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.