The Mugger

by Ed McBain

  Kling dressed for his date carefully.

  He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt that extreme care should be exercised in the handling and feeding of Claire Townsend. He admitted to himself that he had never (well, hardly ever) been so taken with a girl and that he would probably be devastated forever (well, for a long time) if he lost her. He had no ideas on exactly how to win her, except for this intuition that urged him to proceed with caution. She had, after all, warned him repeatedly. She had put out the KEEP OFF! sign, and then she had read the sign aloud to him, and then she had translated it into six languages, but she had, nonetheless, accepted his offer.

  Which proves beyond doubt, he thought, that the girl is wildly in love with me.

  Which piece of deduction was about on a par with the high level of detective work he had done so far. His abortive attempts at getting anywhere with the Jeannie Paige murder left him feeling a little foolish. He wanted very much to be promoted to detective 3rd/grade someday, but he entertained severe doubts now as to whether he really was detective material. It was almost two weeks since Peter Bell had come to him with his plea. It was almost two weeks since Bell had scribbled his address on a scrap of paper, a scrap still tucked in one of the pockets of Kling’s wallet. A lot had happened in those nearly two weeks. And those happenings gave Kling reason for a little healthy soul-searching.

  He was, at this point, just about ready to leave the case to the men who knew how to handle such things. His amateurish legwork, his fumbling questions, had netted a big zero—or so he thought. The only important thing he’d turned up was Claire Townsend. Claire, he was certain, was important. She was important now, and he felt she would become more important as time went by.

  So let’s polish our goddamn shoes. You want to look like a slob?

  He took his shoes from the closet, slipped them on over socks he would most certainly smear with polish and later change, and set to work with his shine kit.

  He was spitting on his right shoe when the knock sounded on the door.

  “Who is it?” he called.

  “Police. Open up,” the voice said.

  “Who?”

  “Police.”

  Kling rose, his trouser cuffs rolled up high, his hands smeared with black polish. “Is this a gag?” he said to the closed door.

  “Come on, Kling,” the voice said. “You know better than that.”

  Kling opened the door. Two men stood in the hallway. Both were huge; both wore tweed jackets over V-necked sweaters; both looked bored.

  “Bert Kling?” one of them asked.

  “Yes?” he said puzzled.

  A shield flashed. “Monoghan and Monroe,” one of them said. “Homicide. I’m Monoghan.”

  “I’m Monroe,” the other one said.

  They were like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Kling thought. He suppressed his smile. Neither of his visitors was smiling. Each looked as if he had just come from an out-of-town funeral.

  “Come in, fellers,” Kling said, “I was just dressing.”

  “Thank you,” Monoghan said.

  “Thank you,” Monroe echoed.

  They stepped into the room. They both took off their fedoras. Monoghan cleared his throat. Kling looked at them expectantly.

  “Like a drink?” he asked, wondering why they were there, feeling somehow awed and frightened by their presence.

  “A short one,” Monoghan said.

  “A tiny hooker,” Monroe said.

  Kling went to the closet and pulled out a bottle. “Bourbon okay?”

  “When I was a patrolman,” Monoghan said, “I couldn’t afford bourbon.”

  “This was a gift,” Kling said.

  “I never took whiskey. Anybody on the beat wanted to see me, it was cash on the line.”

  “That’s the only way,” Monroe said.

  “This was a gift from my father. When I was in the hospital. The nurses wouldn’t let me touch it there.”

  “You can’t blame them,” Monoghan said.

  “Turn the place into an alcoholic ward,” Monroe said, unsmiling.

  Kling brought them their drinks. Monoghan hesitated.

  “Ain’t you drinking with us?”

  “I’ve got an important date,” he said. “I want to keep my head.”

  Monoghan looked at him with the flat look of a reptile. He shrugged, then turned to Monroe and said, “Here’s looking at you.”

  Monroe acknowledged the toast. “Up yours,” he said unsmilingly and then tossed off the shot.

  “Good bourbon,” Monoghan said.

