The Empty Hours (11 page)

“I’m a
detective,’ Carella said. He opened his wallet to where his shield was pinned
to the leather. “You cashed a check for Miss Claudia Davis sometime in July. An
insurance-company check for twenty-five thousand dollars. Would you happen to
remember it?”

“No,
sir, I don’t think I handled it.”

“Would
you check around and see who did, please?”

The
girl held a brief consultation with the other girls, and then walked to a desk
behind which sat a corpulent, balding man with a razor-thin mustache. They
talked with each other for a full five minutes. The man kept waving his hands.
The girl kept trying to explain about the insurance-company check. The bell
over the front door sounded. Bert Kling came in, looked around, saw Carella,
and joined him at the counter.

“All
done?” Carella asked.

“Yeah,
I bought her a charm for her bracelet. How about you?”

“They’re
holding a summit meeting,” Carella said.

The fat
man waddled over to the counter. “What is the trouble?” he asked Carella.

“No
trouble. Did you cash a check for twenty-five thousand dollars?”

“Yes.
Is the check no good?”

“It’s a
good check.”

“It
looked like a good check. It was an insurance-company check. The young lady
waited while we called the company. They said it was bona fide and we should
accept it. Was it a bad check?”

“No,
no, it was fine.”

“She
had identification. It all seemed very proper.”

“What
did she show you?”

“A
driver’s license or a passport is what we usually require. But she had neither.
We accepted her birth certificate. After all, we
did
call the company.
Is the check no good?”

“It’s
fine. But the check was for twenty-five thousand, and we’re trying to find out
what happened to five thousand of . . .”

“Oh,
yes. The francs.”

“What?”

“She
bought five thousand dollars’ worth of French francs,” the fat man said. “She
was going abroad?”

“Yes,
she was going abroad,” Carella said. He sighed heavily. “Well, that’s that. I
guess.”

“It all
seemed very proper,” the fat man insisted.

“Oh, it
was, it was. Thank you. Come on, Bert.”

They
walked down Hall Avenue in si
lence.

“Beats
me,” Carella said.

“What’s
that, Steve?”

“This
case.” He sighed again. “Oh, what the hell!”

“Yeah,
let’s get some coffee. What was all that business about the francs?”

“She
bought five thousand dollars’ worth of francs,” Carella said.

“The
French are getting a big play lately, huh?” Kling said, smiling. “Here’s a
place. This look okay?”

“Yeah,
fine.” Carella pulled open the door of the luncheonette. “What do you mean,
Bert?”

“With
the francs.”

“What
about them?”

“The
exchange rate must be very good.”

“I don’t
get you.”

“You
know. All those francs kicking around.”

“Bert, what
the hell are you talking about?”

“Weren’t
you with me? Last Wednesday?”

“With
you where?”

“The
line-up. I thought you were with me.”

“No, I
wasn’t,” Carella said tiredly.

“Oh,
well, that’s why.”

“That’s
why what? Bert, for the love of. . .”

“That’s
why you don’t remember him.”

“Who?”

“The
punk they brought in on that burglary pickup. They found five grand in French
francs in his apartment.”

Carella
felt as if he’d just been hit by a truck.

* * * *

16

It had been crazy from the
beginning. Some of them are like that. The girl had looked black, but she was
really white. They thought she was Claudia Davis, but she was Josie Thompson.
And they had been looking for a murderer when all there happened to be was a
burglar.

They
brought him up from his cell where he was awaiting trial for Burglary One. He
came up in an elevator with a police escort. The police van had dropped him
off at the side door of the Criminal Courts Building, and he had entered the
corridor under guard and been marched down through the connecting tunnel and
into the building that housed the district attorney’s office, and then taken
into the elevator. The door of the elevator opened into a tiny room upstairs.
The other door of the room was locked from the outside and a sign on it read No
ADMITTANCE.

The
patrolman who’d brought Ralph Reynolds up to the interrogation room stood with
his back against the elevator door all the while the detectives talked to him,
and his right hand was on the butt of his Police Special.

“I
never heard of her,’ Reynolds said.

“Claudia
Davis,” Carella said. “Or Josie Thompson. Take your choice.”

