Julia Boyd said nothing. Her mouth grimaced, her tongue licked her lips slowly.
Novak said, “I brought his bag here. The doctor won’t need it for a while. He’s spending the night at Police Headquarters, Mrs. Boyd. No need to wait for him any longer.”
Her head lowered. The heavy shoulders came forward, and her body shivered. “He deceived me,” she whimpered. “Pretending to love me when he was married. Men have always tricked me. Like Chalmers.” Her throat sucked breath stridently, and her eyes lifted. “When Chalmers married me I was an innocent girl. I believed he loved me, but he was false. He only wanted my money—like Bikel.” Her eyes dropped away, and her voice hollowed. “All I ever wanted was love and happiness. And this is what I became.”
For a brief moment he felt a surge of pity for her; then he remembered the house on Melrose Street and his voice steeled. “It must have been a brutal shock to find out your husband had tried to palm fake jewelry on you—another in a series of bitter disillusionments with your husband. But you kept them and the time came when they were useful.”
Her eyes had brightened. Her head slanted to one side as she listened. Novak said, “Somehow you managed to get Chalmers into Paula’s room while she was out. You shot him in the bedroom, recovered the payoff money from his pocket and the real jewels from her makeup bag and planted the fakes under her pillow. Only minutes later Barada found them there and took them away. Bad luck for you. But by then you were back here and in bed.”
“Someone moved Chalmers’ body,” she whined. “Was it you?”
He nodded. “How did you get into her room? Bribe the hall maid?”
A smile moved her lips. “I stood at the door and called the maid. She assumed it was my room and let me in. Then I called Chalmers by telephone, pretending I was the girl, and told him to come over. I left the door ajar and waited in the bedroom. You know the rest.” A tremor racked her body. As though she were sitting in an icy draft. But the window was closed, the warm air still and heavy.
Novak said, “You couldn’t tell the police that Paula had been given your jewels by Chalmers because your knowledge would have suggested to them that you might have taken violent means to get them back. So the fakes had to be found where you planted them. You didn’t know Barada had taken them; so you hired me to discover them. Only my heart wasn’t in the job. Yes, I sold out to her, if you want to put it that way, but not for financial considerations—because I didn’t think she killed your husband. More bad luck for you. But things picked up when Barada’s thug called and offered the jewels for sale. You knew they were phonies, but you couldn’t admit it. So I became useful again—the perfect witness to the manner of their recovery. Only before I brought them to you I stopped at a jeweler’s and had them examined. So knowing they were fakes I got you to sign a receipt acknowledging that I had returned legitimate jewelry to you. At the time I was surprised you let me get away with it, but later you must have seen the spot it put you in, and so you tried to buy back the receipt. I needed it to prove I had acted in good faith and at your request—in case you or anyone else got the idea I might have lifted the jewels myself and maneuvered their return.”
He felt his shoulders sag. Fatigue was chilling him. He swallowed, blinked and went on. “Barada was pretty mad when he found he had only a set of muzzlers for all his trouble. He figured Paula still had the real ones and tried to beat them out of her. She didn’t have them, of course, so Barada decided I might. He invited me to a deserted house and threatened me with death. A desperate man, Mrs. Boyd, to use your words, but not over-intelligent. He wasn’t smart enough to reason that if neither Paula or I had the real jewels you must have them, and that you were willing to pay a grand to get the fakes in order to protect yourself. To you it was a small price in terms of your security. In time Barada might have realized that whoever had the real jewels probably had shot Chalmers Boyd, and then you would have been in for blackmail. But that doesn’t matter now. How much did Bikel know?”
Listlessly she said, “He acted as though he knew I killed Chalmers, but he said nothing.”
“Why should he? It suited him that your husband was dead. And of course his pose was an eligible suitor attracted by what you were, not by your money. Quite a blow to your pride when you learned he had a wife, though I doubt the way she died troubled you. So Bikel became another man who lied and deceived you. And you were waiting for him to return.”
He got up slowly and went over to her. Emptily she said, “He should have told me in the beginning. I would have understood and helped.”
“But he neglected to. And he destroyed what was left of your illusions.” His arm reached down, but her hand lifted suddenly. It held a small blue steel automatic.
“Yes,” she said hoarsely, “I’ve been waiting for him. But you’ll do as well. Everything went wrong because of you. God, how I hate you Novak!”
“You’re mad,” he said thickly. “Put it away.”
Her eyes flickered uncertainly. “Why should I?”
“Because I came here to give you a chance.”
Her eyebrows furrowed and she blinked. “What kind of a chance?”
“Kill me and you’ll burn in the chair. An unpleasant death, Mrs. Boyd. Ever see that photo of Winnie Ruth Judd fighting twenty thousand volts? It snaps the spine like matchwood, roasts the flesh. Even the teeth turn black.” He stepped back slowly. “There are easier ways to die. There’s the way Mrs. Bikel died. And there’s the gun in your hand—the one you killed your husband with. That’s the break I’m giving you.”
The sound of the vacuum cleaner had stopped. The room was silent, the air stiflingly heavy.
As he watched, the hand lowered, the face turned away. He could feel sweat roll down his chest. When the pistol rested on the cushion once more he sucked a deep breath, turned and moved toward the door, legs heavy as timber.
When he had locked the door behind him he leaned back for a moment, resting against it, and then he began walking toward the elevator.
Wordlessly he rode down to the street level. His brain was numb, his throat chokingly tight as he crossed the lobby and went out the side door.
Clouds hid the moon. A thin mist drifted down dampening his face and hands. Long before morning it would thicken into a pelting rain. Along K Street the tires of moving cars made dull slapping sounds on the wet pavement. Turning up his collar Novak trudged along until he reached a lighted glass brick front. For a while he stared up at the sign over the doorway, and then he rang the night bell.
It took five minutes for Doc Robinson to open the door. His gray hair was rumpled, and he squinted at Novak through rimless glasses. “Come in,” he said gruffly. “Don’t stand there in the rain.”
Novak moved into the lighted reception room and the veterinarian closed the door behind him. As he walked toward Novak he said, “Ever find the lady, Pete?”
Novak sat down on a leather-covered bench and wiped moisture from the brim of his hat. “I found her,” he said. “Then I lost her again. Is the pup still here?”
Doc Robinson nodded. “They got you walking dogs now? I thought that was a bellhop chore.”
“I do a little bit of everything,” Novak said tiredly. “Thought I’d take the dog off your hands.”
“What about the owner? Won’t she be coming back?”
“If she does, let me know.”
Doc Robinson took off his glasses and polished them slowly between the thumb and index finger of one hand. Then he put them on, went behind the desk and pulled out a file drawer. He wrote out a receipted bill, gave it to Novak and went through the paneled door that led to the kennels.
Novak laid a ten-dollar bill on the desk and folded the receipt into his pocket. He lighted a cigarette, and after a while the vet came back with the Skye terrier on a gray leather leash. Handing the leash to Novak he said, “What do you want a dog for, Pete?”
“Company. Good night, Doc.”
Novak opened the door, and the little Skye bounded out to the wet sidewalk. When the leash checked it, it stopped and looked up at Novak. Novak reached down and stroked the dog’s shaggy ears. Straightening, he turned back toward Seventeenth Street. The Skye yipped and scurried along beside him. Novak looked down and murmured, “Two forgotten men.” Then he turned up Seventeenth Street toward the place where he lived.