Chapter V - The Heavens Open

Before I could call it a night, I had to swing by the office. I had a couple housekeeping duties to attend to, for one thing. For another thing, I needed to make sure that Nora really wasn’t there, waiting for me to put in an appearance. It would be typically Nora of her to sit up all night, just so she could give me the grand “gotcha” in the morning.

I was relieved to find that she was not sitting alone in a darkened office. But she had left my desk lamp on, sitting on the floor so as not to beam out through the window. That meant there was something for me to see.

Lifting the lamp, I saw what I was meant to find. There, on my desk, was a grease-stained cardboard box, some paper napkins, a bottle of schnapps, and two shot glasses, one used. I lifted up the lid of the box and – wouldn’t you know it? Two pieces of fried chicken. Beneath the bottle was a note, written in big block letters, and sporting a pair of small spots which I took to be chicken grease.

“I STARTED THE CELEBRATION WITHOUT YOU,” it read.

That was fair. We usually commemorated the closing of a case right away, and without the traditional festivities, the matter of Mr. And Mrs. Luther Malone and Luther’s Good Friend Candy remained officially unresolved. On the other hand, we didn’t usually open a brand new case on the same day. Up until the moment Frances Carroll found her way into my office, the usual plan was in effect. I couldn’t feel too badly, though. With the Carroll case humming along, we’d be breaking out the schnapps again real soon. In fact, with a few more of those Presidential portraits from Mrs. Carroll’s bag, maybe we could clink glasses in style, with some decent swill for a change. Besides, Nora couldn’t be too mad at me, since she saved me some of lunch. And bless her heart, because I was famished.

Setting myself down at the desk, I took a long look at the chicken. But first things first. I slid over the clean glass and ceremoniously poured myself a shot.

“Another one in the books, Eddie.” And with that benediction, I tossed it back. It was a dry schnapps, leeched of any flavor, and when the bitter, alkaline taste hit the back of my throat, my face contorted into bizarre, twisted expressions. That always happened. Which is odd, because I can down whiskey with the best of them. I slammed the glass on the desk and gasped. Awful stuff, schnapps. Lord knows why he drank it.

Eddie Staub. A stand-up guy, even if he had rotten taste in booze. A pretty decent detective, too. I served him faithfully for three years, the perfect secretary. Over time, I learned what he did and how he did it. And the him-doing-it part was just fine by me. He had the lousy hours, the moral quandaries, the occasional lump on the skull. Me, I got a regular paycheck and the occasional two a.m. wake-up call to help him out when he was in a bigger bind than usual. What more could a girl want?

Then Emperor Hirohito came along and changed everything. It hadn’t occurred to me that Hawaii was actually part of America, but from the way everyone got up in arms, there might as well have been a squadron of Zeros over Trenton. And ol’ Eddie Staub, well, he did what any decent American man would. On December 8, he read the paper with the appropriate shock and disgust, and on December 9, he marched down to the recruiting office, saying he’d served his time in this man’s Navy, and if it meant the chance to kill him some Nips, he was ready for more. As it happened, “private detective” was preceded on his résumé by “Naval officer”, so they took his kind offer most gratefully. Even gave him a commission. Which is how, barely a year later, a private eye from Camden, New Jersey found himself at some godforsaken place in the South Pacific called Tassafaronga Point. And it was there that Lieutenant Commander Edgar Allan Staub met his untimely demise at the hands of a torpedo, delivered courtesy of the Japanese Imperial Navy. His ship, a heavy cruiser called the U. S. S. Northampton, would find a home on the ocean floor a few hours later, but it was Staub who left me holding the bag. I’m not bitter about it. It just threw a giant wrench into my long-term plans.

They buried him in San Diego, in what I’m told is a beautiful cemetery, which was both a nice gesture for him and a real time-saver for me. After all, I was busy serving as caretaker for the business, the way I had been for the past year. I kept the regular clients happy, and when the finances got a little tight, I’d even take a case, under the pretense that “Mr. Staub is far too busy to meet you personally, but I’d be happy to fill him in on the details.” Yeah, getting ready to meet your maker in the Solomon Islands will keep you occupied. But people were fooled, or they were willing to play dumb in order to get our services. And the offices of Eddie Staub, Private Investigator soldiered on, despite the absence of the titular hero.

But when the nice man in the black uniform came to tell me that having Eddie’s name in the office window was now a posthumous honor, it all went to hell. With no detective, it wasn’t much of a detective agency, and I was out of a job. So I started trying to tie up loose ends, and prepare for the unenviable task of competing for a job at the Philadelphia Naval Yard. Turns out there’s a lot of women wanting to be riveters. Stopping to make funeral arrangements was the furthest thing from my mind.

The funny thing about the detective business, though, is how hard it is to get out of it. Here I was, trying to get rid of clients, and new ones kept showing up. And, sucker that I am, I took them on. Nora was no help. Within six months of her taking over my old desk, we were back to being a full-blown agency. It was only last month that she pulled the trick with the names on the window. Evidently, she was counting on me to stay a detective, just like I had for Eddie. Let’s hope I do better than he did.

I took a bite off a drumstick. It tasted good. Really good. Probably better than it actually was, I’m sure. I suppose I need to start eating food on a semi-regular basis. Unfortunately, at the time I’m supposed to be having breakfast or lunch, food seems like the most appalling thing in the world. It’s only at the end of the day that it occurs to me that food fuels the body, and then I’ll end up eating anything. Like the drumstick.

Which was stripped clean by the time I finished that thought. Boy, I was really hungry.

I finished up my evening feast in a hurry. Wiping off as much grease as I could, I spun in my chair to take in the nighttime view of the city. It was a lousy view. The war had brought about the advent of blackouts, presumably to prevent enemy planes from finding their intended targets. From the Navy Yard to the New York Ship foundry to the RCA plant, there were a lot of good bulls-eyes. But to be honest, I didn’t see how turning out all the lights was going to help much. I don’t think London got hammered because the Luftwaffe followed the streetlights. Besides, they attacked Pearl Harbor in broad daylight. Not that you need to be able to see to find Camden anyway. The pilot could probably just stick his head out of the cockpit and follow the smell of soup.

From the desk drawer, I pulled a clean envelope. I retrieved my notes on the case from my coat pocket and slid them into the envelope. With a pencil, I wrote a tiny “63” in the corner. It was a simple code: Frances Carroll’s initials, translated into numbers from their positions in the alphabet. I always used it while a case was open; Lauren Malone had been 1213 until Nora took her to the bank. The number told me about the contents, and meant nothing to a snoop. Tidy. And fortunately, I’ve never had two clients with the same initials at the same time. If that happens, I’m in real trouble.

I dropped the envelope back into the drawer, tossing a couple extra napkins on top in an effort to make things look supremely casual. Then I cleaned up. The final touch was to put the schnapps on Nora’s desk. I added a new note for her to find.

“WE’LL DO THIS AGAIN SOON.”

Zelda and I rolled past the Rialto, which was still showcasing a new movie called Redhead from Manhattan. I was tempted for about five seconds to pull over and catch a show, before I decided that I wasn’t up to seeing Lupe Velez play twins, and continued on home.

