The Mugger

by Ed McBain

  “What ship are you on?” Eileen asked the sailor.

  “USS Huntuh,” the sailor said. “You-all beginnin’ t’take an intrust in me, redhaid?”

  Eileen stopped. She turned to face the sailor, and there was a deadly glint in her green eyes. “Listen to me, sailor,” she said. “I’m a policewoman, understand? I’m working now, and you’re cluttering up my job, and I don’t like it.”

  “A what?” the sailor said. He threw back his head, ready to let out a wild guffaw, but Eileen’s cold dispassionate voice stopped him.

  “I’ve got a .38 Detective’s Special in my purse,” she said evenly. “In about six seconds, I’m going to take it out and shoot you in the leg. I’ll leave you on the sidewalk and then put in a call in to the Shore Patrol. I’m counting, sailor.”

  “Hey, whut you—”

  “One…”

  “Listen, whut you gettin’ all het up about? Ah’m on’y—”

  “Two…”

  “I don’t even believe you got an’ ol’ gun in that—”

  The .38 snapped into view suddenly. The sailor’s eyes went wide.

  “Three…” Eileen said.

  “Wal, ah’ll be—”

  “Four…”

  The sailor looked at the gun once more.

  “G’night, lady,” he said, and he turned on his heel and began running.

  Eileen watched him. She returned the gun to her purse, smiled, turned the corner, and walked into the darkened street. She had taken no more than fifteen steps when the arm circled her throat and she was pulled into the alleyway.

  The sailor came down the street at such a fast clip that Willis almost burst out laughing. The flap of the sailor’s jumper danced in the wind. He charged down the middle of the asphalt with a curious mixture of a sailor’s roll, a drunk’s lopsided gait, and the lope of a three-year-old in the Kentucky Derby. His eyes were wide, and his hair flew madly as he jounced along.

  He skidded to a stop when he saw Willis, and then, puffing for breath, he advised, “Man, if’n you-all see a redhaid up theah, steer clear of her, Ah’m tellin’ you.”

  “What’s the matter?” Willis asked paternally, holding back the laugh that crowded his throat.

  “Whutsamatter! Man, she got a twenty-gauge shotgun in her handbag, tha’s whutsamatter. Whoo-ie, Ah’m gettin’ clear the hell out o’ here!”

  He nodded briefly at Willis and then blasted off again. Willis watched his jet trail, indulged himself in one short chuckle, and then looked for Eileen up ahead. She had probably turned the corner.

  He grinned, changing his earlier appraisal of the sailor’s intrusion. The sailor had, after all, presented a welcome diversion from this dull business of plodding along and hoping for a mugger who probably would never materialize.

  She was reaching for the .38 in her purse when the strap left her shoulder. She felt the secure weight of the purse leaving her hipbone, and then the bag was gone. And just as she planted her feet to throw the intruder over her shoulder, he spun her around and slammed her against the wall of the building.

  “I’m not playing around,” he said in a low, menacing voice, and she realized instantly that he wasn’t. The collision with the wall of the building had knocked the breath out of her. She watched his face, dimly lighted in the alleyway. He was not wearing sunglasses, but she could not determine the color of his eyes. He was wearing a hat, too, and she cursed the hat because it hid his hair.

  His fist lashed out suddenly, exploding just beneath her left eye. She had heard about purple and yellow globes of light that followed a punch in the eye, but she had never experienced them until this moment. She tried to move away from the wall, momentarily blinded, but he shoved her back viciously.

  “That’s just a warning,” he said. “Don’t scream when I’m gone, you understand?”

  “I understand,” she said levelly. Willis, where are you? her mind shrieked. For God’s sake, where are you?

  She had to detain this man. She had to hold him until Willis showed. Come on, Willis.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  His hand went out again, and her head rocked from his strong slap.

  “Shut up!” he warned. “I’m taking off now.”

  If this were Clifford, she had a chance. If this were Clifford, she would have to move in a few seconds, and she tensed herself for the move, knowing only that she had to hold the man until Willis arrived.

