She sipped from her glass, rubbed a pudgy finger along the chair arm and said, “It’s all so unpleasant, isn’t it?”
Novak got up. “Robbery usually is. But the police here are fairly civilized. They shave and brush their teeth and most of them don’t swear in mixed company. When you call, mention the Theft Squad. They’ll send someone around.”
One finger trailed around the rim of her glass. “Couldn’t you do that for me, Mr. Novak?”
“I could, but the police would prefer to hear from you personally.”
“Oh. And the insurance company?”
“Your husband will know how to report the loss.”
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Chalmers? Oh, yes, he’ll know. But I was hoping I wouldn’t have to involve him.”
Novak blinked at her. “My contacts with the moneyed classes have been limited, but I sort of figure Mr. Boyd would be interested in anything affecting his billfold to the extent of ninety grand—taxes being what they are these days.”
Her face had gone as blank as white porcelain. “Yes,” she said vaguely, sucked at her rye and worried her diamond engagement ring with her thumb. “Thank you, Mr. Novak.”
The door buzzed.
Novak looked back at Julia Boyd. She gestured to open the door. Novak clicked the latch free and pulled back on the handle.
The man who stood there wore a suit of ministerial serge, a high glossy collar and a preoccupied expression on his ruddy face. He blinked and craned past Novak’s shoulder.
“Mr. Boyd?” Novak asked.
“By no means. My name is Bikel. Dr. Edward Bikel. Where is Mrs. Boyd?” he demanded pompously.
“On the parlor rocker, Doctor. I was just leaving.”
Dr. Bikel stared hostilely at Novak. “Who might you be?”
Novak returned the stare.
“Doctor of Medicine, is it?”
Bikel drew himself together huffily. “Doctor of Naturopathy,” he said in a chilly voice. “I happen to be attending Mrs. Boyd.”
Novak glanced back and chuckled. “I’d say you got your work cut out for you. Compulsive eater, looks like. Block that thyroid.”
Bikel’s lips set. “You are impudent, young man. I do not like impudence. You may expect to hear from me.”
“Fine,” Novak said. “Mrs. Boyd can tell you where I hang out. Staying in the hotel?”
“Room 522.”
“Don’t run the bill too high. The Tilden’s allergic to medicine men with mail order diplomas.” He pushed past Bikel and down the hall. Goddamn whatever desk clerk registered Bikel into the Tilden. The guy looked as phony as a three-dollar bill. You must eat only natural foods, dear lady. Psyllium seed is a natural aid to the elimination of bodily wastes. And your thoughts must be as pure as rainwater. Well, at least he didn’t seem to be a needle man from Dream Street. To get a Narcotics license you still needed more than a clawhammer coat, a celluloid collar and a five-buck diploma.
A sound knifed through his thoughts, halting him suddenly. Turning, he glanced down the hall and heard it again. Not from inside the Boyd suite, but not far away. Muffled by a thick door. A woman’s scream.
Novak sprinted down the corridor, halting in front of 516. The room directly across from Julia Boyd’s. One hand fingered the master key in his pocket as he pressed an ear against the door panel. From inside, a man’s voice snarling indistinguishable words, a woman whimpering. Then the hard crack of flesh on flesh. The woman sobbed.
Novak set his jaw and thumbed the door button. He stepped slightly back from the door and his hands folded into fists. He rolled his sloping shoulders and waited.
The door opened.
A man peered out. His face was mottled, his voice unsteady. “Yeah?” he bristled.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
“Trouble?” The man laughed unpleasantly. “Wouldn’t know what you’re talking about. Beat it.”
He made an effort to slam the door but Novak’s foot blocked it. Leaning forward, Novak heaved his shoulder and the door burst inward. The man staggered back cursing.
His hair was flint-black, making his sallow skin look even paler. His upper lip sprouted a thin mustache that added some years to a handsome, weak face. His narrowed eyes were the milky-blue of hard-frozen water. He wore a shirt of sky-blue silk, cuffs peeled back. The open collar was yoked by a black tie lightly figured with maroon darts. “What the hell...” he blurted.
“I’m Novak. Hotel Security. Where’s the woman?”
To see her, all he had to do was glance sideways and down. Her back was braced against the edge of a chair, her legs folded under her thighs. She wore a filmy white dressing gown, one sleeve ripped. Her cheeks showed ugly patches of red, the rest of her face was bloodless. When she looked up, Novak saw that her eyes were wide and gray. One hand worked aimlessly through her ash blonde hair. Paula Norton’s puffed lips opened and closed again.
Novak turned to Silk Shirt, snapped, “Pick her up.”
The man called him something obscene. Novak took a step toward him. “This is a single room. Only the lady’s registered.”
Paula Norton was getting groggily to her feet.
The man stared at her and his lips formed a warped grin. “Wanna make a complaint, honey? So tell the man.” He swaggered toward her.
Paula Norton wet her lips. One hand delicately touched the red patch on her right cheek. Slowly, dazedly, she said, “I fell down, that’s all.”
Novak blinked.
Silk Shirt guffawed. “Shove off, hero. No company wanted. Just friends here. See? Just friends.” His hand darted into his pocket and pulled out a wad of folded bills. Without looking at the top one, he peeled it off and tossed it at Novak. “You made a mistake, peeper. The ten squares it. Now dust.”
Novak looked down at the bill on the carpet and a slow grin twisted his lips. “I needed that,” he said softly, leaned forward and slapped the man’s left cheek. Hard. The man gurgled and his eyes went wild. From the hips up his body started to shake. Novak slapped the other cheek. Harder and a little lower. A drop of blood appeared on the man’s upper lip. His face was scarlet now, jaw muscles working like a skein of worms. The pupils of his eyes had contracted. His tongue darted out, licked away the drop of blood. Another took its place. Suddenly he dropped his head and lunged at Novak.
Novak shifted his body to the left and took the man’s head into chancery. The arms flailed wildly.
From behind him Paula Norton gasped, “Let him go.”
Novak said nothing. He tightened the pressure on the man’s neck until he felt the body start to sag. Then something jabbed his back just above the right kidney. Slowly his head turned and he looked around.
The pistol was a chrome-plated stocking model, no better than a .25 caliber, but pointed where it was, it could ruin a kidney or worse.
Novak shrugged, unlaced his fingers and lifted his elbow. The man fell free, crumpling onto the carpet. Novak didn’t look down. He could hear gurgling sounds, the rasp of nails as fingers clawed the carpet.
Very slowly he faced her. “What the hell,” he said. “We forgot to choose up sides.”
Along her nose lay the silvery trails of tears. She shook her head and bit her lips. The gun arm went limp and dropped along her thigh.
She must have been in the shower when the guy came in because the dressing gown was all she wore. The legs were nicely muscled and they melted into slim thighs. Her stomach was taut and she had never been a nursing mother. From the floor came moaning, half-formed words.
Novak rasped, “A girl like you—and a bolo like him. Baby, in case you didn’t know it, he was beating you up.”
