was packed. The bed was smooth. Nothing in the closet. Or in the bathroom medicine cabinet. Seals on all the glasses. Turning off the light he let himself out and locked the door. He thought, I wonder how far you’ll get tonight, Eddie. Then he moved a few doors down the corridor and pressed the button.
It took a long while for her to come to the door and when she did she looked older than he had ever seen her. Even in the dimness of the room her face was pale. A depression on the sofa showed where she had been sitting, staring out of the window at the vanishing light, watching night seep into the room.
One hand touched the hollow of her throat. “I didn’t expect to see you.”
“I have my rounds to make,” he said, closing the door and walking further into the room. “Like the alley dog and the milkman.”
Her laugh was artificial. “I didn’t know the Tilden provided such personal service.”
Novak sat down and stared up at her. “Relax, Julia,” he said. “We’ve done business together. Before I went home I thought I’d make sure you were satisfied.”
She placed one palm on the table, eased part of her weight onto it. The arm looked as sturdy as a piano leg. “Why...of course I’m satisfied.”
“With the jewelry.”
“Of course,” she snapped. “Why shouldn’t I be?” Her eyes narrowed. “However, since this morning I’ve thought things over, and I’m not at all sure my signing that receipt was a good idea.”
Novak said nothing.
Julia Boyd cleared her throat. “I said I don’t think I was wise to sign that receipt of yours. I was half-asleep, or I’m sure I wouldn’t have.”
Novak placed his fingertips together and shrugged. “Seemed routine to me. If an insurance company had recovered the jewelry you’d have had to sign a receipt.” He squinted up at her. “It was a business transaction, Julia. Jewelry and money changed hands. A receipt was in order.”
Her tongue flicked out, moistened her lips quickly and disappeared.
Novak said, “What was it you had in mind?”
Nervously she said, “I’d like to have it back.”
Novak looked down at his hands. “I need it, Mrs. Boyd.”
“To protect myself.”
She laughed shortly. “From what? Not me, surely?”
His hands spread. “From anything. In case any question should ever arise regarding the disappearance of the jewels and the circumstances surrounding their return.” One of her hands was worrying a pleat in her skirt. He said, “Suppose someone got the idea I wasn’t entirely honest—that I’d stolen the jewelry myself and sold it back to you. It might be a hard thing to make a case against me, but on the other hand, without your receipt I’d have a hell of a time disproving it.” His head moved to one side. “See what I mean? Through you I had early knowledge that the jewels were in the hotel. It could be claimed that I decided to steal them and killed your husband in the process.” He shook his head slowly. “Sorry, Mrs. Boyd. What you ask isn’t possible.” He stood up and moved past her.
“I’ll pay you a thousand dollars for it,” she said quickly.
He halted and stared at her. “It’s worth that much to me.”
“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing you could give me. You’ve got your jewelry, and I’ve got the receipt. That ends the transaction. Sorry I can’t oblige.”
“You son of a bitch,” she snarled.
A crooked grin twisted his mouth. “Yeah, I’m a son of a bitch. I was useful last night when I took that dark walk down the country lane, but I’m a son of a bitch now. Think I don’t know what made the difference?” He walked past her and put his hand on the doorknob. Glancing back he saw her rigid as a pillar of salt. He said, “Bikel ever tell you he was married, Julia? Well, that’s no problem anymore. He’s a widower now.”
A long sigh escaped her lips. One hand was working in the folds of flesh around her throat.
“A pitiful little woman,” he said leadenly. “Pathetic as a frozen sparrow, lying on a cheap bed in a cheap flophouse in a cheap part of town. Not everyone gets to die in the Tilden, Mrs. Boyd. Little people die where they can. When Eddie comes by, ask him what went through his mind when he walked in on her this morning. I’d like to hear it myself—whether he felt a twinge of remorse over what he’s done or whether the only feeling was relief.” His hand opened the door. Julia Boyd had not moved. Novak said, “Yesterday she went to a chapel because that was the only place she could go. By this morning she wasn’t human any longer. Just something for the refuse heap.” He went through the opening and pulled the door shut. Leaning against it he wiped his face slowly. His throat was tight, constricted. He swallowed hard and walked down the corridor.
Whatever Julia Boyd had been thinking before, she had other things to think about now. None of them very pleasant. He stabbed the elevator button and rode down to the lobby.
There was a stir of activity at the reception desk, guests checking in, bellhops scurrying off with baggage, snap of the bell captain’s fingers. The revolving door turning steadily, swallowing, disgorging people. A place to spend the night. A room at the inn.
The reception clerk caught sight of him and motioned him over. From under the counter he pulled a folded telephone message, slipped it to Novak and went back to explaining something to an irritated lady.
Novak moved away and unfolded the message. Four words only:
Novak balled the message and dropped it in an ash stand. Nice of him to remember me, he thought, and straightened his lapels. That meant Hammond had picked up Barada’s trail. But he still had to squeeze sixty-five grand out of him. Novak tried to think of the many ways a man like Pike Hammond could press juice out of a dry stone.
Andy the bell captain came up to him. “Nothing yet, Pete. You staying around a while?”
“Yeah. I’ll gobble the coffee shop special before I go home.”
He went over to the newsstand, bought an evening paper and carried it into the coffee shop. The cashier girl nodded to him as he mounted a stool at the counter. A waitress with an ivory smile took his order and asked if he wanted cream in his coffee.
Novak folded his paper, propped it against the sugar shaker and began reading baseball news. Not much action yet, too early in the season. Trades and deals and practice games in southern training camps. A game called for hail in Sarasota. Options, a sensational new southpaw from East Texas State. The waitress brought his dinner and Novak put the paper aside.
There was nothing wrong with the food. It was standard hotel coffee shop food with the usual decorative sprigs of defrosted parsley, but he hadn’t much appetite. He toyed with the pork tenderloin, the frozen peas and string potatoes and began drinking his coffee. Like Julia Boyd, he had too many things on his mind. Plus a date at eight. Sylvia Riordan. She would have a pelt like wet sable and skin like waxed marble. Oh, yes, a fifth of bonded bourbon. Something to get at the corner store on his way home.
He was stirring his coffee moodily when a bellhop came up to him. “Phone call, Mr. Novak. Operator Three.”
Novak nodded, glanced down at his hardly touched plate, signed the check, left a quarter for the waitress and went out to the ledge that held the house phones.
When the operator had switched his call he heard a voice crackle through the receiver. A voice as thin as a knife. “Novak?”
“Yeah.”
“No names, understand? We met the other night in a certain lady’s room.”
“Get specific. I’m forever running into guys in dames’ rooms. Part of the business.”
“Save it for a sister act,” the voice sneered. “The lady checked out today. Only she didn’t get very far. She’s here right now. She wants to see you, Novak. She can barely stand the pain. Get it?”
His flesh was clammy with sweat. Chilled fingers gripped the black rubber handle. “Let me talk to her,” he said unsteadily.
“Sure. I’m taking the phone to her.”
A moment of silence, then Paula’s voice, strained and breathy. “Pete...don’t—” then the hard crack of a slap and a scream, fading as the phone was jerked away.
