The Empty Hours (8 page)

“...
Reynolds, Ralph,” the chief was saying, “Isola, four. Caught burgling an
apartment on North Third. No statement. How about it, Ralph?”

“How
about what?”

“You do
this sort of thing often?”

“What
sort of thing?”

“Burglary.”

“I’m no
burglar,” Reynolds said.

“I’ve
got his B-sheet here,” the chief said. “Arrested for burglary in 1948, witness
withdrew her testimony, claimed she had mistakenly identified him. Arrested
again for burglary in 1952, convicted for Burglary One, sentenced to ten at
Castleview, paroled in ‘58 on good behavior. You’re back at the old stand,
huh, Ralph?”

“No,
not me. I’ve been straight ever since I got out.”

“Then
what were you doing in that apartment during the middle of the night?”

“I was
a little drunk. I must have walked into the wrong building.”

“What
do you mean?”

“I
thought it was my apartment.”

“Where
do you live, Ralph?”

“On . .
.uh . . .well.”

“Come
on, Ralph.”

“Well,
I live on South Fifth.”

“And
the apartment you were in last night is on North Third. You must have been
pretty drunk to wander that far off course.”

“Yeah,
I guess I was pretty drunk.”

“Woman
in that apartment said you hit her when she woke up. Is that true, Ralph?”

“No.
No, hey, I never hit her.”

“She
says so, Ralph.”

“Well,
she’s mistaken.”

“Well,
now, a doctor’s report says somebody clipped her on the jaw, Ralph, now how
about that?”

“Well,
maybe.”

“Yes or
no?”

“Well,
maybe when she started screaming she got me nervous. I mean, you know, I
thought it was my apartment and all.”

“Ralph,
you were burgling that apartment. How about telling us the truth?”

“No, I
got in there by mistake.”

“How’d
you get in?”

“The
door was open.”

“In the
middle of the night, huh? The door was open?”

“Yeah.”

“You
sure you didn’t pick the lock or something, huh?”

“No,
no. Why would I do that? I thought it was my apartment.”

“Ralph,
what were you doing with burglar’s tools?”

“Who?
Who me? Those weren’t burglar’s tools.”

“Then
what are they? You had a glass cutter, and a bunch of jimmies, and some
punches, and a drill and bits, and three celluloid strips, and some
lock-picking tools, and eight skeleton keys. Those sound like burglar’s tools
to me, Ralph.”

“No, I’m
a carpenter.”

“Yeah,
you’re a carpenter all right, Ralph. We searched your apartment, Ralph, and
found a couple of things we’re curious about. Do you always keep sixteen wrist
watches and four typewriters and twelve bracelets and eight rings and a mink
stole and three sets of silverware, Ralph?”

“Yeah.
I’m a collector.”

“Of
other people’s things. We also found four hundred dollars in American currency
and five thousand dollars in French francs.

“Where’d
you get that money, Ralph?”

“Which?”

“Whichever
you feel like telling us about.”

“Well,
the U.S. stuff I ... I won at the track. And the other, well, a Frenchman owed
me some gold, and so he paid me in francs. That’s all.”

“We’re
checking our stolen-goods list right this minute, Ralph.”

“So
check!” Reynolds said, suddenly angry. “What the hell do you want from me? Work
for your goddamn living! You want it all on a platter! Like fun! I told you
everything I’m gonna . . .”

“Get
him out of here,” the chief said. “Next, Blake, Donald, Bethtown, two. Attempted
rape. No statement . . .”

Bert
Kling made himself comfortable on the folding chair and began to doze again.

* * * *

11

The check made out to George
Badueck was numbered 018. It was a small check., five dollars. It did not seem
very important to Carella., but it was one of the unexplained three, and he decided
to give it a whirl.

Badueck,
as it turned out, was a photographer. His shop was directly across the street
from the County Court Building in Isola. A sign in his window advised that he
took photographs for chauffeurs’ licenses, hunting licenses, passports, taxicab
permits, pistol permits, and the like. The shop was small and crowded. Badueck
fitted into the shop like a beetle in an ant trap. He was a huge man with
thick, unruly black hair and the smell of developing fluid on him.

“Who
remembers?” he said. “I get millions of people in here every day of the week.
They pay me in cash, they pay me with checks, they’re ugly, they’re pretty,
they’re skinny, they’re fat, they all look the same on the pictures I take.
Lousy. They all look like I’m photographing them for you guys. You never see
any of these official-type pictures? Man, they look like mug shots, all of
them. So who remembers this . . . what’s her name? Claudia Davis, yeah.
Another face that’s all. Another mug shot. Why? Is the check bad or something?”