“I don’t
know either one of them. What the hell
is
this? You got me on a burglary
rap, now you try to pull in everything was done in this city?”

“Who
said anything was done, Reynolds?”

“If
nothing was done, why’d you drag me up here?”

“They
found five thousand bucks in French francs in your pad, Reynolds. Where’d you
get it?”

“Who
wants to know?”

“Don’t
get snotty, Reynolds! Where’d you get that money?”

“A guy
owed it to me. He paid me in francs. He was a French guy.”

“What’s
his name?”

“I can’t
remember.”

“You’d
better start trying.”

“Pierre
something.”

“Pierre
what?” Meyer said.

“Pierre
La Salle, something like that. I didn’t know him too good.”

“But
you lent him five grand, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“What
were you doing on the night of August first?”

“Why?
What happened on August first?”

“You
tell us.”

“I don’t
know what I was doing.”

“Were
you working?”

“I’m
unemployed.”

“You
know what we mean!”

“No.
What do you mean?”

“Were
you breaking into apartments?”

“No.”

“Speak
up! Yes or no?”

“I said
no.”

“He’s
lying, Steve,’ Meyer said.

“Sure
he is.”

“Yeah,
sure I am. Look, cop, you got nothing on me but Burglary One, if that. And that
you gotta prove in court. So stop trying to hang anything else on me. You ain’t
got a chance.”

“Not
unless those prints check out,” Carella said quickly.

“What
prints?”

“The
prints we found on the dead girl’s throat,” Carella lied.

“I was
wearing . . . !”

The small
room went as still as death.

Reynolds
sighed heavily. He looked at the floor.

“You
want to tell us?”

“No,’
he said. “Go to hell.”

He
finally told them. After twelve hours of repeated questioning he finally broke
down. He hadn’t meant to kill her, he said. He didn’t even know anybody was in
the apartment. He had looked in the bedroom, and the bed was empty. He hadn’t
seen her asleep in one of the chairs, fully dressed. He had found the French
money in a big jar on one of the shelves over the sink. He had taken the money
and then accidentally dropped the jar, and she woke up and came into the room
and saw him and began screaming. So he grabbed her by the throat. He only meant
to shut her up. But she kept struggling. She was very strong. He kept holding on,
but only to shut her up. She kept struggling, so he had to hold on. She kept
struggling as if ... as if he’s really been trying to kill her, as if she didn’t
want to lose her life. But that was manslaughter, wasn’t it? He wasn’t trying
to kill her. That wasn’t homicide, was it?

“I didn’t
mean to kill her!” he shouted as they took him into the elevator. “She began
screaming! I’m not a killer! Look at me! Do I look like a killer?” And then, as
the elevator began dropping to the basement, he shouted, “I’m a burglar!” as
if proud of his profession, as if stating that he was something more than a
common thief, a trained workman, a skilled artisan. “I’m not a killer! I’m a
burglar!” he screamed. “I’m not a killer! I’m not a killer!” And his voice
echoed down the elevator shaft as the car dropped to the basement and the
waiting van.

They
sat in the small room for several moments after he was gone.

“Hot in
here,” Meyer said.

“Yeah.”
Carella nodded.

“What’s
the matter?”

“Nothing.”

“Maybe
he’s right,” Meyer said. “Maybe he’s only a burglar.”

“He
stopped being that the minute he stole a life, Meyer.”

“Josie
Thompson stole a life, too.”

“No,”
Carella said. He shook his head. “She only borrowed one. There’s a difference,
Meyer.”

The
room went silent.

“You
feel like some coffee?” Meyer asked.

“Sure.”

They
took the elevator down and then walked out into the brilliant August sunshine.
The streets were teeming with life. They walked into the human swarm, but they
were curiously silent.

At last
Carella said, “I guess I think she shouldn’t be dead. I guess I think that
someone who tried so hard to make a life shouldn’t have had it taken away from
her.”

Meyer
put his hand on Carella’s shoulder. “Listen,” he said earnestly. “It’s a job.
It’s only a job.”

“Sure,”
Carella said. “It’s only a job.”

* * * *