I pulled into the drive of a modest looking two-story house on the edge of Pennsauken. I lived upstairs from the garage. Nobody lived in the house. It used to host the Scarlattis, a raucous Italian clan with voices to rival trumpeting elephants. It was an ongoing cataclysm at the Scarlattis. Sometimes they were yelling at each other so loud as to bring down chandeliers across the state. But more often, they were celebrating something. Didn’t matter what. As far as they were concerned, anything was a good excuse for a celebration. The first time I went to knock on their door to complain about the racket, I got dragged into a huge dinner being held in honor of little Dom Scarlatti finally getting a B in spelling. When I finally staggered back up the stairs five hours later, I was soaked in chianti, suffering from a horrible case of heartburn thanks to the delicious-but-deadly stuffed peppers, and convinced that this was the best party I had ever attended.

I was wrong, of course. There would be other parties in the Scarlatti house that far outdid the Great Spelling Extravaganza. And there was never an invitation or a knock on the door beckoning me to come on over. It just got really loud, and I could either go about my business, or take a stroll and get caught in the unruly undertow.

That had all ended back in March, when I stopped by to drop off the rent and found an empty house. I realized that I hadn’t heard a peep out of my neighbors in a few days. It turned out they all packed up one morning and left. I asked around, but the neighbors either didn’t know where the Scarlattis had gone, or they weren’t inclined to tell me. It was strange, and it’s precisely the kind of thing that a detective ought to be investigating. But I decided I didn’t want to know. Maybe my motives were selfish; it still says “Scarlatti” on the mailbox, so no one has come by to move in and possibly kick me to the curb. And my rent has never been lower. Don’t make waves, and you won’t get wet. So I resigned myself to their sudden departure, and braced myself for the potential arrival of someone who couldn’t possibly be as much fun. It hasn’t happened yet.

I had to get out to lift up the garage door. A gust of wind caught me, and my hat tugged at the bobby pins holding it in place. I rushed to get Zelda tucked in, and then scampered up the stairs.

I slammed the door shut on an increasingly angry wind. Evidently, the wrath of Thor was coming to wash away the scent of condensed soup from the city. I slid the chain into the lock. With weather like this, I was in for the evening.

I filled a teapot with water and put it on the stove. While the heat rose, I turned on the radio. The tail end of Time Marches On filled me in on the latest war news. While accounts of front lines and rear guards filled the air, I began tossing my clothes to the floor. Very sloppy of me. I’d pick up in the morning.

The apartment was, shall we say, spartan in decor. The bed, a small table and a couple chairs, a sideboard, all second-hand. I never seemed to have the time to stop by Wanamaker’s and pick up some new furnishings. What can I say? It was never my top priority. It’s not as though I spent a lot of time at home.

I filled a strainer with tea leaves and dropped it in the pot. The Lux Radio Hour had come on. Awful show. They were always taking great movies, removing the pictures, along with everything else that was good about the story in the first place, and condensing it into an hour. Their powers of destruction were uncanny. This particular installment was The Phantom of the Opera, starring Nelson Eddy and Basil Rathbone. I immediately decided to pass. This wasn’t even scary as a movie. Sure, you’ve got Basil Rathbone as your Phantom, so he has this deep, velvety British voice, which is nice and creepy. But then along comes your hero, and it’s Nelson Eddy. I can’t listen to his voice. I keep picturing him dressed as a Mountie. Never put Nelson Eddy in your horror movie. Just sucks the terror right out of the room.

As I started some water in the tub, a lightning flash brightened up the sky enough to delight the most myopic German pilot, followed closely by a thunderclap that rocked the walls. The downpour would follow shortly. That settled it. I flicked off the radio and pulled on a nightgown. Filling a cup with tea, I went into the bathroom, dragging a chair behind me.

The water was just shy of scalding. Perfect. I sat back in the chair and draped my legs over the side of the tub, letting my feat soak up the wonderful warm moisture. Right as I shut off the tap, I heard pellets of rain start to rattle the roof. More than perfect. I took at deep breath filled with the scent of tea – an Earl Grey – and closed my eyes. For a moment, I allowed myself to imagine I was in Bermuda, and that a brisk summer rain was coming down, while I was securely in my hut, enjoying the tropical waters and a fine exotic brew. For about five seconds, I had myself convinced.

Giving up on my little vacation, I instead thought about what I was going to tell my new client. I’d probably set up an appointment in the next day or two. Then I’d lay out the known whereabouts of her brother-in-law. That’s the carrot. If they take the bait, you can milk them for as long as a couple weeks. If not, you seal that envelope, take the cash, and count yourself lucky that you got a quick windfall.

I did wonder just what Danny Carroll was up to. His strange path had taken him from North Carolina to here. And not directly, either. He showed up for a week, then was gone for a fortnight before settling in for a two month run irritating Leon Ruskow. Why did he come here? And where did he go?

The most likely explanation was that he was hunting for work. Perhaps he figured anywhere within a hundred miles of New York City was a good place to look. In that case, he may have come to Camden, then left to find greener pastures, and finally came back because nothing better came along. I tried that theory out, and it sounded good. Plus, it gave me something to do besides reading every hotel register in town. I could start on with some of the big businesses, see if Danny had left a trail in the hiring offices.

I drained the teacup. My toes were starting to wrinkle, so I moved my feet to a nice fresh towel. The rain had become more intense. This was going to be a wet one. Tomorrow would smell better, yes, but it would be humid. I’d be doing a lot of slogging.

I pinned my hair down close against my head, to give myself a lot less maintenance time in the morning. I could just smooth over the curls. The picture this created in the mirror, however, was far from alluring. “Bonnie, you sexpot,” I snarked. Thus humbled, I retreated to the bed. All in all, I thought, not a bad day’s work. One case closed, a new one opened. Nothing like a sense of contentment, plus the steady pelt of raindrops, to help you drift off.

Hell, I might even sleep late.

Chapter IV - Turkey with Trimmings

I was looking forward to meeting Danny Carroll. After all, I’ve chased a fair number of people, but he was the first person to make it interesting on day one.

I walked around to the other side of Leon’s desk to get a better view of the registry. There, right above Leon’s meaty index finger, was the name “Charles Carroll.” This was certainly unexpected, given his wife’s claim that he was in North Carolina, waiting for orders to ship out and meet his maker. To say nothing of the fact that, even if he had been at the Princeton Arms, he was sending himself letters in Durham. Behavior like that makes a girl wonder.

“When is this for?” I asked.

He scanned up the page. “This is dated August 31, 1942. That’s pretty typical. Leases are up at the end of the month, so people come looking for a place to stay.”

It fit. Based on Frances Carroll’s timeline, Danny would have blown out of town in June or July. And the letter to Charley came in September, right after he met his new bride, and right before he went to war. This could be our boy.

I adopted a confidential tone. “Leon, if I were to show you a picture of someone, would you be able to tell me if that person had been a guest here?”

“Hmm.” He stuck his finger in his ear, as though he was rooting around for the answer. “Like I said, I don’t get out front as much as I used to. But I do try to see as many as I can.” He flicked wax off his finger as he calculated a lifetime of customers.

I could have done without the ear excavation. But hey, it was either him or Constant Reader out at the desk. Thus emboldened, I produced the photograph from my purse. Leon took the picture and squinted at it. He moved it back and forth, trying to get focus. Apparently, he got it. “Ach!’ he yelled, throwing the picture onto the desk. I quickly snapped it up; I’ve seen this kind of reaction before, and it usually leads to ripping and tearing. If he noticed my desperate save, it did not distract him from his ire. “This rat, I remember.”

I took a step back, not out of fear as much as a prudent sense of caution. “He didn’t like the view?” I offered.

Leon didn’t exactly hear me, but he was in the mood to rant, and that would be just as informative. “That face,” he seethed, “him I remember. I’d almost forgotten his name. We liked to call him ‘Mr. Pleasant.’ Oh, but I remember that face. That’s the guy you’re looking for? He’s a bum. A no-good bum.”