  There!

  He was going into it now.

  “Clifford thanks you, madam,” he said, and his arm swept across his waist, and he went into a low bow, and Eileen clasped both hands together, raised them high over her head, and swung them at the back of his neck as if she were wielding a hammer.

  The blow caught him completely by surprise. He began to pitch forward, and she brought up her knee, catching him under the jaw. His arms opened wide. He dropped the purse and staggered backward, and when he lifted his head again, Eileen was standing with a spike-heeled shoe in one hand. She didn’t wait for his attack. With one foot shoeless, she hobbled forward and swung out at his head.

  He backed away, missing her swing, and then he bellowed like a wounded bear, and cut loose with a roundhouse blow that caught her just below her bosom. She felt the sharp knifing pain, and then he was hitting her again, hitting her cruelly and viciously now. She dropped the shoe, and she caught at his clothes, one hand going to his face, trying to rip, trying to claw, forgetting all her police knowledge in that one desperate lunge for self-survival, using a woman’s weapons—nails.

  She missed his face, and she stumbled forward, catching at his jacket again, clawing at his breast pocket. He pulled away, and she felt the material tear, and then she was holding the torn shield of his pocket patch in her hands, and he hit her again, full on the jaw, and she fell back against the wall and heard Willis’s running footsteps.

  The mugger stooped down for the fallen purse, seizing it by the shoulder straps as Willis burst into the mouth of the alley, a gun in his fist.

  Clifford came erect, swinging the bag as he stood. The bag caught Willis on the side of the head, and he staggered sidewards, the gun going off in his hand. He shook his head, saw the mugger taking flight, shot without aiming, shot again, missing both times. Clifford turned the corner, and Willis took off after him, rounding the same bend.

  The mugger was nowhere in sight.

  He went back to where Eileen Burke sat propped against the wall of the building. Her knees were up, and her skirt was pulled back, and she sat in a very unladylike position, cradling her head. Her left eye was beginning to throb painfully. When she lifted her head, Willis winced.

  “He clipped you,” he said.

  “Where the hell were you?” Eileen Burke answered.

  “Right behind you. I didn’t realize anything was wrong until I heard a man’s voice shout, ‘Shut up!’”

  “He packs a wallop,” Eileen said. “How does my eye look?”

  “You’re going to have a hell of a mouse,” Willis told her. “We’ll get a steak for it whenever you feel like going.” He paused. “Was it Clifford?”

  “Sure,” she said. She got to her feet and winced. “Ow, I think he broke one of my ribs.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Willis asked, concerned.

  Eileen felt the area beneath her breasts. “It only feels that way. Oooooh, God!”

  “Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Too dark,” she said. She held up her hand. “I got his pocket, though.”

  “Good.” Willis looked down. “What’s all this on the sidewalk?”

  “What?”

  He bent. “Cigarettes,” he said. “Good. We may get some latents from the cellophane.” He picked the package up with his handkerchief, carefully holding the linen around it.

  “He was probably carrying them in his pocket,” Eileen said. She touched the throbbing eye. “Let’s get that steak, huh?”

  “Sure. Just one thing.”

  “What?�
�

  “Matches. If he was carrying cigarettes in that pocket, he was probably carrying matches, too.” He took a pocket flashlight and thumbed it into life. The light spilled onto the sidewalk, traveling in a slow arc. “Ah, there they are,” he said. He stooped to pick up the match folder, using a second handkerchief he took from his inside pocket.

  “Listen, can’t we get that steak?” Eileen asked.

  Willis looked at the folder. “We may be in luck,” he said.

  “How so?”

  “The ad on these matches. It’s for a place here in the city. A place named the Three Aces. Maybe we’ve got a hangout for Clifford now.”

  He looked at Eileen and grinned broadly. She stooped, putting on her shoe.

  “Come on,” he said, “let’s take care of that peeper.”

  “I was beginning to think you didn’t care anymore,” Eileen said. She took his arm, and they started up the street together.

