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  Praise For the Novels of E. HOWARD HUNT

  “Hunt is an exceptional storyteller who leads readers through more twists and turns than a laboratory maze.”

  —Roanoke Times

  “A dramatic story...jaded but credible.”

  —New York Times

  “Hunt handles dialogue well, moves the action even better, and provides a good bit of verisimilitude...It’s also fun for Washington readers to see how well, or ill, he captures our town and its environs.”

  —Washington Post Book World

  “Brisk entertainment with nice spins.”

  —New York Daily News

  “Moves fast, is fun to read, and ends smartly.”

  —Cleveland Plain Dealer

  “A slam-bang crime buster... [Hunt is] in great form.”

  —West Orange (Florida) Times

  “An urbane, romantic tale of suspense...jam-packed with.hard-hitting prose and clipped dialogue.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Drawing upon his insider knowledge of Washington [Hunt] has crafted a thriller that is certain to be enjoyed...plenty of high-testosterone action here.”

  —Library Journal

  A sound knifed through his thoughts, halting him suddenly. 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. 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.

  Novak thumbed the door button and his hands folded into fists.

  The door opened. A man peered out. “Yeah?” he bristled. “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.

  “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. 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.

  The man dropped his head and lunged...

  SOME OTHER HARD CASE CRIME BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY:

  SONGS OF INNOCENCE by Richard Aleas

  FRIGHT by Cornell Woolrich

  KILL NOW, PAY LATER by Robert Terrall

  SLIDE by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

  DEAD STREET by Mickey Spillane

  DEADLY BELOVED by Max Allan Collins

  A DIET OF TREACLE by Lawrence Block

  MONEY SHOT by Christa Faust

  ZERO COOL by John Lange

  SHOOTING STAR/SPIDERWEB by Robert Bloch

  THE MURDERER VINE by Shepard Rifkin

  SOMEBODY OWES ME MONEY by Donald E. Westlake

  NO HOUSE LIMIT by Steve Fisher

  BABY MOLL by John Farris

  THE MAX by Ken Bruen and Jason Starr

  THE FIRST QUARRY by Max Allan Collins

  GUN WORK by David J. Schow

  FIFTY-TO-ONE by Charles Ardai

  KILLING CASTRO by Lawrence Block

  THE DEAD MAN’S BROTHER by Roger Zelazny

  THE CUTIE by Donald E. Westlake

  House DICK

  by E. Howard Hunt

  A HARD CASE CRIME BOOK

  (HCC-054)

  First Hard Case Crime edition: April 2009

  Published by

  Titan Books

  A division of Titan Publishing Group Ltd

  144 Southwark Street

  London

  SE1 0UP

  in collaboration with Winterfall LLC

  If you purchased this book without a cover, you should know that it is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

  Copyright © 1961 by E. Howard Hunt

  Cover painting copyright © 2009 by Glen Orbik

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Print edition ISBN 978-0-85768-368-7

  E-book ISBN 978-0-85768-397-7

  Cover design by Cooley Design Lab

  Design direction by Max Phillips

  www.maxphillips.net

  Typeset by Swordsmith Productions

  The name “Hard Case Crime” and the Hard Case Crime logo are trademarks of Winterfall LLC. Hard Case Crime books are selected and edited by Charles Ardai.

  Printed in the United States of America

  Visit us on the web at www.HardCaseCrime.com

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  1

  Pete Novak eased his six-foot, hundred-and-eighty-four-pound frame through the revolving entrance door of the Hotel Tilden and saw a girl in a platinum mink coat walking toward the reception desk. Beside her a bellhop struggled with three gray leather bags. The girl was an ash blonde and Novak could catch the scent of light perfume following in her wake. From her gray-gloved hand a gray leather leash slanted down to the collar of a toy Skye terrier. The girl walked with her head thrown back, her heels making subdued clicking sounds on the marble floor of the lobby. What little of her legs could be seen looked promising. The terrier stopped short, braced his paws and yipped protestingly. The girl looked down at him and Novak saw that her eyes were as gray as the furs she wore. As the leash around her wrist. As the luggage Jimmy Grant was wrestling with. Novak sniffed her perfume once more, patted a small package in his side pocket, grinned and decided to stick around.

  Novak took out a cigarette, lighted it and watched her register. The clerk flattened his palms on the marble counter, stood on tiptoes and peered over at the terrier. He said something to the girl and Novak saw her frown. He decided to move closer.

  The girl was saying, “...but I can’t possibly stay without Toby. Can’t you make an exception just this once?”

  “No, ma’am,” the clerk said firmly. “No animals at the Tilden. Not even a canary.”

  Novak grinned and said, “Not even a bedbug, miss.”

  Her head moved quickly to one side, and cool gray eyes appraised him. Her red lips were full and even, her nose straight and her cheekbones high. The gray eyes were almond-shaped, as though at some time, generations back, Indian blood had entered the family strain. Her tawny skin supported the thought.