As opposed to the worthwhile, big-contributor bums. “What did he do, Leon?”

“What didn’t he do? First it was the requests. Oh, it started small. Wake-up calls at weird times. Always asking to use the office telephone. Next he wanted new sheets. The old ones were always sopping wet. Which was strange, because he never stopped complaining about how cold he was, so how could he be sweating so much?”

I helpfully joined in the abuse. “Mr. Pleasant was a problem child.”

“I can handle difficult guests. He paid on time, so what’s another kook in the house? But then came more complaints. He didn’t get enough food. There wasn’t enough heat. Another boarder was eavesdropping on his room. And when I offered to move him, it only made him angrier. Nothing made him happy.”

Mrs. Carroll had hinted at a touchy side to her brother-in-law. I just nodded at Leon as he continued to make his case that “touchy” was an understatement.

“Finally, I got complaints about him. Strange noises. Late-night visitors. One man claimed he threatened him at breakfast. But finally, he accosts me one morning, gets downright ugly. Starts making personal comments, insulting my business and my family. That was enough for me. I don’t need trouble. Isn’t there enough in the world? So I told him that I was getting comments. And he called me some of the worst things you could imagine! Do you know what he called me?”

I didn’t care to learn. There were more pressing items on my mind. “How long did he stay here?”

“I’m a good host, you know? I take care of people. I give them good food. But I have my limitations. And I won’t be talked to like that. I looked him straight in the eye and told him he was welcome to leave at anytime.”

Leon was a man who got carried away with his passions. “Mr. Ruskow, how long did he stay here?”

“It’s Leon!” He caught his breath. I bowed my head slightly, a token of acknowledgement that maybe I had interrupted him. People pick up on body language, although they almost never know it. Sure enough, he calmed down. “A couple months, I think.” He returned to the register. “Seemed like years. Yeah, okay, here.” He gestured to the book. “First, he stayed a week. Then he left. No problems. I think everything is great.” He turned a few pages, doing an Evelyn Wood on the list of names. “Ah, but here. Then he comes back. And he stays for two months. And it gets worse each day.”

“When was it that he came back?”

He put his finger on the very date. “September 25.”

“And you kicked him out two months later.”

“Oh, if only I’d gotten the chance. Like I said, I told him that if he didn’t like my place, he was welcome to go somewhere else. I wouldn’t stand in his way. He left for a couple hours, and then came back, got his things and left that day.”

I did the math in my head. Two months. Starting on the twenty-fifth. So he left these walls behind on…

“Mr. Ruskow!” I said, in mock astonishment. “Did you throw a tenant out on Thanksgiving?”

“I already told you,” he said defensively, “he left on his own!” He slammed the book shut. “Of all days, he wants to give me grief. We were about to have a family dinner. I gave plenty of thanks that night, I tell you.”

“And he never came back?”

“That’s right,” he said with enormous satisfaction. “Not even to pick up the remainder of his deposit. No, I never saw him again. And if I ever do, it’ll be a day too soon.”

“Did you recommend someplace else he could stay?”

“Ha!” Leon bellowed, without a trace of amusement. “I don’t wish him on my worst competitor.”

No forwarding address. That figured. A girl can only get so lucky in the course of one day.

There remained one element to be cleared up, my next step depended on just how clear it got. “Now, I have to ask you a very important question.” I held up the picture, taking care to put a little distance between the image and Leon’s angry hands. “Which of these men is your rat?”

He squinted again, I assume to confirm what was already in his mind. Then he pointed. “That’s him. That’s the bastard.”

Danny. Well, that was a relief. As least I was chasing the right brother. It was a curious choice, though, assuming his brother’s name. I guess it was easy to remember. But it did tell me one thing: at least for a while, Danny Carroll did not want to be Danny Carroll. He wasn’t just running away from his family. He was running away from himself.

If he had stayed in town, logic dictates that he wouldn’t want to go far from where he was. The neighborhood would have become familiar, and to an out-of-towner, familiarity breeds contentment. Of course, that was a big if. Danny Carroll could be in Walla Walla, for all anybody knew. Fortunately, that wasn’t my concern. I just had to make sure he wasn’t in Camden anymore.

I bade adieu to Leon and the Princeton Arms. Around the corner was a Rexall, so I stopped in to use the pay phone. The soda jerk leered at me as I walked past. It made me smile. Not because I enjoy being leered at, of course. But because I’d read something once about this thing Buddhists believe in called karma, which basically means that the stupid and nasty things you do come back to bite you in the end. Believe me, every soda jerk on the planet is on the being-bitten end of karma. Leer away, you little twerp.

Moments later, Nora was giving me the short version of her afternoon. “Your Daniel Carroll is a nonentity in the eyes of the Camden Police Department,” the tinny voice explained. “The Records Department sends its regards.”

“That’s great,” I shot back. “Then they won’t mind looking up Charles Carroll, too.”

“What?”

“Our Wizard of Oz borrowed his brother’s name at the boarding house. He might have gotten comfortable with it.”

“I asked you if he might have changed his name,” came the snippy reply.

“And your genius triumphs yet again. Maybe you’d like to change our name to Staub and LaFleur.”

“And have you work for me? Fine. When can I expect you to come in and finish all this paperwork?”

I looked at my watch. “It’s about 3:30 now. I figure I’ve got a few good hours of flophouses and cheap hotels left in me. Don’t wait up.”

“Do I ever?”

Most of the time, yes, she did. It was a habit I was trying hard to break her of.

The Thanksgiving eviction was actually quite a blessing. If he straggled into some other boarding house on a holiday like that, people were going to remember him. If he didn’t, then the trail was just as cold as it was when I started. So I either picked up his scent, or I quit the case, secure in the knowledge that I had done far better than anyone had a right to expect. Bonnie, Bonnie, she’s our gal.

The first three or four stops are the hardest. That’s when you’re still working through your routine, figuring out what will get you the most information. Maybe I’m a concerned relative, maybe I’m a legal secretary, bringing news of a great financial windfall, maybe I’m even a private detective looking for a missing person. No two visits are the same, and I still find myself needing a little time to get into the swing of things. My big score at the Princeton Arms didn’t help matters, because it got me thinking this was easy. Sad to say, but being a detective is a lot like being a baseball player: even a really good hitter only gets good wood 30 percent of the time. Not that anybody around here would know what a really good hitter looks like. The nice thing about cheering for Philadelphia is that it doesn’t matter what league you’re backing. A’s or Phillies, either way, you’re rooting for the worst team in the game for three years running. It’s almost enough to make you take up football. Oh, wait. The Eagles finished last, too. God, I hate sports.

The sun was starting to set by the time I walked back to Zelda. I reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a small notebook, cataloging my travels for the day. I needed to get it all down on paper, while it was still fresh in my mind. That would initially prove to be difficult, as I had carefully concealed my pencil somewhere in the hidden recesses of my purse. After a minute or two of searching, I surrendered, and dumped the contents out on the seat. When you do that, what you’re looking for always appears immediately. Stuff mocks you. I clenched my teeth around the pencil in retaliation.