  That Thursday afternoon, Kling called Claire Townsend the first chance he got.

  The first chance he got was on his lunch hour. He ordered a Western sandwich and a cup of coffee, went to the phonebook, looked up Townsend at 728 Peterson in Riverhead, and came up with a listing for Ralph Townsend. He went into the booth, deposited a dime, and dialed the number. He allowed the phone to ring for a total of twelve times, and then he hung up.

  There were a lot of things to keep him busy on the beat that afternoon. A woman, for no apparent reason other than that her husband had called her “Babe,” had struck out at him with a razor, opening a gash the size of a banana on the side of his face. Kling made the pinch. The razor, by the time he arrived on the scene, had gone the way of all discreet assault weapons—down the nearest sewer.

  No sooner was he back on the street than a gang of kids attacked a boy as he was coming home from school. The boy had committed the unpardonable sin of making a pass at a deb who belonged to a rival street gang. Kling arrived just as the gang members were ready to stomp the kid into the pavement. He collared one of them, told him he knew the faces of all the kids who’d participated in the beating and that if anything happened to the boy they’d jumped on from here on in, he’d know just where to look. The gang member nodded solemnly and then took off after his friends. The boy they’d jumped survived with only a few bumps on his head. This time, fists had been the order of the day.

  Kling then proceeded to break up a craps game in the hallway of one of the buildings, listen to the ranting complaints of a shopkeeper who insisted that an eight-year-old boy had swiped a bolt of blue shantung, warn one of the bar owners that his license was kaput the next time any hustlers were observed soliciting in his joint, have a cup of coffee with one of the better-known policy runners in the neighborhood, and then walk back to the precinct house, where he changed into street clothes.

  As soon as he hit the street again, he called Claire. She picked up the instrument on the fourth ring.

  “Who is it?” she said. “And I hope to hell you apologize for getting me out of the shower. I’m wringing wet.”

  “I apologize,” Kling said.

  “Mr. Kling?” she asked, recognizing his voice.

  “Yes.”

  “I was going to call you, but I didn’t know where. I remembered something that might help.”

  “What is it?”

  “The night I walked Jeannie down to the train station she said something.”

  “What?”

  “She said she had a half-hour ride ahead of her. Does that help?”

  “It might. Thanks a lot.” He paused. “Listen, I’ve been thinking.”

  “Yes.”

  “About…about this dinner setup. I thought maybe—”

  “Mr. Kling,” she interrupted, “you don’t want to take me to dinner.”

  “I do,” he insisted.

  “I’m the dullest girl in the world, believe me. I’d bore you stiff.”

  “I’d like to take the chance.”

  “You’re only asking for trouble for yourself. Don’t bother, believe me. Buy your mother a present with the money.”

  “I bought my mother a present last week.”

  “Buy her another one.”

  “Besides, I was thinking of going Dutch.”

  Claire chuckled. “Well, now you make it sound more attractive.”

  “Seriously, Claire—”

  “Seriously, Mr. Kling, I’d rather not. I’m a sad sack, and you wouldn’t enjoy me, not one bit.”

  “I enjoy you already.”

  “Those were company manners.”

  “Say, have you got an inferiority complex or something?”

  “It’s not that I have an inferiority complex, doctor,” she said, “it’s that I really am inferior.” Kling laughed, and she said, “Do you remember that cartoon?”

  “No, but it’s wonderful. How about dinner?”

  “Why?”

  “I like you.

  “There are a million girls in this city.”

  “More than that even.”

  “Mr. Kling—”

  “Bert.”

  “Bert, there’s nothing here for you.”

  “I haven’t said what I want yet.”

  “Whatever you want, it’s not here.”

  “Claire, let me gamble on it. Let me take you to dinner, and let me spend what may turn out to be the most miserable evening in my entire life. I’ve gambled with larger stakes involved. In the service, I even gambled with my life once in a while.”

  “Were you in the service?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  There seemed to be sudden interest in her voice. “Korea?”

