned the girl away from the teletype. Sitting down he selected the line to the chain’s St. Louis hotel, consulted Hammond’s card and tapped out a message. He tore off the yellow teletype sheet and carried the message toward his office. In an hour or so there ought to be an answer.
Over at the tobacco stand a newsie was unloading a pile of afternoon papers. Novak bought one and went back to his office.
The Jensen Hotel death rated a paragraph on page fourteen, just ahead of the classifieds. Only the bare facts. An unidentified middle-aged woman had been found dead in her room. Death was due to either heart failure or an overdose of sleeping pills. A brief description of the woman followed, plus a police request for any information that could assist identification.
Novak tore out the clipping and laid it in his desk drawer. Beside the dusted telegram blank. Then he skimmed the rest of the paper and tossed it into the wastebasket.
Mary said, “How’d the fire inspection go?”
“We’re certified for another month.” He wrote a name on a pad and carried the slip over to Mary. “Not a bad guy. Put him on the Santa Claus List. Two turkeys and a large basket of fruit. Gift-wrapped.”
She made a shorthand note under the man’s name. “Wouldn’t mind one myself.”
“He’s got four kids,” Novak said. “The chain can afford it and a lot more. I wouldn’t like to try to feed a family of six on what a fire inspector draws from the District.”
“No,” she said soberly. “You sound a little mellower today. Any special reason?”
“I just had a drink with a bill collector. I guess there’s tougher jobs than mine.”
“I should think so. Bill collectors work on a percentage, don’t they?”
“The house percentage. And the house always wins.” He laid the teletype message on her desk. When she had read it she glanced up.
“With the trouble boys there’s not a live case of failure to collect. This one’s so tough he doesn’t have to strut to prove it. Very cool and silky and muscled like a bull gorilla. College education, by his grammar, and probably knows what spoon to use. The rackets don’t pick their personnel off the cattle boats any longer. It’s big business now, and the accent’s on brains. Congress and TV have given old-fashioned hoodlums a negative public image, so the syndicates employ muscles that can pass in a crowd without old ladies shrieking and fainting away.” He walked back to his desk and sat down. “The law tries to compete, but the pay’s too low. Competent prosecutors are playing to the voting public, and their working assistants are kids just out of law school who couldn’t connect with an established firm. Not much competition against the talent the syndicates can afford to hire. Hell, there’s hardly a big law firm in the East without one or more syndicate clients.”