Another moment lost while I swept the contents back into my purse, saving the gun for last. With the weapon safely stored away, I opened the notebook to a blank page and jotted down what little knowledge I’d accumulated in the field. Danny Carroll. Identified as a guest at the Princeton Arms, although he signed in under the name of his brother. Arrived the last day in August, stayed for a week, then left. Sometime in that week, sent a letter to his brother. The next three weeks unaccounted for. Then back at the Princeton Arms, making a general nuisance of himself for two months, until finally pushing the proprietor too far. Nice work, Mr. Pleasant. Exiting on Thanksgiving Day. Seven hotels and boarding houses in the immediate vicinity report no Danny, no Charley, nobody. Six months later, the trail fades away.

I looked at my notes. According to the last census, Camden is home to well over a hundred thousand people. And that’s to say nothing of the two million people in Philadelphia and Camden County and all around the outskirts of town. How difficult would it be for a man to come to town and disappear without leaving breadcrumbs? I sighed. Not difficult at all.

I ripped the page out of the book and stuffed it into my coat pocket. Tossing the notebook back into the glove box, I closed the door. “Let’s go home, Zelda,” I said. Zelda responded enthusiastically, roaring to life with the turn of the key. My day was done. And so, I felt pretty sure, was my case. Oh, I’d be back at it tomorrow morning. The client pays for that kind of courtesy. But for all intents and purposes, Danny Carroll had lost himself in the wilds of Camden, and was long gone from these parts. Which just about wrapped it up for me.

And to think: Nora wasn’t sure I should take the case.

Chapter III - What's In A Name

Nora was tempering her enthusiasm for the new case with admirable restraint.

“You are such a complete --!” She stifled the insult, and resumed pacing back and forth like a tiger at the zoo. Another try: “I mean, you are so utterly --!” She held back on that one, too. Which was a shame, because I totally had one coming. It was not at all my usual modus operandi to take a case without running through the pros and cons with her first. Very impulsive of me, and I knew I was in trouble the moment I did it.

“It’s a walk in the park,” I explained, hoping to appeal to her practical side. “We follow up in the usual places. We put together a report, explaining how we looked everywhere, and this is what we came up with. Three days tops. We collect a lovely fee, and we live happily ever after. What’s not to like?”

“Maybe the part about you just taking the first case that walks in the door.” Nora could kill you with her frown as easily as she could with her smile. I would have preferred her smile at that moment. “I thought things like this were supposed to go before the Review Committee.”

“Half the Review Committee was present. I declared a quorum.” I was on shaky ground here. I had long ago learned the value of her opinion, and now I’d gone and cut her out of the process. I’m the detective; I was well within my rights. But that’s also what drunks say when they decide to nap on the train tracks. I needed to get her back in my good graces. I gave her the hint of a grin. “Come on, you yourself have been complaining about how thin the books look. And I’d like a shot at finding somebody other than a cheating husband for a change. Here, we kill two birds with one case.”

She harrumphed. I knew it wasn’t the case that made her upset. It was being left out. No one likes to be left out. Believe me, I make my living working for people who feel left out.

Nora had been one of the first. She was seventeen, and had already managed to fall in with a scumsucking worm who pushed her around and got her implicated in a couple liquor store robberies. But she was a lot smarter than Mr. Worm realized. She had an alibi, but she needed someone to prove it, since the police had no interest in that kind of tedious work. So somehow, she found her way to me. I don’t do pro bono work, but she was only a kid, and besides, she’d put together a very nice file of information on her own case. I was impressed, and I was drowning in my own paperwork. So I told her I’d take the case, but that she’d have to work off her debt. Endings don’t get much happier: I found the proof, her debt is long since paid, and I acquired a better helper than I ever was to Eddie. Horses always come in. You just have to recognize them when they’re wearing roses.

Not that Nora was perfect, of course. Oh, no. Sometimes, she was too perfect. I never had any intention of slapping my own name on the door. The shingle that read “EDDIE STAUB, PRIVATE DETECTIVE” was good enough for me. In fact, it got me through a lot of headaches, since most clients were happy to assume that Eddie Staub still walked the earth. But one night a few months back, after a particularly difficult case, I threw back a shot of celebratory schnapps, went home and sacked out for 48 hours. When I finally showed up at the office, there it was: STAUB & BRANSTER, filling the window. His name and mine staring back at me, along with Nora’s stupid grin, all day long.

She’s sweet. And it was an elegant solution, leaving his name. That was nice. The agency’s new moniker sounded clumsy, no flow at all, but it was still a nice gesture. After a while, I even stopped pretending to be angry with her.

Nora curled her lip in a pout, which was a good sign. She was softening. But she wasn’t about to let me off the hook that easily. “You should have waited.”

“You’re right,” I nodded. And she was. “And if anything goes wrong, you now have my permission to tell me that you were right all along.”

The grin was back. She does love to be smug. “You’re the boss,” she chirped, and made herself comfortable in the chair across from my desk. “So where do we start?”

Now that she was a happy camper once again, I could go back to raining on her parade. “You start by giving our friends at the Camden Police Department a call,” I told her, getting up from my chair. “See if they’ve got a Daniel Carroll anywhere in their recent history.”

She shrunk a bit in her seat. “How do I get assigned police duty again?”

My turn to smile. “Because they like you there. You’re cute.”

She snorted. “And because you don’t want to deal with Dawson.”

“And,” I continued, ignoring the jibe, “I have to go confirm the last known sighting, or lack thereof.”

“The boarding house?” she asked, earning a nod from me. “Could he have used an assumed name?”

“I doubt it,” was my reply. “He’s not a fugitive. He just ran away from the farm. No need to go pulling a John Doe.”

I slung my purse over my shoulder and headed into the outer office. Nora was quickly on her feet, following right behind. “Bonnie, do you honestly think we’re going to find this guy?” And she held up the photograph of the two young men, happy as clams.

“Nora, this trail has been cold for months.” I took the picture, and looked at it again, as if another glance would yield valuable information about my quarry. “I would be astonished if we found so much as a trace.”

I slid the picture into my purse, then grabbed my coat and hat off the rack. I heard a jingle, and turned to see Nora dangling the car keys. “I took the liberty of filling up the car,” she said, setting them down on the desk. “We’ve been doing good with the rations.”

“Good girl.” I adjusted a curl and presented myself for approval. “Alright?”

Nora cocked her head. “Tilt it a little to the right.” I adjusted the hat accordingly, while she picked a paper bag off the floor and set it on the desk. It smelled…tasty.

“Lunch?”

She put on an act of distractedness. “What? Oh, yeah.”

“What’s for lunch?”

She reached into the bag and pulled out her prize. “Fried chicken.” She chomped down on the drumstick.

I played it cool. “Did you get a lot?”

“No,” she said curtly. She returned her attention to the chicken leg, then looked back at me as if she was trying to figure something out. “I thought you didn’t want anything.”

That little riposte hung in the air, until I snapped up the keys off the desk. “Say hi to the police for me. I’ll call you if I need anything.”

She responded with a mouth full of chicken. “I’ll be right here.”

I left quietly. Damn if now I wasn’t hungry.

Zelda was parked a short way down the block. Yes, I named the car. Sometimes, you develop a relationship that’s so intimate, you have to give it a name. That’s how it is with Zelda and me. We’ve gone through a lot together. Not that it’s a hard and fast rule. I mean, I haven’t named the gun.

