Free The Empty Hours by Ed McBain Page A

“Then she’d still collect on an insurance policy, and also fall heir to
those fat security dividends coming in.”
     
    “Right.
What does it take to cash a dividend check? A bank account, that’s all. A bank
account with an established signature. So all she had to do was open one, sign
her name as Claudia Davis, and then endorse every dividend check that came in
exactly the same way.”
     
    “Which
explains the new account,’ Meyer said. “She couldn’t use Claudia’s old account
because the bank undoubtedly knew both Claudia and her signature. So
Josie had to forfeit the sixty grand at Highland Trust and start from scratch.”
     
    “And
while she was building a new identity and a new fortune,” Hawes said, “just to
make sure Claudia’s few friends forgot all about her, Josie was running off to
Europe. She may have planned to stay there for years.”
     
    “It all
ties in,” Carella said. “Claudia had a driver’s license. She was the one who
drove the car away from Stewart City. But Josie had to hire a chauffeur to take
her back?”
     
    “And
would Claudia, who was so meticulous about money matters, have kept so many
people waiting for payment?” Hawes said. “No, sir. That was Josie. And Josie
was broke, Josie was waiting for that insurance policy to pay off so she could
settle those debts and get the hell out of the country.”
     
    “Well, I
admit it adds up,” Meyer said. Peter Byrnes never wasted words. “Who cashed
that twenty-five-thousand-dollar check for Josie?” he said.
     
    There
was silence in the room.
     
    “Who’s
got that missing five grand?” he said.
     
    There
was another silence.
     
    “Who killed Josie?” he said.
     
    * * * *

 
     
    15
     
     
    Jeremiah Dodd of the Security
Insurance Corporation, Inc., did not call until two days later. He asked to
speak to Detective Carella, and when he got him on the phone, he said, “Mr.
Carella, I’ve just heard from San Francisco on that check.”
     
    “What
check?” Carella asked. He had been interrogating a witness to a knifing in a
grocery store on Culver Avenue. The Claudia Davis or rather the Josie Thompson
case was not quite yet in the Open File, but it was ready to be dumped there,
and was truly the farthest thing from Carella’s mind at the moment.
     
    “The
check was paid to Claudia Davis,” Dodd said.
     
    “Oh,
yes. Who cashed it?”
     
    “Well,
there are two endorsements on the back. One was made by Claudia Davis, of
course. The other was made by an outfit called Leslie Summers, Inc. It’s a
regular company stamp marked ‘For Deposit Only’ and signed by one of the
officers.”
     
    “Have
any idea what sort of a company that is?” Carella asked.
     
    “Yes,”
Dodd said. “They handle foreign exchange.”
     
    “Thank
you,” Carella said.
     
    He went
there with Bert Kling later that afternoon. He went with Kling completely by
chance and only because Kling was heading downtown to buy his mother a birthday
gift and offered Carella a ride. When they parked the car, Kling asked, “How long
will this take, Steve?”
     
    “Few
minutes, I guess.”
     
    “Want
to meet me back here?”
     
    “Well,
I’ll be at 720 Hall, Leslie Summers, Inc. If you’re through before me, come on
over.”
     
    “Okay,
I’ll see you,” Kling said.
     
    They
parted on Hall Avenue without shaking hands. Carella found the street-level
office of Leslie Summers, Inc., and walked in. A counter ran the length of the
room, and there were several girls behind it. One of the girls was speaking to
a customer in French and another was talking Italian to a man who wanted lire
in exchange for dollars. A board behind the desk quoted the current exchange
rate for countries all over the world. Carella got in line and waited. When he
reached the counter, the girl who’d been speaking French said, “Yes, sir?”
     
    “I’m a
detective,’ Carella said. He opened his wallet to where his shield was pinned
to the leather.