The lineup bored the hell out of Kling. It always did. It was like seeing a stage show for the hundredth time. Every now and then somebody stopped the show with a really good routine. But usually it was the same old song and dance. It wasn’t any different that Wednesday. By the time the eighth offender had been paraded and subjected to the chief’s bludgeoning interrogation, Kling was beginning to doze. The detective sitting next to him nudged him gently in the ribs.
“...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 US 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, $5. 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.