Five years ago, I knew next to nothing about cars. I could have told you that they take people from place to place, and they have four wheels, and that when you put the magic car juice in them, they go. Beyond that, I was car illiterate. But Eddie changed that for me. He drove that car hard, and without much respect for the two tons of metal at his fingertips. He would come into the office, toss me the keys, and tell me to get it fixed, not that he could say what precisely was wrong with it. That fell to me to figure out. So I learned about that car. She’s a midnight blue 1937 Lincoln Zephyr, a two-door coupe with a V-12 engine, 110 horsepower, an all-steel body and a transverse leaf spring suspension. Wide as a sofa, and with a trunk big enough to house an Army platoon, but she handles like a hot knife through butter. And most importantly, she’s mine. Eddie bought the Zephyr because it’s what the cops drove, and he probably would have traded her in by now, but I like her just fine. Zelda’s almost as valuable to me as Nora. Well, no, not that valuable. But we’re close.

I drove with the window down, letting the smell of a hundred condensed soups kill my hunger. The sun continued to brighten my path. That should have been a warning sign, right there.

The boarding house was at Chelton and Fillmore. It was called the Princeton Arms, and it was a three-story walkup with peeling paint that had probably been a gleaming alabaster back when the first brush was applied. It afforded its guests a lovely view of the railroad intersection, although I seriously doubt anyone here ever heard a train. Life offers many distractions.

The girl at the desk was flipping through a dog-eared copy of Life. I watched her read, waiting for her acknowledgement. She had chosen to wear an olive cardigan over a gunpowder blue dress, and her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail, where it hung limply off the back of her head like a flag without a breeze. I was trying to decide if cutting it shorter would help, or if she just needed to wash it. As I pondered this question for the ages, she turned the page, never once having looked up. I concluded that she was a stickler for formalities, so I rang the bell on the counter. Her concentration was impressive. “Rooms are $7.50 a night,” she said, maintaining her focus on the magazine. “For three weeks or more, you pay in advance.”

I decided to try for charm. “Actually, I’m not looking for a room. I’d like to ask you about a guest who may have stayed here not too long ago.”

She cheated ahead to the next page, then returned to her place in the engrossing article. “I ain’t seen anyone,” she offered. And I believed her.

“That’s quite alright,” I replied, maintaining my upbeat façade. “Maybe you could just check your books to see if you have a certain name in your register.”

She licked her finger and moved ahead in the magazine, apparently deciding that her previous turning of the page had been impeded by a lack of moisture. “I rent rooms,” she said offhandedly, and in an instant, I was gone again from her existence, replaced by the fascinating world of the pretty pictures.

I waited for a moment. When no further conversation was forthcoming, I leaned over the desk and snatched the magazine out of her hands. As it happens, this made her look up. “Hey!” came the witty retort.

I began flipping through the pages myself. “You know,” I mused aloud, “reading is a fundamental part of every human’s development. But it’s no substitute for experiencing the world first-hand.” She grabbed for it, so I held it back further. “You can start by experiencing me.”

She was petulant. “I don’t know the people. I just rent the rooms.”

“Fine. Who would know the people?”

She huffed at me. I smiled and waved the magazine back at her. Defeated, she walked to the door behind her and pounded on it. “Uncle Leon!” she screeched.

I could make out slow, faint footsteps, and then the door creaked open. A diminutive round-headed man with wisps of white hair appeared in the doorway. He looked around, then at me, then back at the girl. She pointed at me like she was fingering a pickpocket. “I just rent the rooms.”

The old man eyed me for a second. Evidently, I passed inspection. “Come in,” he urged, waving. “Come into the office.”

I tossed the magazine at the girl as I passed. “Skip the pictures,” I suggested, “and concentrate on the words. You could use some new ones.” I guess the slamming of the door was her way of thanking me for the advice.

“Uncle Leon” turned out to be Leon Ruskow (“rhymes with hoosegow,” he told me), owner and proprietor of the Princeton Arms. “Technically, I’m Emma’s great-uncle,” he said, explaining the unhelpful help out in the lobby. “Her mother makes her help me out. She doesn’t like it much, but she’s a good kid.” He was trying to find a particular volume from a shelf of big, bound books that all looked alike.

“I’m sure she’s a lovely girl, Mr. Ruskow” I wasn’t sure of any such thing, but my friendly demeanor was genuine. I do much better with the older generation.

“Please,” he pleaded. “Call me Leon. Yes, I remember a time when I could do everything myself.” Mr. Ruskow – I mean Leon – was the kind of person I love to hit up for information. Talkative, but a little out of practice. They’re usually interesting, but more importantly, they don’t have anyone to tell their stories to, so they tend to say more than they should. A detective’s dream. “It’s nice to have family around, though. Ah, here we go.” He pulled out a ledger and carried it over to the desk. “Registry for 1942. That’s the year you want, yes?”

“That’s it. Sometime between May and September.”

He stifled a snort. “That whole time? It is lucky I don’t have a lot of rooms.” He opened the book and followed his own shorthand to May. “This Daniel Carroll, you are sure he is in no trouble?”

“No, Leon. I just have to deliver some important news to him.”

“Alright. Because I don’t need trouble.”

I laughed despite myself. “No trouble at all, Leon.” I followed his finger as it slid down the page, looking for the name of Daniel Carroll. ““Do you get to know all the people who stay here, Leon?”

“Not everyone, no. I used to make sure to welcome everyone personally. But I am not young anymore. And I’m not always at the desk. So there are people who stay here who I never even get to see.”

He turned page after page, humming to himself as he scanned the lists for my missing person. I let him conduct his search, but with each page, my one piece of evidence became more and more useless. I tried to concoct a theory to explain the envelope. A false name, perhaps. Or maybe he just dropped off the letter here. That close to the train, maybe he didn’t spend more than an hour in Camden.

“No, I’m sorry. He is not in here.”

“Not a trace, huh?”

He shook his head sadly. He truly wanted to help me. Maybe because I was happy to be in his company, unlike Emma. “What will you do now?” he asked me.

That was an excellent question. “I’m not really sure, Leon.” I stood up. “I may have gone as far as I can go.” I hadn’t expected much, but the purist in me hates to see a case end unresolved. Or so quickly.

“That’s a shame,” he said, hoping to console me. “I was so close to helping you, too.”

He was? “What do you mean, Leon?”

“Well, I kept thinking I had found your man, but each time, I was mistaken.”

I was truly confused now. “I’m sorry. But…why did you think --”

“Well, you wanted a Daniel Carroll, right?” he asked. I nodded. “Right,” he continued, “and I kept seeing a Carroll, but it is not the right Carroll.”

It was all I could do to keep looking surprised. “Oh no?” I said, trying to feign disinterest. “What is it, then?”

He looked down again, to confirm his findings. “It is a Charles Carroll.”

Well, so much for not looking surprised.

Chapter II – Durham Belle

It had been a full morning, dashing a woman’s lifelong illusions of marital fidelity. Mrs. Malone was well on her way to Harrisburg, but the photographic essay she had commissioned remained. I like a tidy office. I slid open the desk drawer and took out the envelope.

I learned early on that it wasn’t a good idea to keep anything in the office that you didn’t want people snooping through. If you decided to take a late-night stroll through our filing cabinets, you’d find some invoices, probably tax forms for the past three years, but not very much to hold your interest. The only truly valuable thing on hand was camera equipment. And we kept that in the darkroom, which everybody assumed was a closet anyway. I didn’t even lock it. That only encourages people. It makes them think they’ve found something they want.

So the Malone pictures couldn’t stay here. I would entrust them to people skilled in the art of protecting valuable things. Namely, the fine folks at the Second National Bank of New Jersey, Camden Branch, in one of the safety deposit boxes I keep there. Let them worry about it, I figure. Anyway, the only people breaking into that joint were after money.