  “Yes.”

  There was a long silence on the line.

  “Claire?”

  “I’m here.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Deposit five cents for the next three minutes, please,” the operator said.

  “Oh, hell, just a minute,” Kling replied. He dug into his pocket and deposited a nickel. “Claire?” he said.

  “I’m costing you money already,” she told him.

  “I’ve got money to burn,” he answered. “How about it? I’ll call for you tonight at about six-thirty.”

  “No, tonight is out of the question.”

  “Tomorrow night, then.”

  “I have a late class tomorrow. I don’t get out until seven.”

  “I’ll meet you at the school.”

  “That won’t give me any time to change.”

  “It’ll be a come-as-you-are date, okay?”

  “I usually wear flats and a dirty old sweater to school.”

  “Fine!” he said enthusiastically.

  “I suppose I could wear a dress and heels, though. It might shock some of the slobs in our hallowed halls, but then again, it might set a precedent.”

  “Seven o’clock?”

  “All right,” she said.

  “Good, I’ll see you then.”

  “Good-bye.”

  “Bye.” He hung up, grinning. He was stepping out of the booth when he remembered. Instantly, he reached into his pocket for another dime. He had no change. He went to the proprietor of the candy store, who was busy doling out a couple of two-cent seltzers. By the time he got his change, five minutes had rushed by. He dialed the number rapidly.

  “Hello?”

  “Claire, this is me again.”

  “You got me out of the shower again, you know that, don’t you?”

  “Gee, I’m awfully sorry, but you didn’t tell me which school.”

  “Oh.” Claire was silent. “Nope, I didn’t. It’s Women’s U. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. Go to Radley Hall. You’ll find the office of our alleged college newspaper there. The paper is called The Radley Clarion, but the sign on the door says The Radley Rag. I keep my coat in a locker there. Don’t let all the predatory females frighten you.”

  “I’ll be there o
n the dot,” Kling said.

  “And I, exercising a woman’s prerogative, shall be there ten minutes after the dot.”

  “I’ll wait.”

  “Good. Now, you don’t mind, do you, but I’m making a big puddle on the carpet.”

  “I’m sorry. Go wash.”

  “You said that as if you thought I was dirty.”

  “If you’d rather talk, I’ve got all night.”

  “I’d rather wash. Good-bye, Tenacious.”

  “Good-bye, Claire.”

  “You are tenacious, you realize that, don’t you?”

  Kling grinned. “Tenacious, anyone?” he asked.

  “Ouch!” Claire said. “Good-bye,” and then she hung up.

  He sat in the booth grinning foolishly for a good three minutes. A fat lady finally knocked on the glass panel in the door and said, “Young man, that booth isn’t a hotel.”

  Kling opened the doors. “That’s funny,” he said. “Room service just sent up a sandwich.”

  The woman blinked, pulled a face, and then stuffed herself into the booth, slamming the door emphatically.

  At 10:00 that night, Kling stepped off an express train onto the Peterson Avenue station platform of the Elevated Transit System. He stood for a moment looking out over the lights of the city, warm and alive with color against the tingling autumn air. Autumn did not want to die this year. Autumn refused to be lowered into the grave of winter. She clung tenaciously (Tenacious, anyone? he thought, and he grinned all over again) to the trailing robes of summer. She was glad to be alive, and humanity caught some of her zest for living, mirrored it on the faces of the people in the streets.

  One of the people in the streets was a man named Clifford.

  Somewhere among people who rushed along grinning, there was a man with a scowl on his face.

  Somewhere among the thousands who sat in movie houses, there might be a murderer watching the screen.

  Somewhere where lovers walked and talked, he might be sitting alone on a bench, brooding.

  Somewhere where open, smiling faces dispelled plumed, brittle vapor on to the snappish air, a man walked with his mouth closed and his teeth clenched.

  Clifford.

  How many Cliffords were there in a city of this size? How many Cliffords in the telephone directory? How many unlisted Cliffords?