  “Excellent,” Monroe amplified.

  “More?” Kling asked.

  “Thanks,” Monoghan said.

  “No,” Monroe said.

  Kling looked at them. “You said you were from Homicide?”

  “Homicide North.”

  “Monoghan and Monroe,” Monroe said. “Ain’t you heard of us? We cracked the Nelson-Nichols-Permen triangle murder.”

  “Oh,” Kling said.

  “Sure,” Monoghan said modestly. “Big case.”

  “One of our biggest,” Monroe said.

  “Big one.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you working on now?” Kling asked, smiling.

  “The Jeannie Paige murder,” Monoghan said flatly.

  A dart of fear shot up into Kling’s throat. “Oh?” he said.

  “Yeah,” Monoghan said.

  “Yeah,” Monroe said.

  Monoghan cleared his throat. “How long you been with the force, Kling?” he asked.

  “Just…just a short while.”

  “That figures,” Monoghan said.

  “Sure,” Monroe said.

  “You like your job?”

  “Yes,” Kling answered hesitantly.

  “You want to keep it?”

  “You want to go on being a cop?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then keep out of Homicide.”

  “What?” Kling said.

  “He means,” Monroe explained, “keep out of Homicide.”

  “I…I don’t know what you mean.”

  “We mean, keep away from stiffs. Stiffs are our business.”

  “We like stiffs,” Monroe said.

  “We’re specialists, you understand? You call in a heart doctor when you got heart disease, don’t you? You call in an eye, ear, nose, and throat man when you got laryngitis, don’t you? Okay, when you got a stiff, you call in Homicide. That’s us. Monoghan and Monroe.”

  “You don’t call in a patrolman.”

  “Homicide. Not a beat-walker.”

  “Not a pavement-pounder.”

  “Not a nightstick twirler.”

  “Not a traffic jockey.”

  “Not you!” Monoghan said.

  “Clear?” Monroe asked.

  “Yes,” Kling said.

  “It’s gonna get a lot clearer,” Monoghan added. “The lieutenant wants to see you.”

  “What for?”

  “The lieutenant is a funny guy. He thinks Homicide is the best damn department in the city. He runs Homicide, and he don’t like police coming in where they ain’t asked. I’ll let you in on a secret. He don’t even like the detectives from your precinct to go messing around in murder. Trouble is, he can’t refuse their assistance or their cooperation, ‘specially when your precinct manages to stack up so many goddamn homicides each year. So he suffers the dicks—but he don’t have to suffer no goddamn patrolman.”

  “But…but why does he want to see me? I understand now. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in, and I’m sorry I—”

  “You shouldn’t have stuck your nose in,” Monoghan agreed.

  “You definitely shouldn’t have.”

  “But I didn’t do any harm. I just—”

  “Who knows what harm you done?” Monoghan said.

  “You may have done untold harm,” Monroe said.

  “Ah, hell,” Kling said. “I’ve got a date.”

  “Yeah,” Monoghan sai
d. “With the lieutenant.”

  “Call your broad,” Monroe advised. “Tell her the police are bugging you.”

  Kling looked at his watch. “I can’t reach her,” he said. “She’s at school.”

  “Impairing the morals of a minor,” Monoghan said, smiling.

  “Better you shouldn’t mention that to the lieutenant.”

  “She’s in college,” Kling said. “Listen, will I be through by seven?”

  “Maybe,” Monoghan said.

  “Get your coat,” Monroe said.

  “He don’t need a coat. It’s nice and mild.”

  “It may get chilly later. This is pneumonia weather.”

  Kling sighed heavily. “All right if I wash my hands?”

  “What?” Monoghan asked.

  “He’s polite,” Monroe said.

  “No, I have to wash my hands.”

  “Okay, so wash them. Hurry up. The lieutenant don’t like to be kept waiting.”

