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 12, and it was made out to a woman named Martha Fedelson.
Miss Fedelson 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 Fedelson 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 Fedelson?”
“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.”
“When did she plan to leave?”
“September first.”
“Well, that explains the luggage and the clothes,” Carella said aloud.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Fedelson said, and she smiled and raised her eyebrows.
“Nothing, nothing,” Carella said. “What was your impression of Miss Davis?”
“Oh, that’s hard to say. She was only here once, you understand.” Miss Fedelson thought for a moment, and then said, “I suppose she could have been a pretty girl if she tried, but she wasn’t trying. Her hair was short and dark, and she seemed rather — well, withdrawn, I guess. She didn’t take her sunglasses off all the while she was here. I suppose you would call her shy. Or frightened. I don’t know.” Miss Fedelson smiled again. “Have I helped you any?”
“Well, now we know she was going abroad,” Carella said.
“September is a good time to go,” Miss Fedelson answered. “In September the tourists have all gone home.” There was a wistful sound to her voice. Carella thanked her for her time and left the small office with its travel folders on the cluttered desktop.
12
He was running out of checks and running out of ideas. Everything seemed to point toward a girl in flight, a girl in hiding, but what was there to hide, what was there to run from? Josie Thompson had been in that boat alone. The coroner’s jury had labeled it accidental drowning. The insurance company hadn’t contested Claudia’s claim, and they’d given her a legitimate check that she could have cashed anywhere in the world. And yet there was hiding, and there was flight — and he couldn’t understand why.
He took the list of remaining checks from his pocket. The girl’s shoemaker, the girl’s hairdresser, a florist, a candy shop. None of them truly important. And the remaining check made out to an individual, the check numbered 006 and dated July 11, and written to a man named David Oblinsky in the amount of $45.75. Carella had his lunch at 2:30 and then went downtown. He found Oblinsky in a diner near the bus terminal. Oblinsky was sitting on one of the counter stools, and he was drinking a cup of coffee. He asked Carella to join him, and Carella did.
“You traced me through that check, huh?” he said. “The phone company gave you my number and my address, huh? I’m unlisted, you know. They ain’t suppose to give out my number.”
“Well, they made a special concession because it was police business.”
“Yeah, well, suppose the cops called and asked for Marlon Brando’s number? You think they’d give it out? Like hell they would. I don’t like that. No, sir, I don’t like it one damn bit.”
“What do you do, Mr. Oblinsky? Is there a reason for the unlisted number?”
“I drive a cab is what I do. Sure there’s a reason. It’s classy to have an unlisted number. Didn’t you know that?”
Carella smiled. “No, I didn’t.”
“Sure, it is.”
“Why did Claudia Davis give you this check?” Carella asked.
“Well, I work for a cab company here in this city, you see. But usually on weekends or on my day off I use my own car and I take people on long trips, you know what I mean? Like to the country, or the mountains, or the beach, wherever they want to go. I don’t care. I’ll take them wherever they want to go.”
“I see.”
“Sure. So in June sometime, the beginning of June it was, I get a call from this guy I know up at Triangle Lake, he tells me there’s a rich broad there who needs somebody to drive her Caddy back to the city for her. He said it was worth thirty bucks if I was willing to take the train up and the heap back. I told him, no sir, I wanted forty-five or it was no deal. I knew I had him over a barrel, you understand? He’d already told me he checked with the local hicks and none of them felt like making the ride. So he said he would talk it over with her and get back to me. Well, he called again... you know, it burns me up about the phone company. They ain’t suppose to give out my number like that. Suppose it was Marilyn Monroe? You think they’d give out her number? I’m gonna raise a stink about this, believe me.”
“What happened when he called you back?”
“Well, he said she was willing to pay forty-five, but like could I wait until July sometime when she would send me a check because she was a little short right at the moment. So I figured what the hell, am I going to get stiffed by a dame who’s driving a 196 °Caddy? I figured I could trust her until July. But I also told him, if that was the case, then I also wanted her to pay the tolls on the way back, which I don’t ordinarily ask my customers to do. That’s what the seventy-five cents was for. The tolls.”