Ed McBain - The Empty Hours

“Mr. Courtenoy?” he asked.

“Yes?” He stared at Carella, puzzlement on his face, the puzzlement that is always there when a perfect stranger addresses you by name. Courtenoy was a man in his late forties, wearing a cap and a badly fitted sports jacket and dark flannel slacks in the month of August. His hair was graying at the temples. He looked tired, very tired, and his weariness had nothing whatever to do with the fact that it was only seven o’clock in the morning. A lunch box was at his feet where he had apparently put it when he began rolling up the garage door. The car in the garage was a 1953 Ford.

“We’re police officers,” Carella said. “Mind if we ask you a few questions?”

“I’d like to see your badge,” Courtenoy said. Carella showed it to him. Courtenoy nodded as if he had performed a precautionary public duty. “What are your questions?” he said. “I’m on my way to work. Is this about that damn building permit again?”

“What building permit?”

“For extending the garage. I’m buying my son a little jalopy, don’t want to leave it out on the street. Been having a hell of a time getting a building permit. Can you imagine that? All I want to do is add another twelve feet to the garage. You’d think I was trying to build a city park or something. Is that what this is about?”

From inside the house a woman’s voice called, “Who is it, Sid?”

“Nothing, nothing,” Courtenoy said impatiently. “Nobody. Never mind, Bett.” He looked at Carella. “My wife. You married?”

“Yes, sir, I’m married,” Carella said.

“Then you know,” Courtenoy said cryptically. “What are your questions?”

“Ever see this before?” Carella asked. He handed a photostated copy of the check to Courtenoy, who looked at it briefly and handed it back.

“Sure.”

“Want to explain it, Mr. Courtenoy?”

“Explain what?”

“Explain why Claudia Davis sent you a check for a hundred and twenty dollars.”

“As recompense,” Courtenoy said unhesitatingly.

“Oh, recompense, huh?” Meyer said. “For what, Mr. Courtenoy? For a little cock-and-bull story?”

“Huh? What are you talking about?”

“Recompense for what, Mr. Courtenoy?”

“For missing three days’ work, what the hell did you think?”

“How’s that again?”

“No, what did you think?” Courtenoy said angrily, waving his finger at Meyer. “What did you think it was for? Some kind of payoff or something? Is that what you thought?”

“Mr. Courtenoy ...”

“I lost three days’ work because of that damn inquest. I had to stay up at Triangle Lake all day Monday and Tuesday and then again on Wednesday waiting for the jury decision. I’m a bricklayer. I get five bucks an hour and I lost three days’ work, eight hours a day, and so Miss Davis was good enough to send me a check for a hundred and twenty bucks. Now just what the hell did you think, would you mind telling me?”

“Did you know Miss Davis before the day at Triangle Lake, Mr. Courtenoy?”

“Never saw her before in my life. What is this? Am I on trial here? What is this?”

From inside the house the woman’s voice came again, sharply, “Sidney! Is something wrong? Are you all right?”

“Nothing’s wrong. Shut up, will you?”

There was an aggrieved silence from within the clapboard structure. Courtenoy muttered something under his breath and then turned to face the detectives again. “You finished?” he said.

“Not quite, Mr. Courtenoy. We’d like you to tell us what you saw that day at the lake.”

“What the hell for? Go read the minutes of the inquest if you’re so damn interested. I’ve got to get to work.”

“That can wait, Mr. Courtenoy.”

“Like hell it can. This job is away over in ...”

“Mr. Courtenoy, we don’t want to have to go all the way downtown and come back with a warrant for your arrest.”

“My arrest! For what? Listen, what did I…”

“Sidney? Sidney, shall I call the police?” the woman shouted from inside the house.

“Oh, shut the hell up!” Courtenoy answered. “Call the police,” he mumbled. “I’m up to my ears in cops, and she wants to call the police. What do you want from me? I’m an honest bricklayer. I saw a girl drown. I told it just the way I saw it. Is that a crime? Why are you bothering me?”

“Just tell it again, Mr. Courtenoy. Just the way you saw it.”

“She was out in the boat,” Courtenoy said, sighing. “I was fishing. Her cousin was on the shore. She fell over the side.”

“Josie Thompson.”

“Yes, Josie Thompson, whatever the hell her name was.”

“She was alone in the boat?”

“Yes. She was alone in the boat.”

“Go on.”

“The other one — Miss Davis — screamed and ran into the water, and began swimming toward her.” He shook his head. “She didn’t make it in time. That boat was a long way out. When she got there, the lake was still. She dove under and came up, and then dove under again, but it was too late, it was just too late. Then, as she was swimming back, I thought she was going to drown, too. She faltered and sank below the surface, and I waited and I thought sure she was gone. Then there was a patch of yellow that broke through the water, and I saw she was all right.”

“Why didn’t you jump in to help her, Mr. Courtenoy?”

“I don’t know how to swim.”

“All right. What happened next?”

“She came out of the water — Miss Davis. She was exhausted and hysterical. I tried to calm her down, but she kept yelling and crying, not making any sense at all. I dragged her over to the car, and I asked her for the car keys. She didn’t seem to know what I was talking about at first. ‘The keys!’ I said, and she just stared at me. ‘Your car keys!’ I yelled. ‘The keys to the car.’ Finally she reached in her purse and handed me the keys.”

“Go on.”

“I drove her into town. It was me who told the story to the police. She couldn’t talk, all she could do was babble and scream and cry. It was a terrible thing to watch. I’d never before seen a woman so completely off her nut. We couldn’t get two straight words out of her until the next day. Then she was all right. Told the police who she was, explained what I’d already told them the day before, and told them the dead girl was her cousin, Josie Thompson. They dragged the lake and got her out of the water. A shame. A real shame. Nice young girl like that.”

“What was the dead girl wearing?”

“Cotton dress. Loafers, I think. Or sandals. Little thin sweater over the dress. A cardigan.”

“Any jewelry?”

“I don’t think so. No.”

“Was she carrying a purse?”

“No. Her purse was in the car with Miss Davis’.”

“What was Miss Davis wearing?”

“When? The day of the drowning? Or when they pulled her cousin out of the lake?”

“Was she there then?”

“Sure. Identified the body.”

“No, I wanted to know what she was wearing on the day of the accident, Mr. Courtenoy.”

“Oh, skirt and a blouse, I think. Ribbon in her hair. Loafers. I’m not sure.”

“What color blouse? Yellow?”

“No. Blue.”

“You said yellow.”

“No, blue, I didn’t say yellow.”

Carella frowned. “I thought you said yellow earlier.” He shrugged. “All right, what happened after the inquest?”

“Nothing much. Miss Davis thanked me for being so kind and said she would send me a check for the time I’d missed. I refused at first and then I thought, What the hell, I’m a hard-working man, and money doesn’t grow on trees. So I gave her my address. I figured she could afford it. Driving a Caddy, and hiring a fellow to take it back to the city.”