  He glanced down at the registration card and saw that she had written: Paula Norton, Muncie, Ind. The Mr. and Mrs. boxes had been x-ed out. That made her a Miss. For the record.


  Slowly and with an edge her voice articulated, “I guess there’s one in every hotel.”

  “Bedbug?”

  Ash blonde hair swirled as she turned away. To the clerk she snapped, “We were talking about my dog.”

  The clerk started to sputter but Novak cut in. “Let’s put him up at Dr. Robinson’s, Miss Norton. The doc’s got a fine place not two blocks away—just a short walk—in case you miss Toby and want to run over and visit him.”

  Her head turned again. She smiled and said dryly, “Now it comes to me. You’re a shill for a dog hospital.”

  The clerk bent toward her stiffly. “Our Mr. Novak, Miss Norton. House Security Service.”

  Novak took off his hat and fingered the brim. “Also Assistant Personnel Manager, Miss Norton.”

  Her lips twisted. “Another way of saying house dick.”

  “Yeah,” Novak said indifferently. “Personnel hires them and I fire them. That way we keep all the work in the same office. Efficient.”

  “I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” she said coolly, “never having worked in a hotel.” Bending over, she scooped up the Skye and deposited it in Novak’s arms. “Here,” she said, “you take care of him, Mr. Novak—since you’re such a close friend of Dr. Robinson’s.” Then she turned, jerked her head at the bellhop and glided across the lobby toward the elevator. Jimmy Grant stared at Novak, snickered, and picked up her bags. The desk clerk hurried around the far side of the counter and gave the room key to the bellboy. Elevator doors opened, Miss Norton entered and Jimmy followed. Novak frowned. The clerk came back and the nails of his right hand made a scaly sound against the palm. In a nervous voice he said, “You’ve been warned about taking liberties with the guests.”

  Novak sighed. “True, Percy. Only too true. But with guests of Miss Norton’s special qualifications I’m a habitual offender; try as I may to resist, it’s hopeless.” Gathering the terrier into a small furry bundle, he pressed it on the clerk. “Be a good fellow and call Doc Robinson, huh? Let’s give our guests a little service.”

  Then he turned, brushed Skye hair from his arms, smoothed his tie and walked around the end of the reception counter toward a door marked Personnel.

  He tossed his hat at a stand in the corner, pulled off his coat and opened the Venetian blinds. Gray light from K Street filtered into his office. Novak lighted the lamp on his desk, sucked a lungful of smoke from his cigarette, butted it. Then he pulled a small envelope from his coat pocket, laid it on his desk and sat down. One hand pressed the intercom button and he spoke to the Tilden’s chief engineer.

  “Mike, Pete Novak. You got a mech working for you named MacDonald—plumbing and air conditioning. Well, tell him to scoot up and see me. Yeah, he’s off at eight, but this can’t wait. If he asks what’s up tell him it’s about his family. Okay.”

  Snapping off the intercom Novak unsnapped the butt strap of his shoulder holster and drew out a snub-nose .38. He laid it on his desk near the brown envelope. Squinting in the semi-dark of his office he turned slowly in his chair until he faced the window. Early spring in Washington with fog and light drizzles. The sound of tires on wet paving, the muffled honking of horns through gray, heavy air. The Girl in Gray, Novak thought. Then he heard a noise and turned.

  The man who came through the door was as big as Novak, and he wore blue coveralls with Hotel Tilden stitched across the chest. His hair was light blonde and curly. He wore round, steel-rimmed glasses and there were squint lines across his forehead and at the corners of his eyes. He said, “I’m MacDonald. You want to see me?”

  Novak indicated a chair. When MacDonald settled uneasily into it, Novak said, “Ask me why you’re here, Murky.”

  MacDonald’s eyes narrowed. “You tell me, copper. What’s the rap?” His eyes flickered toward the envelope, the blue steel revolver.

  Novak leaned forward, laid his arms on the desk and said softly, “This hotel chain’s run by a bunch of humanitarians, Murky. Either that or there’s a labor shortage I haven’t heard about. Your application came in, I checked the files and found you’d done a dipsey. For me that disqualified you, but the management hired you anyway, on the basis that you wouldn’t have contact with the public.”

  MacDonald’s face was working. “It was a rib-up,” he husked. “They give me a two-specker on a rib-up.”

  “Can the excuses,” Novak said. “The boarding schools are bulging with guys who got a bum rap—to hear them tell it. But passing over your last sorrowful tale brings me to a theft that took place here at the Tilden only two weeks ago. A lady from Cleveland, Murky. A blonde divorcée silly enough to stuff some jewels in a desk drawer and waltz down to dinner. Next day when she looked for the dazzlers, guess what? Some were missing.” His left hand lifted the brown envelope and spilled the contents on the desk. Light flashed from a jeweled bracelet, two rings and a sparkling brooch. “Finders keepers?” he said in a smooth, needling voice.