  The building that housed Homicide North was the shabbiest, dowdiest, dirtiest, crummiest building Kling had ever seen. It was a choice spot for Homicide, Kling thought instantly. It even stinks of death. He had followed Monoghan and Monroe past the desk sergeant and then through a narrow, dimly lighted hallway lined with benches. He could hear typewriters clacking behind closed doors. An occasional open door revealed a man in shirtsleeves and shoulder holster. The entire place gave the impression of being the busy office of a numbers banker. Phones rang, people carried files from one office to another, men stopped at the water cooler—all in a dimly illuminated Dante interior.

  “Sit down,” Monoghan had said.

  “Cool your heels a little,” Monroe added.

  “The lieutenant is dictating a memo. He’ll be with you in a little while.”

  Whatever the good lieutenant was dictating, Kling decided after waiting an hour, it was not a memo. It was probably volume two of his autobiography, The Patrolman Years. He had long ago given up the possibility of being on time for his date with Claire. It was now 6:45, and tempus was fugiting along at a merry clip. With luck, though, he might still catch her at the school, assuming she’d give him the benefit of the doubt and wait around a while. Which, considering her reluctance to make the date in the first place, was a hell of a lot to assume.

  Impatiently, Kling bided his time.

  At 8:20, he stopped a man in the corridor and asked if he could use a phone. The man studied him sourly and said, “Better wait until after the lieutenant sees you. He’s dictating a memo.”

  “On what?” Kling cracked. “How to dismantle a radio motor patrol car?”

  “What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it. Pretty funny.” He left Kling and went to the water cooler. “You want some water?”

  “I haven’t eaten since noon,” Kling said.

  “Take a little water. Settle your stomach.”

  “No bread to go with it?” Kling asked.

  “What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it. Pretty funny.”

  “How much longer do you think he’ll be?”

  “Depends. He dictates slow.”

  “How long has he been with Homicide North?”

  “Five, ten years. I don’t know.”

  “Where’d he work before this? Dachau?”

  “What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it.”

  “Pretty funny,” Kling said dryly. “Where are Monoghan and Monroe?”

  “They went home. They’re hard workers, those two. Put in a big day.”

  “Listen,” Kling said, “I’m hungry. Can’t you kind of goose him a little?”

  “The lieutenant?” the man said. “Me goose the lieutenant? That’s the funniest thing you said yet.” He shook his head and walked off down the corridor, turning once to look back at Kling incredulously.

  At 10:33, a detective with a .38 tucked into his waistband came into the corridor.

  “Bert Kling?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Kling said wearily.

  “Lieutenant Hawthorne will see you now,” he said.

  “Glory hall—”

  “Don’t make wisecracks with the lieutenant,” the detective advised. “He ain’t eaten since suppertime.”

  He led Kling to a frosted door appropriately marked LIEUTENANT HENRY HAWTHORNE, threw it open, said, “Kling, Lieutenant,” and then ushered Kling into the room. The detective left, closing the door behind him.

  Hawthorne sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. He was a small man with a bald head and bright blue eyes. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up past the elbows. The collar was unbuttoned, the tie knot yanked down. He wore a shoulder holster from which protruded the walnut stock of a .45 automatic. His desk was clean and bare. Green file cabinets formed a fortress wall behind the desk and on the side of it. The blinds on the window to the left of the desk were pulled tightly closed. A wooden plaque on the desk read: LT. HAWTHORNE.

  “Kling?” he said. His voice was high and brassy, like a double C forced from the bell of a broken trumpet.

  “Yes, sir,” Kling said.

  “Sit down,” Hawthorne said, indicating the straight-backed chair alongside the desk.

  “Thank you, sir,” Kling said. He walked to the chair and sat. He was nervous, very nervous. He certainly didn’t want to lose his job, and Hawthorne seemed like a tough customer. He wondered if a lieutenant in Homicide could ask the commissioner to fire a patrolman, and he decided a lieutenant in Homicide definitely could. He swallowed. He wasn’t thinking of Claire any longer, nor was he thinking of food.

  “So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?” Hawthorne said.

  Kling didn’t know what to answer. He didn’t know whether to smile or cast his eyes downward. He didn’t know whether to sit or go blind.