I pulled a bottle of mucilage out of a drawer. With any luck, those pictures wouldn’t see the light of day again. Not that it wouldn’t have given me great pleasure to blow them up and sell them to everybody Mr. Luther Malone had ever met. But his wife was in for enough embarrassment as it was. And poor Candy certainly didn’t need the headache. I looked once more at the last picture, the face that said “disappointed” in any language. Hadn’t she suffered enough? I sealed the envelope shut.

The noontime sun projected the painted names on the window across to the far side of the room. STAUB & BRANSTER, PRIVATE DETECTIVES, the shadow read. It hadn’t read that way when the window was his. But hey, life goes on. Even if your own doesn’t.

I made a couple notes on the outside of the envelope, to help me track it down later, in the unlikely event that I should ever need it again. Then I walked out to Nora’s desk, where I slid it into her delivery basket. I looked at the desk for a long time. It didn’t look all that different from when I’d sat out here. Well, it wasn’t nearly as neat as I kept it. Nora’s working method was fascinating to behold: a paper tornado during the day, but a model of order and efficiency at day’s end. For the first week, each night I honestly believed she had emptied her desk and quit, never to return. She always has, though. I’m a lucky girl.

The desk was a little neater than usual on this day, a testament to the lack of business we were generating as of late. The war was not being kind to the private investigation business. The dearth of detectives was certainly on our side. After all, a lot of us had gone off to shoot Nazis, or taken the jobs of cops who went off to shoot Nazis. So the limited supply was in our favor. But there seemed to be a limited demand, as well. Regular clients kept us afloat, jut barely, but the philandering husbands had all gone to war, it seemed. Where’s vice and sin when you need it?

I sat down at Nora’s desk, and peered into my office. Did the ghost of Eddie Staub live in there, watching my every move? No, he most certainly did not. If he did, then there would be plenty of other ghosts tracking me, and I don’t need the hassle. Besides, if he is watching, what’s he going to do? If he wanted a role in the business, he shouldn’t have gone and gotten himself killed. Bad career move, that.

I interrupted my reverie and stood up. There were envelopes to be delivered. I wasn’t doing anything at the moment. Might as well help out. It’s not like I’d forgotten how.

I grabbed the contents of the delivery basket. Back in my office, I pulled my purse out of the big desk drawer, the one where we didn’t keep files and photographs. A quick touch-up with the lipstick, and then I’d be on my way. With luck, I’d be back before Nora, and she’d wonder how I did it.

I was hunting for something to blot my lips when I heard the door. “Nora?” I called. But I knew it couldn’t be. Not nearly enough time. I backed up slowly, moving towards the window. Best to keep as much distance between me and my guest as possible, until I knew who it was. It wasn’t likely to be someone sinister, not at this time of day. But why be stupid when you can be smart?

I put the lipstick back in my purse, and searched until my fingers felt the touch of the revolver. I had no plans to use it, but for the moment, the reassurance that it was there was comfort enough. Fully prepared now, I peered around the open door.

She was quite tall, and had the kind of build that shrewish old ladies refer to as “small-boned.” She cradled a pale pocketbook in the crook of one arm, while a tattered traveling bag hung in the grip of her other hand. She wore a cream suit and matching gloves that looked faded and antique, like your grandmother’s lace, and the white feather curling up out of her hat only made her look that much more like an albino flamingo. But she was young, with wide, dark eyes that bore no mark of ever having seen the world. She might have sprung to life in a forgotten steamer trunk in someone’s attic, innocent and naïve and innately elegant without knowing why.

“I’m sorry,” she said in a deeper voice than I expected. “I don’t have an appointment.” If she ever took up smoking, that voice would stop ships. She glanced back at the door. “I was hoping to see…is Mr. Staub in? Or…?”

They are never, ever looking for Miss Anyone. “I’m Bonnie Branster.” I realized I still had my hand near the gun. Quickly, I set the purse down and extended a welcoming hand. “My colleagues are all out at the moment. Please come in.”

She took my hand and held it, apparently deeming an actual handshake too gauche. I wondered if she would burn the gloves later. “Thank you,” she said. She looked ready to introduce herself, but hesitated long enough for me to see the light bulb go in her head. “Branster. Oh. Of course. You’re…I’m sorry. You’re Miss Branster. I didn’t realize…”

There once was a time, early on, when it was all I could do to keep my indignation from bubbling over. But now it just took too much time. “Please, won’t you have a seat?” I gestured toward the chair where Lauren Malone had seen her life implode in black-and-white only a short time ago. My guest seemed grateful for the invitation, and settled into the leather-bound seat, setting down the bag and crossing her legs, sliding them into a 45-degree angle. It was a curious pose. She was either excessively well-bred, or wanted the world to think she was. On her lap, she rested the pocketbook, which disappeared into the background of her suit. I took stock of her for a moment, then took my place on the other side of the desk. “Now then, Miss…”

Immediately, she recognized the ritual exchange. “I’m sorry. I’ve been quite frazzled of late.” Something had struck me right off about her voice, and now I knew what it was. She had a hint of a Southern lilt in her speech. Perhaps the breeding was genuine. “My name is Frances Carroll,” she said.

“Hello, Miss Carroll.” I was ready to continue the acquaintanceship, but I remembered a hitch. “I’d offer you coffee, but I think the pot has been sitting cold since this morning.”

“Oh, that’s alright. I don’t think I could stomach much right now.”

Good, we had something in common. “Then I hope you don’t mind dispensing with the pleasantries, but what exactly has you in need of the services of a private detective?”

She let out a sigh of relief. “Yes, of course.” She opened the pocketbook, and removed a photograph. She didn’t hand it over right away, but held it in her hand, looking longingly at the image. “I’ve been trying to find someone. And I can’t really do it on my own anymore.”

I took a guess. “Family?”

She looked up. “In a manner of speaking.” She set the picture on the desk and pushed it towards me. I leaned forward to get a closer look. Two young men, with big tight-lipped smiles, arms around each other. Brothers, without a doubt. “The one on the left is my brother-in-law. The man on the right is…” She swallowed the word. “Was my husband.”

Mrs. Carroll. My mistake. “Was?”

She shook her head. “I must apologize. It’s not really this complicated. I just can’t seem to tell this story straight.”

“Let’s start at the beginning, Miss Carroll. That should make it easier for both of us to follow.”

“Of course,” she replied. Taking a deep breath, she began. “I met Charley late last summer. It was at a mixer in Durham.”

“North Carolina?” With the accent, I thought I had a pretty fair chance of being right.

“Yes. It was a very big affair. A lot of boys were being shipped off to boot camp in the coming weeks, so there was a lot of celebrating and carousing. And in the middle of all that, I met Charley.”

She allowed herself the obligatory pause for reflection, reliving the moment. “If you had asked me beforehand, I’d have told you that there was no such thing as love at first sight.” She chuckled. “It was a whirlwind courtship. We met, and three weeks later, we were married. A week after that, Charley was shipped off to Biloxi.”

The smile faded from her lips. “The day the telegram came was the worst day of my life. I think the only one who took it harder was Charley’s father. He took to his bed, and never got up again. I nursed him as best I could, but he had given up on life. That’s when he started to talk about Danny.”

She leaned over and pointed at the figures in the photograph. “I think this picture is about six years old. I never got the chance to meet Danny. They had had some kind of a terrible falling out. I guess they were always an explosive pair, but when the war came…” She shook her head sadly. “Danny didn’t approve of Charley enlisting. Charley thought Danny was a layabout. Words were exchanged, they said things they shouldn’t have said, and then Danny had left home without a word. Mr. Carroll wasn’t able to track him down, and Charley just didn’t care. I guess that’s why he never mentioned him to me.”

