87th Precinct 02 - The Mugger

by McBain, Ed

  The night had turned cold, and there weren’t many people in the street. The men’s clothing store was closed, and the Chinese restaurant belched steam into the air from a vent on the side of the building. A few people straggled into the movie house.

  He waited, and when the car pulled up, he put one hand on the police sign alongside him and waited for the door to open.

  The man came out of the car and started walking toward the curb. He was not a bad-looking man. He had even white teeth and an enviable cleft in his chin. He was tall and muscularly built. There was only one bad feature on his face.

  “Hello,” Kling said.

  The man looked up, startled. His eyes fled to Kling’s face and then to the sign alongside Kling.

  The sign read:

  HACK STAND

  NO PARKING

  THREE TAXICABS

  Peter Bell said, “Bert? Is that you, Bert?”

  Kling stepped into the light. “It’s me, Peter,” he said.

  Bell looked confused. “Hi,” he said. “What…what brings you down here?”

  “You, Peter.”

  “Well, good. Always glad to have a friend…” He stopped. “Listen, you want a cup of coffee or something? Take the chill off?”

  “No, Peter,” Kling said.

  “Well…uh…what is it?”

  “I’m taking you with me, Peter. Up to the house.”

  “The house? You mean the precinct?” Bell’s brows swooped down. “What for? What’s the matter with you, Bert?”

  “For the murder of your sister-in-law, Jeannie Paige,” Kling said.

  Bell stared at Kling and then smiled tremulously. “You’re kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding, Peter.”

  “Well, you…you must be kidding! I never heard such a stupid—”

  “You’re a murderer!” Kling said vehemently. “I ought to beat you black and blue and then—”

  “Listen, hold it. Just hold—”

  “Hold it!” Kling shouted. “You egotistical son of a bitch, did you think I was an absolute moron? Is that why you picked me to begin with? A rookie cop? A cop who wouldn’t know his knee from his elbow? Is that why you picked me to placate Molly? Bring a cop around, show the little woman you’re trying, and that would make everything all right, wouldn’t it? What was it you said, Peter? ‘That way, Molly’ll be happy. If I bring a cop around, she’ll be happy.’ Isn’t that what you said?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “You read six newspapers a day! You stumbled on the item about your old pal Bert Kling being discharged from the hospital and resting up, so you figured he was the perfect chump. Bring him around, get Molly off your neck, and then you’d be free to—”

  “Listen, Bert, you’ve got this all wrong. You’re—”

  “I’ve got it all right, Peter! My coming around would have been the end of it, but something else came up, didn’t it? Jeannie told you she was pregnant. Jeannie told you she was carrying your child!”

  “No, listen—”

  “Don’t ‘No’ me, Peter! Isn’t that what happened? She said she had an appointment the night I talked to her. Was the appointment with you? Did she drop her bombshell then? Did she tell you and then give you time to mull it over for the next day, give you time to work out the way you were going to kill her?”

  Bell was silent for a long time. Then he said, “I didn’t see her that Wednesday night. Her appointment wasn’t with me.”

  “Who then?”

  “A doctor.” Bell swallowed. “I saw her on Thursday. She met me here, at the hack stand, the way she always did. Bert, this isn’t what you think, believe me. I loved her, I loved her.”

  “I’ll just bet you did! I’ll bet you adored her, Peter. I’ll bet you—”

  “Why does marriage go stale?” Bell said plaintively. “Why does it have to go stale, Bert? Why couldn’t Molly have stayed the way she was? Young and fresh and pretty…like—”

  “Like Jeannie? ‘She looks just the way Molly looked when she was that age.’ That’s what you told me, Peter. Remember?”

  “Yes! She was Molly all over again, and I watched her growing up, and I…I fell in love with her. Is that so hard to understand? Is it so goddamn difficult to understand that a man could fall in love?”

  “That’s not the hard part, Peter.”

  “What then? What? What can you—”

  “You don’t kill somebody you love,” Kling said.

  “She was hysterical!” Bell said. “I met her here, and we drove, and she told me the doctor had said she was pregnant. She said she was going to tell Molly all about it! How could I let her do that?”

  “So you killed her.”

  “I…We parked on the River Highway. She walked ahead of me, to the top of the cliff. I…I had a monkey wrench with me. I…I carry one in the cab, in case of burglaries, in case of—”

  “Peter, you didn’t have to—”

  Bell wasn’t listening to Kling. Bell was reliving the night of September 14. “I…I hit her twice. She fell backward, rolling, rolling. Then the bushes stopped her, and she lay there like a broken doll. I…I went back to the cab. I was ready to drive away when I remembered the newspaper stories about Clifford the mugger. I…I carried a cheap pair of sunglasses in the glove compartment. I…I took them out and broke one lens in the cab, so that it would look like the glasses were broken in a struggle and then fell over the side of the cliff. I went back up the cliff again, and she still lay there, broken and bleeding, and I threw the glasses down, and then I rode on, and I left her there.”

