I was faced with the choice of two doors that opened onto the narrow corridor, and I chose the one at the front, the one from which the lace curtain movement had originated. I found myself in a small room, dirty but tastefully furnished. There was one person in it, a woman in her middle thirties, clad in jeans and a low-slung silk blouse, her thin blond hair hanging weakly down the sides of her long face. She was standing by a small antique maple desk, staring at something on it.
She turned and saw me as soon as I entered, but otherwise she didn’t move. Her face did, but not her body. On that pale face, a gamut of emotions crossed-displays of shock, of fear, and finally of a kind of resignation.
“What are you doing here?” she asked dully.
“The door was open,” I said. “The back door.”
“Have you got a warrant?” she asked.
I shook my head. “I’m not the police,” I said. I watched as the resignation turned to slow anger.
“Well, in that case,” she said, “I’ll call them.” She reached across the desk for the phone and picked up the receiver. But the movement seemed to have exhausted her. She stood still, holding it and staring at me. “What do you want?” she asked. The anger was replaced with despair.
I walked over and looked behind her. On the desk, I saw, were pieces of paper, scrawled with writing. There was some tracing paper there too, askew on one piece of the writing, but when she saw my eyes light on it she brushed against it, catapulting it to the floor. She stared at me defiantly.
“My name’s Kate Baeier,” I said. “I’m a private detective. A man called Martin Malloy hired me to find you.”
“Martin?” Her voice rose and she repeated it. “Martin?”
“You used to visit him in prison,” I said.
Her face cleared as she remembered and then it disintegrated again, not in fear, this time, but rather in hilarity. The laughter came slowly at first, from deep inside her, surfacing as a giggle but soon transformed into near hysteria. I stood and waited as she laughed in my face, laughed and laughed until the tears streamed down her cheeks.
Gradually the laugh subsided. She sniffed and wiped her eyes with the back of one hand. She looked at me and giggled again, controlling herself only by looking away.
“A private detective,” she muttered. “You’re not for real.”
I shrugged. “Martin wants to see you,” I said.
“Well, he can’t.” Her words had a final ring to them.
“He just wants to thank you,” I explained.
The look she threw me was one of pure contempt, not for me, I thought, but for Martin.
“Gimme a break,” she said.
“To thank you for opening up the world of fiction to him.”
She looked as if she was going to laugh again, and I didn’t really blame her. Put like that, it sounded ridiculous. If I hadn’t met Martin Malloy, I too would have laughed.
And Thelma had met Martin. She didn’t laugh. She smiled but not in mirth.
“He taught me something too,” she said in a voice that was pure malice. “The dumb bastard.”
I didn’t know until then how much I had cared, how much I wanted to deliver to Martin Malloy what he had requested. I acted without thinking. First, I saw the tracing paper on the floor with new eyes, with eyes that were looking at a mirror, then I took in the writing on the desk, and then I acted. I quickly moved behind her and wrenched open a drawer. She was too surprised to prevent me, and we both watched as it tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents. She flung herself on them, but too late to stop me from confirming what I had already guessed.
“Fraud,” I said. “That’s what it is.”
From the floor she looked up at me, surrounded by small pieces of plastic, her eyes flashing anger. I remembered the social worker’s bag, and the visit that she had just paid, and I remembered the goods in the kitchen. It made sense.
“Credit card fraud,” I said, thinking out loud. “The tracing paper is how you copy the signatures.”
She was down but not out, no longer vulnerable, in a way. She glared up at me. “So what are you going to do about it?” she shot.
I didn’t answer and she didn’t need me to.
“Nothing,” she said, “You’re the do-gooder type, aren’t you? I should know, I’ve tried that game. It gets you nowhere.”
“Except the occasional thanks,” I commented.
“Don’t give me that,” she said. “Thanks never buttered any bread. I’ve met enough Martin Malloys in my time, I don’t need to meet any more. A casualty of the system, that’s all he is, a well-meaning idiot without a chance. He even gave me tips on how to forge signatures, until he realized that my interest was more than academic. Then he had the cheek to lecture me, as if I was the one who had been jailed. Well, I’ve served my own kind of time, I’m free now. I don’t owe anybody anything; I don’t owe Martin Malloy the time of day. I can tell you…”
I knew she was right; she could have told me. She looked set to go on for a good few hours. I didn’t need to listen. I walked out of the room, through the hall, opened the front door, and stepped into the bright sunshine. I left the door open, hoping that some of the air would flow in. I wasn’t optimistic.
Martin Malloy turned up two days later. I was in my office waiting for him. I had nothing else to do but wait, and I couldn’t shake off the feeling of uselessness that had settled on me ever since I’d met Thelma.
I’d left the door open and he didn’t bother to ring the bell this time. He just arrived in my office, a huge man with a surprisingly light tread.
“Did you find her?” he asked.
I nodded.
When he smiled, his face opened up like an exotic flower that the scar did nothing to spoil. “When can we meet?” he asked.
I stood up. “She doesn’t want to see you,” I said.
I don’t know what I expected-fury, sorrow, violence even, but all I got was a vague look of disappointment. He nodded and made as if he were about to go. But then he changed his mind.
“Is Thelma all right?” he asked.
Wrong-footed, I didn’t know how to answer. I looked into those warm brown eyes and I shivered. I remembered the sight of that smile, and I knew that I didn’t want to disappoint it
“She’s fine,” I lied. “Just busy.”
I should have known better: Malloy was no fool.
“Don’t try and kid me,” he said, and his voice was as hard as his body. “Don’t treat me like a child.”
I sat down. “I’m sorry,” I said. “I shouldn’t have pretended. Thelma is far from fine. She’s involved in some kind of credit card fiddle,” I paused. “And I’m not sure she’s doing too well.” I finished quickly, feeling somehow that I had betrayed someone. I looked away, out the window and at the faultless blue sky.
“Anything I could do to help?” he asked. “She helped me, you know.” His voice was sad.
I shook my head and looked at him again. “I’m not sure-” I started.
But he was lost in his own thoughts, and he spoke them out loud. “I knew it was something stupid,” he said. “I tried to tell her that people like us just don’t win. I thought if I was no longer behind bars, she would listen to me.”
I remembered what Thelma had said about him, and I couldn’t help myself. “She’s a bitch,” I snapped. “Beyond saving.”
“Don’t say that,” he said. “She’s just confused. Nobody’s beyond saving.”
I nodded in recognition of sentiment rather than in agreement with the meaning. I reached into my desk and pulled out his money, the money that I had not yet touched.