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.