“When Charley –” It stuck in her throat. “When the Army sent word, it all buy killed Mr. Carroll right then and there. I guess that he couldn’t stand losing both his sons. So suddenly, this wonderful family that had taken me to their hearts…was gone.”

She pulled a handkerchief from her pocketbook, but other than one sniffle, there was no sign of tears yet. My luck was holding.

“As you might imagine, I was inconsolable for weeks. But then I began to get a sense of purpose. I knew what I had to do. I had to find Danny.” She bit her lip, looking like she was going to apologize. “I don’t really know what I’m going to say to him. I’ll let him know about his father and his brother, I guess. And me. I want him to know that there’s still someone in his family.” At long last, the tear I had been anticipating streamed down her cheek. "Maybe I just want to know there’s still someone left in mine.”

I watched her as she dabbed at her face with the handkerchief. I’d seen a lot of tears shed in that office. Hey, nobody comes into a detective’s office because she’s happy. Well, except Nora. The thing of it is, unless you’ve got a case you can actually solve, all you’re really doing is preparing for some sobbing yourself.

“Mrs. Carroll, how did this bring you to Camden?”

She sniffled. “Lately, I’ve wondered the same thing myself.” She turned and dragged the travel case to where she could see it. “I asked all of Mr. Carroll’s friends if they knew anything about where Danny would have gone. But it seems Danny’s got a gruff personality. He didn’t make friends. And he didn’t leave much behind in Durham. Except this.”

She opened the case, and removed an old bound book. Feeling along the edge, she found her mark, and opened it. There, between the pages, was an envelope.

“This was in a box I found in Charley’s room,” she said, “along with some other personal effects.” I picked up the envelope, and saw Frances Carroll’s clue. The postmark was smudged, but still legible: Camden, New Jersey. Apparently, she saw me examining the return address. “It’s a boarding house, but they didn’t remember Danny. Actually, I think maybe they didn’t trust me.”

I opened the flap to read the letter inside, but found there was nothing there.

She was way ahead of me. “There’s no letter. At least, not that I’ve found. I can only guess that Charley took it with him. Maybe Danny was trying to make peace. I hope.”

“When did he get this?”

“I honestly couldn’t say.” She looked guilty about it. “I guess before Charley left. Maybe last September?

I turned the envelope over in my hands. It didn’t help me any, but it gave me a moment to think. A missing person, or at least one not found. Last spotted in Camden almost a year ago. Last known whereabouts checked and coming up empty. It was a really cold trail. Not much fun.

“Mrs. Carroll,” I began, “I don’t want to lie to you. What you’re looking at right now is a lot of disappointment.”

She responded quickly, almost anxious. “Oh, I understand. But…well, you see, I’ve got to try. I’d feel awful if I came all this way and didn’t at least make every effort to locate Danny.”

“I see,” I said. She was eager. I needed to slow her down. “Well, I really should discuss this with my associates. Are you staying in town?”

She nodded. “I’m staying at the Garden State Inn.” Not a fleabag, but hardly the Plaza. “Miss Branster, will you please help me?”

You should never make rash decisions. Don’t take the case right then and there. Let it soak for a while. Think it over, see if it’s worth your while. If it is, then all you’ve lost is a little thinking time. Haste makes death. Just ask Eddie Staub. He’d tell you I’m right, if he wasn’t dead.

“I’d be willing to pay any reasonable fee,” she continued. “I understand these things are sensitive.” She opened the traveling bag once more, but this time, what emerged was a neat stack of bills. Fifty dollar bills. At least twenty of them. She set them on the table, and then went back into the purse, presumably to get more.

“Stop,” I croaked out. I ran my fingers over them. They were crisp, they were clean, and they would absolutely be accepted by landlords and grocers and merchants throughout Camden and the greater Philadelphia area. I couldn’t look away. Mrs. Carroll was that most unexpected of gifts: a client with a bankroll, and without the sense to keep it hidden. I could give Nora a raise. Hell, I could give myself a raise.

The money whispered to me. It told me that I didn’t have to actually find this character. It reminded me that she was only hiring me to look. Just give it your best, it said. Scour the town, report back, do your job, it suggested. And soon, it cooed, soon, Bonnie, I’ll be all yours. The voice of money is smooth as silk. Never listen to money.

“Yes,” I said. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Never, never listen to money.

Chapter I - Soup For One

On a good day, one particular flavor of soup emerges, filling the air with a salty cream of mushroom or a tangy tomato, and no matter where you go, you feel like you’re home in your mother’s kitchen. On a bad day, all the different smells congeal into one big aromatic mess, giving the city the stench of a restaurant daring the health inspectors to shut it down.

This was not a good day.

It was a simple operation, the way it always was. You dunk the paper into the solution, and then just sit back and watch as the poor dope materializes in all his monochromatic glory. That was the best part of the job, I suppose. Watching a white piece of paper transform itself into a still-life in a matter of minutes was a better trick than Houdini ever imagined. That’s why I do it myself. I fancy myself quite the magician. Well, that, and the fact that the darkroom is the only place I can escape the smell of soup.

After a morning spent with chemicals and red light, I needed a little outdoor time. I prepared the pictures for presentation and closed the door to the closet that served as my darkroom. Grabbing a pack of smokes and a copy of the Courier, I headed down the back stairs. Stepping into the alley, I was blessed with that rarest of delights: a sunny day in Camden. It felt good to get some sunshine, even if the air was distinctly soupy. Between that, the cigarette, and the latest depressing headlines from the European front, my appetite was pretty well dead for the day, which is always a good thing. I’m certainly not getting any exercise in this line of work.

I timed it well. By the time I got back upstairs, the client was already waiting in my office. Nora was efficient, as always. She nibbled on the eraser of her pencil. “She’s nervous,” she said.

I hung my coat on the rack. “Of course, she is. She’s expecting bad news.”

“Is it bad news?”

I stopped at the door. “I don’t remember the last time I gave out good news.” I took a breath and went on in.

Mrs. Lauren Malone was a nice-enough-looking woman, considering the reason she was here. She was a little dowdy, with light brown hair, a floral print dress, and lipstick that was far too pink for a woman of her complexion. But she was still young, and there were a lot homelier girls than her out carousing with sailors every Saturday night. It was just Mrs. Malone’s bad luck that the dumb lug she’d been married to for the past nine years had been 4-F’ed by Uncle Sam. So he got to stay on the homefront, continuing his vitally important work selling insurance, while she missed out on her chance to really live it up for the first time in her life.

“Would you like some coffee, Mrs. Malone?” I asked. It was a completely unnecessary question. Nora would have seen to that already. I don’t know what impulse in humans causes them to ask unnecessary questions. But I am equally afflicted.

“No,” she said. “Your secretary already offered. Thank you.”

I flinched at the word “secretary.” Nora is a lot more than some common stenographer, but few people are smart enough to notice. Still, there wasn’t much point in trying to clarify matters. Mrs. Malone would be long gone before what she thought anyone’s job was made a bit of difference.

I opened the door to the darkroom and pulled out a large envelope. Heading back to the desk, I grabbed hold of my chair and rolled it around to the other side. As I sat down, she tightened her grip on the handles of her purse. She was nervous. Nervous women clutch their purses like a life preserver. It’s as though that purse is the only friend they’ve got in the world.

