The Empty Hours (4 page)

“Two”
Hawes
corrected. “One of them’s been in the police garage for a month now.”

“Meyer
went down to see about it the other day.”

“What’d
they say? Was it ready?”

“No,
the mechanic told him there were four patrol cars ahead of the sedan, and they
took precedence. Now how about that?”

“Sure,
it figures. I’ve still got a chit in for the gas I used, you know that?”

“Forget
it. I’ve never got back a cent I laid out for gas.”

“What’d
Meyer do about the car?”

“He
slipped the mechanic five bucks. Maybe that’ll speed him up.”

“You
know what the city ought to do?” Hawes said. “They ought to buy some of those
used taxicabs. Pick them up for two or three hundred bucks, paint them over,
and give them out to the squads. Some of them are still in pretty good
condition.”

“Well,
it’s an idea,” Carella said dubiously, and they entered the building. They
found Mrs. Miller, the manager, in an office at the rear of the ornate entrance
lobby. She was a woman in her early forties with a well-preserved figure and a
very husky voice. She wore her hair piled on the top of her head, a pencil
stuck rakishly into the reddish-brown heap. She looked at the photostated check
and said, “Oh, yes, of course.”

“You
knew Miss Davis?”

“Yes,
she lived here for a long time.”

“How
long?”

“Five
years.”

“When
did she move out?”

“At the
end of June.” Mrs. Miller crossed her splendid legs and smiled graciously. The
legs were remarkable for a woman of her age, and the smile was almost radiant.
She moved with an expert femininity, a calculated, conscious fluidity of flesh
that suggested availability and yet was totally respectable. She seemed to have
devoted a lifetime to learning the ways and wiles of the female and now
practiced them with facility and charm. She was pleasant to be with, this
woman, pleasant to watch and to hear, and to think of touching. Carella and
Hawes, charmed to their shoes, found themselves relaxing in her presence.

“This
check,” Carella said, tapping the photostat. “What was it for?”

“June’s
rent. I received it on the tenth of July. Claudia always paid her rent by the
tenth of the month. She was a very good tenant.”

“The
apartment cost seven hundred and fifty dollars a month?”

“Yes.”

“Isn’t
that high for an apartment?”

“Not in
Stewart City,” Mrs. Miller said gently. “And this was a river-front apartment.”

“I see.
I take it Miss Davis had a good job.”

“No,
no, she doesn’t have a job at all.”

“Then
how could she afford . . . ?”

“Well,
she’s rather well off, you know.”

“Where
does she get the money, Mrs. Miller?”

“Well .
. .” Mrs. Miller shrugged. “I really think you should ask
her,
don’t
you? I mean, if this is something concerning Claudia, shouldn’t you . . . ?”

“Mrs.
Miller,” Carella said, “Claudia Davis is dead.”

“What?”

“She’s
. . .”

“What?
No. No.” She shook her head. “Claudia? But the check ... I ... the check came
only last month.” She shook her head again. “No. No.”

“She’s
dead, Mrs. Miller,” Carella said gently. “She was strangled.”

The
charm faltered for just an instant. Revulsion knifed the eyes of Mrs. Miller,
the eyelids flickered, it seemed for an instant that the pupils would turn
shining and wet, that the carefully lipsticked mouth would crumble. And then
something inside took over, something that demanded control, something that
reminded her that a charming woman does not weep and cause her fashionable eye
make-up to run.

“I’m
sorry,” she said, almost in a whisper. “I am really, really sorry. She was a
nice person.”

“Can
you tell us what you know about her, Mrs. Miller?”

“Yes.
Yes, of course.” She shook her head again, unwilling to accept the idea. “That’s
terrible. That’s terrible. Why, she was only a baby.”

“We
figured her for thirty, Mrs. Miller. Are we wrong?”

“She
seemed younger, but perhaps that was because . . . well, she was a rather shy
person. Even when she first came here, there was an air of
— well,
lostness about her. Of course, that was right after her parents died, so . . .”

“Where
did she come from, Mrs. Miller?”

“California.
Santa Monica.”

Carella
nodded. “You were starting to tell us ... you said she was rather well off.
Could you ... ?”

“Well,
the stock, you know.”

“What
stock?”

“Her
parents had set up a securities trust account for her. When they died, Claudia
began receiving the income from the stock. She was an only child, you know.”

“And
she lived on stock dividends alone?”

“They
amounted to quite a bit. Which she saved, I might add. She was a very systematic
person, not at all frivolous. When she received a dividend check, she would
endorse it and take it straight to the bank. Claudia was a very sensible girl.”

“Which
bank, Mrs. Miller?”

“The
Highland Trust. Right down the street. On Cromwell Avenue.”

“I see,”
Carella said. “Was she dating many men? Would you know?”

“I don’t
think so. She kept pretty much to herself. Even after Josie came.”

Carella
leaned forward. “Josie? Who’s Josie?”

“Josie
Thompson. Josephine, actually. Her cousin.”

“And
where did
she
come from?”

“California.
They both came from California.”

“And
how can we get in touch with this Josie Thompson?”

“Well,
she . . . Don’t you know? Haven’t you ... ?”

“What,
Mrs. Miller?”

“Why,
Josie is dead. Josie passed on in June. That’s why Claudia moved, I suppose. I
suppose she couldn’t bear the thought of living in that apartment without
Josie. It
is
a little frightening, isn’t it?”

“Yes,”
Carella said.

* * * *

6

The drive upstate to Triangle Lake was a particularly scenic one,
and since it was August, and since Sunday was supposed to be Carella’s day off,
he thought he might just as well combine a little business with pleasure. So he
put the top of the car down, and he packed Teddy into the front seat together
with a picnic lunch and a gallon Thermos of iced coffee, and he forgot all
about Claudia Davis on the drive up through the mountains. Carella found it
easy to forget about almost anything when he was with his wife.

Teddy,
as far as he was concerned
— and his astute judgment had been backed
up by many a street-corner whistle — was only the most beautiful woman in the
world. He could never understand how he, a hairy, corny, ugly, stupid, clumsy
cop, had managed to capture anyone as wonderful as Theodora Franklin. But
capture
her he had, and he sat beside her now in the open car and stole
sidelong glances at her as he drove, excited as always by her very presence.

Her
black hair, always wild, seemed to capture something of the wind’s frenzy as it
whipped about the oval of her face. Her brown eyes were partially squinted
against the rush of air over the windshield. She wore a white blouse
emphatically curved over a full bosom, black tapered slacks form-fitted over
generous hips and good legs. She had kicked off her sandals and folded her
knees against her breasts, her bare feet pressed against the glove-compartment
panel. There was about her, Carella realized, a curious combination of savage
and sophisticate. You never knew whether she was going to kiss you or slug you,
and the uncertainty kept her eternally desirable and exciting.