  “Was it you who sicked Homicide North on me, Peter?”

  “Yes.” Bell’s voice was very low. “I…I didn’t know how much you knew. I couldn’t take any chances.”

  “No.” Kling paused. “You took a chance the first night you met me, Peter.”

  “What?”

  “You wrote your address and phone number for me. And the handwriting is the same as the writing on a card Jeannie took to Club Tempo.”

  “I knew the club from when I was a kid,” Bell said. “I figured…as a blind, a cover-up…to throw Molly off if she got wise. Bert, I…” He stopped. “You can’t prove anything with that handwriting. So what if I—”

  “We’ve got all the proof we need, Peter.”

  “You haven’t got a damn—”

  “We’ve got your thumbprint on the sunglasses.”

  Bell was silent again. And then, as if the words were torn bleeding and raw from him, he shouted, “I loved her!”

  “And she loved you, and the poor damn kid had to keep her first love hidden like a thief. And like a thief, Peter, you stole her life.”

  “Bert, look, she’s dead now. What difference does it make? Can’t we—”

  “No.”

  “Bert, how can I tell this to Molly? Do you know what this’ll do to her? Bert, how can I tell her? Bert, give me a break, please. How can I tell her?”

  Bert Kling looked at Bell quite coldly. “You made your bed,” he said at last. “Come on.”

  On Monday morning, September 25, Steve Carella burst into the squadroom, raring to go.

  “Where the hell is everybody?” he shouted. “Where’s my welcoming committee?”

  “Well, well,” Havilland said, “look who’s back.”

  “The hero returning from the Trojan War,” Meyer cracked.

  “How was it, boy?” Temple asked.

  “Wonderful,” Carella said. “It’s wonderful in the Poconos this time of year.”

  “It’s wonderful anywhere,” Meyer said. “Haven’t you heard?”

  “You’re a bunch of lewd so-and-sos,” Carella said. “I knew it all along, but this confirms it.”

  “You’re one of us,” Meyer said. “We are your brothers.”

  “Brother!” Carella said. “So what’ve you been doing for the past month? Sitting on your duffs and collecting salaries?”

  “Oh,” Meyer said, “few things been going on.”

  “T
ell him about the cats,” Temple prompted.

  “What cats?” Carella said.

  “I’ll tell you later,” Meyer said patiently.

  “We had a homicide,” Havilland said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah,” Temple said. “We also got a new detective/third grade.”

  “Yeah?” Carella said. “A transfer?”

  “Nope. A promotion. Up from the ranks.”

  “Who?”

  “Bert Kling. You know him?”

  “Sure I do. Good for Bert. What’d he do? Rescue the commissioner’s wife?”

  “Oh, nothing much,” Meyer said. “Just sat on his duff and collected his salary.”

  “So how’s married life?” Havilland asked.

  “Wonderful.”

  “These cats George was talking about…” Meyer said.

  “Yeah?”

  “One hell of a thing, believe me. One of the roughest cases the 33rd has ever had.”

  “No kidding?” Carella said. He walked over to Havilland’s desk and helped himself to the coffee container there. The room seemed very warm and very friendly, and he suddenly did not regret being back on the job.

  “Damnedest thing,” Meyer said patiently. “They had this guy, you see, who was going around kidnapping cats.”

  Carella sipped at his coffee. The sunlight streamed through the meshed windows. Outside, the city was coming to life.

  Another workday was beginning.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photograph © Dragica Hunter

  Ed McBain was one of the many pen names of the successful and prolific crime fiction author Evan Hunter (1926-2005). Born Salvatore Lambino in New York, McBain served aboard a destroyer in the US Navy during World War II and then earned a degree from Hunter College in English and psychology. After a short stint teaching in a high school, McBain went to work for a literary agency in New York, working with authors such as Arthur C. Clarke and P.G. Wodehouse, all the while working on his own writing on nights and weekends. He had his first breakthrough in 1954 with the novel The Blackboard Jungle, which was published under his newly legal name Evan Hunter and based on his time teaching in the Bronx.

  Perhaps his most popular work, the 87th Precinct series (released mainly under the name Ed McBain) is one of the longest running crime series ever published, debuting in 1956 with Cop Hater and featuring over fifty novels. The series is set in a fictional locale called Isola and features a wide cast of detectives including the prevalent Detective Steve Carella.

  McBain was also known as a screenwriter. Most famously he adapted a short story from Daphne Du Maurier into the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963). In addition to writing for the silver screen, he wrote for many television series, including Columbo and the NBC series 87th Precinct (1961-1962), based on his popular novels.

  McBain was awarded the Grand Master Award for lifetime achievement in 1986 by the Mystery Writers of America and was the first American to receive the Cartier Diamond Dagger award from the Crime Writers Association of Great Britain. He passed away in 2005 in his home in Connecticut after a battle with larynx cancer.