The Empty Hours Read Online Free PDF Page B

shoulda seen her when it happened.
And at the inquest it was plain this fishing fellow had never met her before
that day at the lake. Convinced the jury he had no prior knowledge of or
connection with either of the two girls. Convinced me, too, for that matter.”
     
    “What’s
his name?” Carella asked. “This fishing fellow.”
     
    “Courtenoy.”
     
    “What
did you say?”
     
    “Courtenoy.
Sidney Courtenoy.”
     
    “Thanks,”
Carella answered, and he rose suddenly. “Come on, Teddy. I want to get back to
the city.”
     
    Courtenoy
lived in a one-family clapboard house in Riverhead. He was rolling up the door
of his garage when Carella and Meyer pulled into his driveway early Monday
morning. He turned to look at the car curiously, one hand on the rising garage
door. The door stopped, halfway up, halfway down. Carella stepped into the
driveway.
     
    “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.