Free Hard Case Crime: House Dick by E. Howard Hunt Page A

to her room with the payoff money and walked out with the jewelry. Suppose he had gone there and tried to strong-arm the jewels from Paula. Novak could see her shooting Boyd, hiding the gun and the jewels and phoning him. Hell, he should have searched Boyd’s body when he had the chance. For jewels or money or both. Now it was too late.
    He dialed Paula’s room, heard the phone buzz a dozen times and hung up.
    Mary carried over some morning registrations that had been credit-checked. Novak initialed them and dropped them in his OUT box. A new day at the Tilden. New faces, new names. Traveling men, lobbyists, grifters, old folks seeing the Nation’s Capital. A city of overnight guests. The largest floating population in the country. A city of parks and highways and museums. With marble and granite buildings that looked as hospitable as a county jail.
    The phone rang. Mary answered and buzzed Novak.
    The caller was Lieutenant Morely. “Thought you’d like to know,” he said in a voice frayed with fatigue. “We scooped a sample of the widow’s sleepy tonic. Whattaya know—under the cherry flavor it’s loaded with mescaline. No wonder fatty gets hallucinations. I guess we wouldn’t have to look far to find the source of supply.”
    “No,” Novak said. “About as far as the luggage of a certain nature doctor. You figure she was asleep last night when the shooting took place?”
    “Well, the syrup’s got a high enough percentage to make her crazy as a dancing bear. Of course, we don’t know when Boyd caught his bullet or when Mrs. Boyd went to bed. Or whether she really took that syrup last night. Or—if she did, how much?”
    Novak said, “Bikel’s from near the Mex border where the Indians brew mescaline from peyote buttons. For the Rain Dance or whatever the hell they celebrate these days. Picking him up?”
    “Not just yet. Any sign of either one checking out, let me know. I’m going home to grab me some shut-eye but the desk can reach me.”
    “Will do,” Novak said. “Any other leads?”
    “Yeah, that hood Barada’s wife is a guest at the Tilden. A looker. Signed in as Miss Norton.”
    Novak’s fingers tightened around the receiver. “You don’t say.”
    Morely yawned. “There was something steamy between her and the dear departed. With Barada around, looks like it could have been the badger game. Work hard, pal.”
    The phone went dead.
    Novak replaced the receiver and wiped his palms on his thighs. Morely had worked fast. He had Bikel where he could squeeze him if the need arose. Even homebrew mescaline was on the list of controlled narcotics.
    He thought about visiting Paula’s room and shaking it down. But if she had a second gun it was gone by now. The same with any jewelry. Too late for that now. Hours too late.
    As he passed Mary’s desk he said, “If Connery wants me I’m following up a request by Mrs. Boyd. Be back in an hour.”
    Walking across the lobby he signaled Jimmy Grant and said, “If you see Miss Norton come back, make a note of the time and leave it on my desk.”
    “Sure, Pete.” His face was mystified. “Worried about a skip?”
    “That would be the least of my worries,” he muttered, and went out to the street.
    The air was as crisp and cool as mountain mint. Novak gulped it down, tossed away his cigarette and bought a morning paper. The Boyd death was a page 18 paragraph. No details were given and the Tilden was described only as a downtown hotel. He folded the newspaper and dropped it in the corner trash basket. Another block and the cement and glass brick front of Robinson’s Veterinary Hospital. The reception girl went through an inner door and Novak could hear the yapping of assorted pets. The door closed. After a while Doc Robinson came out wearing a white hospital gown.
    Novak said, “I sent you a client last night, Doc. A little toy Skye terrier.”
    Robinson pulled off rubber gloves, wiped his rimless glasses and consulted a register. “Named Toby,”