“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.”
“When did she plan to leave?”
“September first.”
“Well, that explains the luggage and the clothes,” Carella said aloud.
“I’m sorry,” Miss Feldelson said, and she smiled and raised her eyebrows.
“Nothings nothing,” Carella said. “What was your impression of Miss Davis?”
“Oh, that’s hard to say. She was only here once, you understand.” Miss Feldelson 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 Feldelson 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 Feldelson 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 desk top.
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 eleventh, and written to a man named David Oblinsky in the amount of $45.75. Carella had his lunch at two-thirty 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.”