“No, it’s
a good check.”

“So
what’s the fuss?”

“No
fuss,” Carella said. “Thanks a lot.”

He
sighed and went out into the August heat. The County Court Building across the
street was white and Gothic in the sunshine. He wiped a handkerchief across
his forehead and thought,
Another face, that’s all.
Sighing, he crossed
the street and entered the building. It was cool in the high vaulted
corridors. He consulted the directory and went up to the Bureau of Motor
Vehicles first. He asked the clerk there if anyone named Claudia Davis had
applied for a license requiring a photograph.

“We
only require pictures on chauffeurs’ licenses,” the clerk said.

“Well,
would you check?” Carella asked.

“Sure.
Might take a few minutes, though. Would you have a seat?”

Carella
sat. It was very cool. It felt like October. He looked at his watch. It was almost
time for lunch, and he was getting hungry. The clerk came back and motioned
him over.

“We’ve
got a Claudia Davis listed,” he said, “but she’s already got a license, and she
didn’t apply for a new one.”

“What
kind of license?”

“Operator’s.”

“When
does it expire?”

“Next
September.”

“And
she hasn’t applied for anything needing a photo?”

“Nope.
Sorry.”

“That’s
all right. Thanks,” Carella said.

He went
out into the corridor again. He hardly thought it likely that Claudia Davis had
applied for a permit to own or operate a taxicab, so he skipped the Hack Bureau
and went upstairs to Pistol Permits. The woman he spoke to there was very kind
and very efficient. She checked her files and told him that no one named
Claudia Davis had ever applied for either a carry or a premises pistol permit.
Carella thanked her and went into the hall again. He was very hungry. His
stomach was beginning to growl. He debated having lunch and then returning and
decided,
Hell, I’d better get it done now.

The man
behind the counter in the Passport Bureau was old and thin and he wore a green
eyeshade. Carella asked his question, and the old man went to his files and
creakingly returned to the window.

“That’s
right,” he said.

“What’s
right?”

“She
did. Claudia Davis. She applied for a passport.”

“When?”

The old
man checked the slip of paper in his trembling hands. “July twentieth,” he
said.

“Did
you give it to her?”

“We
accepted her application, sure. Isn’t us who issues the passports. We’ve got to
send the application on to Washington.”

“But
you did accept it?”

“Sure,
why not? Had all the necessary stuff. Why shouldn’t we accept it?”

“What
was the necessary stuff?”

“Two
photos, proof of citizenship, filled-out application, and cash.”

“What
did she show as proof of citizenship?”

“Her
birth certificate.”

“Where
was she born?”

“California.”

“She
paid you in cash?”

“That’s
right.”

“Not a
check?”

“Nope.
She started to write a check, but the blamed pen was on the blink. We use
ballpoints, you know, and it gave out after she filled in the application. So
she paid me in cash. It’s not all that much money, you know.”

“I see.
Thank you,” Carella said.

“Not at
all,” the old man replied, and he creaked back to his files to replace the record
on Claudia Davis.

* * * *

The check was numbered 007, and
it was dated July twelfth, and it was made out to a woman named Martha Feldelson.

Miss Feldelson
adjusted her pince-nez and looked at the check. Then she moved some papers
aside on the small desk in the cluttered office, and put the check down, and
leaned closer to it, and studied it again.

“Yes,”
she said, “that check was made out to me. Claudia Davis wrote it right in this
office.” Miss Feldelson smiled. “If you can call it an office. Desk space and a
telephone. But then, I’m just starting, you know.”

“How
long have you been a travel agent, Miss Feldelson?”

“Six
months now. It’s very exciting work.”

“Had
you ever booked a trip for Miss Davis before?”

“No.
This was the first time.”

“Did
someone refer her to you?”

“No.
She picked my name out of the phone book.”

“And
asked you to arrange this trip for her, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And
this check? What’s it for?”

“Her
airline tickets, and deposits at several hotels.”

“Hotels
where?”

“In
Paris and Dijon. And then another in Lausanne, Switzerland.”

“She
was going to Europe?”

“Yes.
From Lausanne she was heading down to the Italian Riviera. I was working on
that for her, too. Getting transportation and the hotels, you know.”