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.