the bar hung a light haze of tobacco smoke. Conditioner not working too well. Fred, the head bartender, with a face lined like Lincoln’s and white hair as light and carefully brushed as a baby’s. Hi, Freddie, Novak mouthed silently and passed along.
From the second ballroom the muffled beat of a dance orchestra. What was it tonight? The Owls? The Odd Fellows? No, let’s rack that honeycomb brain, Novak. Got it: Gamma Tau Sorority’s spring bash. The Gamma Tau lasses were from a night secretarial school. Their beaus would be working stiffs in rented tuxes and stiff-bosomed shirts the wrong size. Play on, wild strings, play on.
In the florist shop only a window light. The airline reservation stand in the corner was dark. The Western Union counter held a yellow sign with a black arrow pointing at a nearby telephone. The sightseeing booth was empty, the top littered with giveaway folders: See Colonial Williamsburg. Four-Hour Tour of the Nation’s Capital, Chinatown Included. Visit Historic Mount Vernon. Sail to Relaxing Virginia Beach. Moonlight Cruise on the Potomac River. See... Do...Visit...Ride... Lord, can’t anyone sit down and think any more? Without turning on the silver tube? Or read a book that isn’t condensed from the Original (unexpurgated) Version?
Wearily, Novak slid into an upholstered chair and butted his cigarette in the sandy stand. Off in one corner an old man in a gray whipcord uniform was sifting butt stands and stamping HT on the smooth surface. Wiry white hair and a face like worn cordovan. Shuffling along in toeless shoes, carrying the sieve and trash bucket. Novak closed his eyes and massaged them with his fingers. A long day. Too much to do, not enough time to think. Ought to go home and hit the pad. Tune the FM to a little Brahms and soothe the aching cortex. Relax until the alarm breaks you out. All quiet at the Tilden.
Except for the obese wife of a wealthy industrialist, the furtive face of a raw food quack and the memory of a silk-shirted hoodlum tossing a green bill on the carpet for you to crawl and fetch.
All quiet except for the tortured face of a gray-eyed, ash blonde lovely with a showgirl’s body and a conscience heavier than a carload of sins. Mouth, a slash of red; eyes that pleaded for pity, understanding. And lips that told nothing....
Novak opened his eyes, blinked away whirling circles and stretched his legs stiffly. Shoes needing a shine. Tomorrow in his room would do. Pick up clean shirts from the Chinaman’s. Buy a bottle of sauce before the package stores closed. Tomorrow he had things to do, places to go. A few hours in the kip was the sensible prescription.
Novak got up slowly and eased himself across the lobby. He slid behind the reception counter and thumbed through the registration file. Dr. Edward Bikel. From Antelope Wells, N.M. A glance at Room 522’s mailbox told him both keys were there and Bikel was out. For dinner, probably, and a night on the town. If the doc were still cosseting Julia Boyd he’d have one key in his pocket.
Novak went over to the elevators and rode one to the fifth floor. The doors slid apart and Novak brushed past a young couple waiting to ride down. The man had on a dinner jacket and a plaid tie. The girl wore a willow-green dress with a net stole and an orchid corsage. Honeymooners, most likely. May it last forever, he thought as he turned down the corridor.
The make-up maid was wheeling her change cart toward him. As he passed she said, “Everything quiet up here, Mr. Novak.”
“That’s how it ought to be. I’ll be in 522 a few minutes, Anna. If the guy comes back, stall him, huh?”
“If I see him.”
Novak stopped and turned. “A single in 516, checked in before seven o’clock. Looks like dough but keep her in mind. Anything out of line, let me know.”
“S’what I’m supposed to do. A looker?”
“She wiggles when she walks.”
Anna snorted, bent over to rub one kneecap and trudged on, pushing her cart with its carefully hung towels, bathmats and trays of hotel soap, sterile glasses and washcloths.
Novak reached 522 soundlessly, pressed his ear to the door panel and palmed the knob slowly. Locked. No sound from inside. Glancing down the corridor he slipped the master key in the lock, turned the handle and went in. Slipping the safety bolt he turned on the ceiling light.
On the luggage rack a Gladstone bag. Beneath it a pair of black shoes with elastic inserts instead of laces. A tidy person, Dr. Bikel. In the closet hung a dark poplin raincoat and a black pinchtop hat. Nothing more. The bathroom cabinet held a worn, ivory-handled straight razor and a scraggly pigbristle brush. There was a toothbrush with
Novak went back to the luggage rack. The Gladstone was locked, but a minute’s labor with a spring-steel pick solved it. Opening the bag, Novak straightened it on the rack and untied the interior ribbons.
There were three white shirts, two dark ties, several pairs of black silk socks and some striped underwear. Novak lifted the divider and examined the other side.
There was a dark worsted suit and a roll of
The scent was pepsin mixed with cherry. Carrying the bottle to the bathroom he tilted it at the washbowl and saw pinkish syrup roll out. He dabbed one finger and touched it to the end of his tongue. The syrup had a pleasant taste—of pepsin and cherry flavoring. The doctor’s medicine, or Julia Boyd’s?
He screwed the cap back on the bottle and replaced it in the folds of the coat. Funny Bikel wouldn’t have hung up the suit when he checked in. Most travelers did. And once inside their room they usually left their bags unlocked. Not so Bikel. The bottle wasn’t meant to be seen. Novak wondered why.
As he smoothed the suit and retied the retaining ribbons the phone began to ring. The sound halted his hands. He straightened and stared at the telephone. It rang four more times, then stopped. Novak sucked in a deep breath and closed the Gladstone, locking it with his spring-steel pick. Then he went over to the writing table.
On the blotter lay a Western Union telegram pad. Tilting it toward the light he could see scrawled impressions from the previous sheet. All he could make out was that the telegram had been sent to Chicago, signed Ed. Not much to go on there. He picked up the telephone and called the desk. When Percy answered, Novak said, “This medicine man Bikel—when did he check in?”
“Two days ago.”
“And the Chalmers Boyds?”
“Same date.”
Novak fished a cigarette from his pocket, lighted it with one hand and blew smoke at the writing desk. “What’s Boyd in town for?”
“There’s a convention of Building and Loan Association presidents. I’ve seen him wearing a blue badge with his name on it.”
“That’s pretty clever,” Novak conceded. “Mrs. Boyd go out much?”
“I saw her cross the lobby earlier this evening—just before she called about her jewelry. Other than that no.” He tittered. “Must take a power of calories to move bulk like hers.”
“Yeah. And all from raw carrots.” He hung up, wiped his prints from the phone out of habit and crossed to the door. From the hallway no sound. Novak opened the catch and slipped out. At the end of the corridor Anna was gathering things from her wagon and carrying them into an open doorway. When she saw Novak she waved all- clear.
He walked on down the corridor, passed 516, slowed and turned back. Cupping the cigarette in his hand he took a long drag and let the smoke filter out of his nostrils. Maybe Ben Barada was still there, maybe not. Why
Stepping back he looked up and down the corridor. Anna was out of sight in the make-up room. Novak pulled the master key from his pocket and fitted it into the lock. Opening it quickly he stepped inside.
The room was lighted. It was also occupied.
Paula Norton was sitting up on the sofa. Light glinted from the chrome-plated gun in her right hand. As Novak elbowed the door shut he heard breath whistle between her teeth. The gun arm dropped listlessly and she lay back.