“I don’t want to waste your time, Mrs. Malone.” I opened the flap of the envelope and pulled out the photographs. “These are from last Thursday. Your husband left his office at 11:43. Early, but not overly so. And it does fit with the lunch appointment on his schedule.” She pored over the photograph, looking at the man who looked like her husband coming out of the building that looked like the place where her husband worked. She was trying to decide if it was really him. For some reason, they want to get their hopes up. If you tell them the cold, hard truth, it only gets them upset. It somehow ends up being your fault, and that’s trouble worth avoiding. Better to play it out like a story, make it seem like you’re just as shocked as they are.

“He traveled on foot, and arrived at the Hotel Delaware 11 minutes later.” I laid out the next image, showing her husband in a corner booth, and watched her closely to see how she’d react to the next thing I said. “The café in the Hotel Delaware is well-known for serving a delicious chicken tetrazzini.”

She nodded. No doubt about it, she was ready to believe whatever she had to, anything to make it not true. Swell. Time to get to the point. “At roughly 12:07, his appointment arrived.” I set down the next image. Frankly, the blur of the camera only enhanced the features of the woman in the picture. “They spoke for about a minute, then adjourned to the hotel lobby, where your husband rented room 404, registering under the name Charles Edison.” I glanced over to see if she was at all surprised to discover that her husband had assumed the name of the governor of the great state of New Jersey. But the glaze had set in. Now for the finishing blow.

I laid out the pictures quickly, chronicling the couple’s retreat into the hotel room. It almost looked like a movie. The clinch of relief, the hurried dispatching of clothes, the landscape of mountainous knees and rolling rump hills, and finally, consummatum est. The last of these was really a work of art, as it captured the girl’s priceless look of disappointment at the end. It was easy to imagine that Mrs. Malone had seen that face before, probably when looking into a mirror.

After a moment for her to take in the whole tawdry spectacle, I swept the photographs into a pile. Straightening out the stack, I quickly slid them back into the envelope and got up, walking to the other side of the desk. The envelope went into the long desk drawer, where it would stay until she left. Nothing of consequence ever stayed in the desk drawer.

“Who is she?” Mrs. Malone croaked, her voice betraying the dryness of her throat.

“I don’t know,” I replied. “Your husband cried out the name ‘Candy” several times. That could be short for Candace, or it could be a nickname. Although it’s possible he just has a sweet tooth.”

She said nothing for a long moment, and I thought that might be when the tears would start to flow. But she didn’t cry, which was both a relief and a surprise. “What should I do?” she asked.

I hate that question. I turned to look out the window, casting a glance at the superb vista of smokestacks belching out the byproducts of soup manufacturing. “I can’t answer that,” I said. “You hired me to see if your husband was cheating on you, Mrs. Malone.” I turned back to her, and for the first time since our little powwow began, she was looking at me with attentive eyes. “He is. What you do with the information is up to you. I did warn you when you first came here to be ready for this possibility.”

Her eyes cast downward. “Yes, you did.” She opened the handbag, looking for something but not anything in particular. “I just never thought…I hoped that maybe…”

Clearly, my advice had gone unheeded. I leaned over the desk. “Mrs. Malone, whatever you do, you must consider all the consequences. If you confront him, he could turn violent. Even the meekest man has the capacity for violence. If you divorce him, you could have to battle him in court for alimony. Society is not kind to divorced women, especially those without children.” Her eyes were saucers. It was too much, too fast. “I’m sorry. But you need to think about these things.”

She didn’t say a word. She just stared at me, and kept rooting through the purse. If there’d been only one thing in there, she wouldn’t have found it.

Pity comes too easily to me. I walked over to her and put my hand on her arm. It stopped her search. “Do you have somewhere you can go?” I asked. “Someone you can stay with?”

She considered the question carefully. “My sister is in Harrisburg.”

I nodded, quietly affirming the idea in her head. “You should call her. Maybe pay her a visit.”

The stare was still vacant, but she was starting to nod now, echoing my gesture. The deal was cinched. “Come on,” I said. “You can use the phone out here.” I gently tugged on her arm, and she rose. The walk to the door was practically a glide.

Nora looked up at the sound of the door. “Everything alright?” She radiated concern for a fellow human being. She always does. It’s why everyone loves her.

“Mrs. Malone needs to make a call,” I told her. “Please connect her to the number she gives you.” I turned to the victim du jour. “Just ask if you can come see her. Don’t tell her why. Don’t tell her until you get there. Then you can discuss what to do next. Do you understand?”

She had the demeanor of an obedient child. “Yes, I understand.”

I nodded at her, then at Nora. “I’ll let you have some privacy.” I pushed the door closed, leaving them in the outer office.

I leaned against the desk and took a deep breath. This kind of case is my bread and butter. Women are always looking to find out what their men are up to. A good portion of the time, they’re only being paranoid. Paranoid clients are the best, because they keep coming back for more, and after a while you can stop pitying them. That’s some sweet-smelling cash. But there’s plenty of two- (and three-) timing men out there, so my “Your man’s a filthy pig” speech gets plenty of use. And it’s depressing every time.

The doorknob turned silently, and Nora slid through a narrow opening, closing it just as noiselessly. She leaned against the door like she was trying to hold back an elephant. “She took it well?”

“As well as could be expected.”

She took a couple steps forward, trying on her coy demeanor. “So a little celebratory schnapps is in order?”

It was an old tradition, throwing back a shot of cheap German booze to celebrate closing a case. Were we even calling it schnapps these days? Or had the defenders of liberty convinced us that we were drinking Victory gin? Yeah, that’ll teach the Nazis a lesson. “Not yet,” I said. “Let’s save it for the end of the day, shall we?”

She crossed her arms. “You gonna cut her a break on the expenses?”

I looked hard at Nora, trying to be intimidating and failing utterly. “Do I make a habit of reducing my fee?”

“With bad news? A lot of the time, yeah.”

I am transparent. “What do you think I should do?”

“Nix the photography charges,” she said. “And give her cab fare out of petty cash.”

I sighed. “I’ll go one better. If her sister takes her in, we’ll put her on the train.”

That damn smile of hers. “And then we’ll get lunch.” It seems the aromatic byproducts of the Campbell Soup Company do not affect her.

“I’m not very hungry,” I said.

“You will be,” was the perky reply.

“Nora –“

“Don’t ‘Nora’ me. You have to eat.”

I would get the last word in this argument. I simply needed to figure out what that would be. But a knock at the door deprived me of the opportunity.” Nora rushed to open it, and Mrs. Malone poked her head inside. “She told me I was welcome anytime.” That seemed to have surprised her.

“That’s good,” I replied. “Nora will take you home to pack a bag, and then you’ll go to the train station.” She nodded, and then I got an idea. “Nora, I’ll keep an eye on the office while you’re gone. And maybe you can pick up some lunch on the way back.”

Nora scowled, which was precisely the last word I was looking for. She turned to go, stopping at the door in front of Mrs. Malone. “I know how much you enjoy liver and onions,” she snarled. Evidently, I spoke prematurely on the subject of the last word.

Nora sensed her victory and smiled, then got while the getting was good. Mrs. Malone started to close the door behind her, then stopped.

‘Thank you,” she said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“No, I’m very grateful to you. You -- you’re an extraordinary woman, Miss Branster.”

She closed the door, leaving that word hanging in the air. Extraordinary. Which is just silly. I couldn’t think of a single extraordinary thing I’d done. There was a small mirror hanging on the wall, and I walked up to it. Staring back was the face of Bonnie Branster.

“You feel extraordinary?” I asked.

The reflection told me no. Nothing extraordinary here. I’m just a woman, doing my job.