  Hawthorne watched him. Emphatically, he repeated, “So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?”

  “Sir?” Kling said politely.

  “Diddling around with a murder case, eh?”

  “I didn’t realize, sir, that—”

  “Listen to me, Sherlock,” Hawthorne said, slamming his open palm on to the desk. “We got a phone call here this afternoon.” He opened the top drawer. “Clocked in at”—he consulted a pad— “sixteen thirty-seven. Said you were messing around with this Jeannie Paige thing.” Hawthorne crashed the desk drawer shut. “I’ve been very kind to you, Sherlock. I could have gone straight to Captain Frick at the 87th. The 87th happens to be your precinct, and Captain Frick happens to be an old and dear friend of mine, and Captain Frick doesn’t take nonsense from runny-nosed patrolmen who happen to be walking beats. Lieutenant Byrnes of your precinct likes to stick his nose in murder cases, too, and I can’t do a hell of a lot about that, except occasionally show him I don’t too much appreciate his goddamn Aunt Suzianna help! But if the 87th think it’s going to run in a patrolman on me, if the 87th thinks—”

  “Sir, the precinct didn’t know anything about my—”

  “AND THEY STILL DON’T KNOW!” Hawthorne shouted. “And they don’t know because I was kind enough not to mention this to Captain Frick. I’m being good to you, Sherlock, remember that. I’m being goddamn good and kind to you, so don’t give me any lip!”

  “Sir, I wasn’t—”

  “All right, listen to me, Sherlock. If I hear again that you’re even thinking about Jeannie Paige, your tail is going to be in one big sling. I’m not talking about a transfer to a beat in Bethtown, either. I’m talking about OUT! You are going to be out in the street. You are going to be out and cold. And don’t think I can’t do it.”

  “Sir, I didn’t think—”

  “I know the commissioner the way I know the back of my own hand. The commissioner would sell his wife if I asked him to; that’s the way I know the commissioner. So don’t for one second think the commissioner wouldn’t toss a snot-nosed patrolman right out on his ear if I asked him to. Don’t for a minute think that, Sherlock.”

  “Sir—”

  “And don’t for a minute think I’m kidding, Sh
erlock, because I never kid around where it concerns murder. You’re fooling with murder, do you realize that? You’ve been barging around asking questions, and God alone knows who you’ve scared into hiding, and God alone knows how much of our careful work you’ve fouled up! SO LAY OFF! Go walk your goddamn beat! If I get another squeal about you—”

  “Sir?”

  “WHAT IS IT?”

  “Who called you, sir?”

  “That’s none of your goddamn business!” Hawthorne shouted.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Get out of my office. You make me sick. Get out of my office.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kling said. He turned and went to the door.

  “AND DON’T FOOL WITH MURDER!” Hawthorne shouted after him.

  He called Claire at 11:10. The phone rang six times, and he was ready to hang up, afraid he’d caught her asleep, when the receiver was lifted.

  “Hello?” she said. Her voice was sleepy.

  “Claire?”

  “Yes, who’s this?”

  “Did I wake you?”

  “Yes.” There was a pause, and then her voice became a bit more lively. “Bert? Is that you?”

  “Yes. Claire, I’m sorry I—”

  “The last time I got stood up was when I was sixteen and had a—”

  “Claire, I didn’t stand you up, honest. Some Homicide cops—”

  “It felt like being stood up. I waited in the newspaper office until a quarter to eight, God knows why. Why didn’t you call?”

  “They wouldn’t let me use the phone.” Kling paused. “Besides, I didn’t know how I could reach you.”

  Claire was silent.

  “Claire?”

  “I’m here,” she said wearily.

  “Can I see you tomorrow? We’ll spend the day together. I’m off tomorrow.”

  Again, there was silence.

  “Claire?”

  “I heard you.”

  “Well?”

  “Bert, why don’t we call it quits, huh? Let’s consider what happened tonight an ill omen and just forget the whole thing, shall we?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Bert—”

  “No! I’ll pick you up at noon, all right?”