The Empty Hours by Ed McBain Page A

there if anyone named Claudia Davis had
applied for a license requiring a photograph.
     
    “We
only require pictures on chauffeurs’ licenses,” the clerk said.
     
    “Well,
would you check?” Carella asked.
     
    “Sure.
Might take a few minutes, though. Would you have a seat?”
     
    Carella
sat. It was very cool. It felt like October. He looked at his watch. It was almost
time for lunch, and he was getting hungry. The clerk came back and motioned
him over.
     
    “We’ve
got a Claudia Davis listed,” he said, “but she’s already got a license, and she
didn’t apply for a new one.”
     
    “What
kind of license?”
     
    “Operator’s.”
     
    “When
does it expire?”
     
    “Next
September.”
     
    “And
she hasn’t applied for anything needing a photo?”
     
    “Nope.
Sorry.”
     
    “That’s
all right. Thanks,” Carella said.
     
    He went
out into the corridor again. He hardly thought it likely that Claudia Davis had
applied for a permit to own or operate a taxicab, so he skipped the Hack Bureau
and went upstairs to Pistol Permits. The woman he spoke to there was very kind
and very efficient. She checked her files and told him that no one named
Claudia Davis had ever applied for either a carry or a premises pistol permit.
Carella thanked her and went into the hall again. He was very hungry. His
stomach was beginning to growl. He debated having lunch and then returning and
decided, Hell, I’d better get it done now.
     
    The man
behind the counter in the Passport Bureau was old and thin and he wore a green
eyeshade. Carella asked his question, and the old man went to his files and
creakingly returned to the window.
     
    “That’s
right,” he said.
     
    “What’s
right?”
     
    “She
did. Claudia Davis. She applied for a passport.”
     
    “When?”
     
    The old
man checked the slip of paper in his trembling hands. “July twentieth,” he
said.
     
    “Did
you give it to her?”
     
    “We
accepted her application, sure. Isn’t us who issues the passports. We’ve got to
send the application on to Washington.”
     
    “But
you did accept it?”
     
    “Sure,
why not? Had all the necessary stuff. Why shouldn’t we accept it?”
     
    “What
was the necessary stuff?”
     
    “Two
photos, proof of citizenship, filled-out application, and cash.”
     
    “What
did she show as proof of citizenship?”
     
    “Her
birth certificate.”
     
    “Where
was she born?”
     
    “California.”
     
    “She
paid you in cash?”
     
    “That’s
right.”
     
    “Not a
check?”
     
    “Nope.
She started to write a check, but the blamed pen was on the blink. We use
ballpoints, you know, and it gave out after she filled in the application. So
she paid me in cash. It’s not all that much money, you know.”
     
    “I see.
Thank you,” Carella said.
     
    “Not at
all,” the old man replied, and he creaked back to his files to replace the record
on Claudia Davis.
     
    * * * *
     
    The check was numbered 007, and
it was dated July twelfth, and it was made out to a woman named Martha Feldelson.
     
    Miss Feldelson
adjusted her pince-nez and looked at the check. Then she moved some papers
aside on the small desk in the cluttered office, and put the check down, and
leaned closer to it, and studied it again.
     
    “Yes,”
she said, “that check was made out to me. Claudia Davis wrote it right in this
office.” Miss Feldelson smiled. “If you can call it an office. Desk space and a
telephone. But then, I’m just starting, you know.”
     
    “How
long have you been a travel agent, Miss Feldelson?”
     
    “Six
months now. It’s very exciting work.”
     
    “Had
you ever booked a trip for Miss Davis before?”
     
    “No.
This was the first time.”
     
    “Did
someone refer her to you?”
     
    “No.
She picked my name out of the phone book.”
     
    “And
asked you to arrange this trip for her, is that right?”
     
    “Yes.”
     
    “And
this check? What’s it for?”
     
    “Her
airline tickets,