  MacDonald’s face was the color of bleached bone. His right hand clawed at the throat of his coverall. He half-rose from the chair.

  Novak shook his head disgustedly. “Not even half-smart, Murky. The gal put in a beef about her air conditioning and the record shows you were the mech who went up to fix it—while she was having her mountain trout and vin rose.” He sighed, shifted in his chair and his ring hand moved an inch closer to the butt of his . 38. “Tell me I needed a search warrant to shake down your room, Murky. Tell me you don’t have a glimmer how the loot got taped behind your bureau.” His throat made an unpleasant sound. “On your way, punk. No pink slip for you. Just out. And park the monkey suit in the locker room. It’s hotel property.”

  MacDonald was standing, hands clenching and unclenching. He looked like a sick man. “Give me a break,” he whispered.

  Novak said, “You got it, Murky. And give me a prayer of thanks tonight. If I turned you in it’d be a tenner this time. And you got kids. As it stands, the dame’ll get the jewels back and be forever grateful. If you’ve got an ounce of sense you’ll feel the same. Raus!”

  MacDonald turned and groped like a sleepwalker toward the door. It opened, sounds from the lobby drifted through, the moving body blocked the light and then the door closed.

  Novak’s face twisted into a wry grimace. After a while he got up, patted the .38 back into the shoulder holster and went over to a file safe. He turned the dial combination until a drawer opened and then he went back, returned the jewelry to the envelope, licked the flap, sealed it, and dropped it inside the drawer. Then he opened another drawer, one with employee record cards, and made a notation on one. The file banged shut.

  Outside it was darker now. Novak pulled out a key chain and unlocked a low drawer in his metal desk. He fumbled for a moment and pulled out a pint bottle of Irish whisky. Uncapping it, he swallowed an ounce, rolled it around his tongue and let it drain slowly down his throat. He swallowed another ounce, sighed and replaced the bottle. Then he locked the drawer. Mockingly he announced: “Employees will not drink alcoholic beverages while on duty,” wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his shirt and opened the door of a small bathroom. Clicking on the electric razor he buzzed his face lightly. It was a face that looked as if it had seen its share of trouble. Broad forehead, nose laced with fine scars of plastic repair, a lateral scar just under his right eye that could have been made by a slammed hockey puck or brass knuckles; heavy, dark-brown eyebrows over deep-set brown eyes; brown hair streaked with silver; and white teeth that were even only because they had been broken, ground down and capped. The hand that guided the razor showed flat, powerful fingers with knuckles enlarged by violent impact, broad nails trimmed short and square.

  His hand tested the side of his face for stubble, then clicked the razor off. When he had washed he began to hum a disconnected tune, went into his office and pulled on his coat. Novak liked the feel of the finished worsted; it had been a two-hundred-dollar suit marked down on an off-season sale three years before. The few suits he had were of good quality and tai
loring. His brown, pebble-grain brogues had cost close to forty dollars six years ago. He had a matching pair in black for hotel reception work, patent leathers for black-tie hotel parties and a pair of suede chukka boots for off-duty wear. Novak was a man who traveled light but what little he carried was as good as he could buy.

  Nearly seven o’clock. He closed the blinds on the dark street, turned and peered across the dim office at his secretary’s empty desk. Mary had checked out at five, but his job knew no hours. At five o’clock he had been bluffing Murky’s landlady into letting him search the mechanic’s room for a mythical set of hotel keys. Maybe tonight some guy would pull a Dutchman and a frantic clerk would screech him down to the hotel before the cops arrived. Or a chippy would be entertaining gentleman callers at so much a head. Not at the Tilden, sister. Peddle it somewhere else. Hell, in a three-hundred-and-forty-room hotel anything could happen.

  As he turned off the desk lamp he felt a chill creep through the office. A lonely place. At this hour very lonely. The Lost and Found Department, only you had to handle more than compacts and wallets and forgotten razors. Drunks too drunk to remember who they were or who rolled them, badger game couples, barroom hustlers, check artists, high-class panhandlers, con men, maids with larcenous fingers, pimping bellhops...Novak moistened his lips, grabbed his hat and jammed his hands into his pockets. A sweet job—like garbage collecting.

  As he opened the door to the lobby he muttered to himself, “Well, you promised Mother you’d have a white-collar job,” and closed the door quietly.

  Novak’s heels clicked across lobby marble as he walked toward the hotel exit. Beside him Jimmy Grant materialized. “Gee, Pete, what a dish that Miss Norton, huh?”

  “Sure is. Now get the gleam out of your eyes, sonny.”

  “New luggage, Pete. Had that store smell. And heavy. Boy, them bags musta had a dozen gold ingots apiece.”