by Ed McBain
“How long have you stocked them?”
“About three months. It was a big bargain. There’s this kid in the neighborhood, sells Christmas cards and like that. Came around saying the matches would give the joint a little class. So I tumbled. Ordered a couple gross.” The bartender shrugged. “Didn’t do no harm, as I can see. What’s the beef?”
“No beef,” Willis said. “Routine check.”
“On what? Matchbooks?”
“Yeah,” Havilland said. “On matchbooks. Do you sell cigarettes?”
“Only in the machine.” The bartender indicated the vending apparatus in the corner near the door.
“You stock these matches in the machine?”
“No. We keep ‘em on the bar in a small box. Anybody runs out of matches, he comes up and grabs himself a book. Why? What’s so important with the matches?”
“We’ll ask the questions,” Havilland said.
“I’m only trying to help, Officer,” the bartender said. His voice conveyed the distinct impression that he would have liked nothing better than to punch Havilland in the mouth.
“Then anyone who drinks here can walk up to the bar and help himself to the matches, right?” Willis asked.
“Yep,” the bartender said. “Makes it homely, don’t you think?”
“Mister,” Havilland said evenly, “you better wipe that wise-guy smirk off your voice, or something’s gonna make you homely.”
“Cops have always scared me,” the bartender said dryly, “ever since I was a wee babe.”
“If you’re looking for a fight, pal,” Havilland said, “you picked the right cop.”
“I’m looking to mind my own business,” the bartender said.
“I’d hate like hell to have a judge decide on whose word to take in a ‘resisting an officer’ case,” Havilland persisted.
“I ain’t fighting, and I ain’t resisting nothing,” the bartender replied. “So cool off. You want a beer?”
“I’ll have a scotch,” Havilland said.
“That figures,” the bartender drawled. “How about you?” he asked Willis.
“Nothing,” Willis said.
“Come on,” the bartender egged. “It’s just like grabbing an apple from the pushcart.”
“When you’re ready for that fight,” Willis said, “you’ve got two of us now.”
“Whenever I fought, I got paid for it,” the bartender said. “I don’t believe in exhibition bouts.”
“Especially when you know your face’ll be spread over six counties,” Havilland said.
“Sure,” the bartender said. He poured a hooker of scotch and then slid the glass to Havilland.
“You know most of your customers?” Willis asked.
“The steadies, sure.”
The door opened, and a woman in a faded green sweater walked into the bar, looked around, and then sat at a table near the door. The bartender glanced at her.
“She’s a lush,” he said. “She’ll sit there until somebody offers to buy her a drink. I’d kick her out, but I feel Christian on Sunday.”
“It shows all over you,” Havilland said.
“What is it you guys want, anyway?” the bartender asked. “The fight? Is that what this is all about?”
“What fight?” Willis asked.
“We had a rhubarb here week or so ago. Listen, don’t snow me. What have you got up your sleeve? Disorderly conduct? You figure on yanking my license?”
“You’re doing all the talking so far,” Willis said.
The bartender sighed wearily. “All right, what’ll it cost?”
“Oh, this man lives dangerously,” Havilland said. “Are you attempting to bribe us?”
“I was talking about the price of the new Lincoln Continental,” the bartender said. “I asked what it’ll cost.” He paused. “A hundred, two hundred? How much?”
“Do I look like a two-hundred-dollar cop?” Havilland asked.
“I’m a two-hundred-dollar bartender,” the bartender said. “That’s the limit. The goddamn fight was over in about two seconds flat.”
“What kind of a fight?” Willis asked.
“You mean, you didn’t know?”
“Put your money back in your sock,” Willis said. “This isn’t a shakedown. Tell us about the fight.”
The bartender seemed relieved. “You sure you don’t want a drink, Officer?” he asked.
“The fight,” Willis said.
“It was nothing,” the bartender said. “Couple of guys got hot-headed, and wham! One took a swing at the other, the other swung back, and I came over and busted it up. That’s all.”
“Who swung at who?” Willis asked.
“These two characters. What the hell’s the name of the little guy? I don’t remember. The bigger guy is called Jack. He comes in here a lot.”
“Jack, huh?”
“Yeah. Nice guy, except he’s a little weird. So him and this little guy were watching the rassling on TV, and I guess Jack said something the little guy didn’t like—about one of the rasslers, you know? So the little guy hauls off and pops Jack. So Jack takes a swing at the little guy, and that’s when I came over. Big fight, huh?”
“And you broke it up?”
“Sure. I tell you, the funny thing about this whole business was that the little guy come out of it better than Jack.” The bartender chuckled. “He really gave him a shot, I swear. You wouldn’t think a little guy could pack such a wallop.”
“I’ll bet Jack was surprised,” Willis said, losing interest.
“Surprised? I’ll say he was. Especially when he took a gander in the mirror. That little son of a bitch gave him a shiner like I never saw in my life.”
“Too bad for Jack,” Willis said. “About your other customers. Have you ever heard any of them talking about—”
“Boy, that shiner was a beaut! Hell, Jack had to wear sunglasses for about a week afterward.”
The lush sitting at the table near the door coughed. Willis kept staring at the bartender.
“What did you say?” he asked.
“Jack,” the bartender said, “had to wear these sunglasses. To hide the shiner, you know. It was a beautiful shiner. I mean it. Like a rainbow.”
“This Jack,” Willis said. He could feel the tenseness of Havilland alongside him. “Does he smoke?”
“Jack? Yeah, sure. He smokes.”
“What brand?”
“Brand? You must think I’m a…Wait a minute, the red package. What’s the red package?”
“Pall Mall?”
“Yep. That’s his brand.”
“You’re sure?”
“I think so. Listen, I don’t go around taking a picture of what he smokes. I think it’s Pall Mall. Why?”
“You’re sure his name is Jack?” Havilland asked. “It isn’t something else?”
“Jack,” the bartender said, nodding.
“Think. Are you sure his name is Jack?”
“I’m positive. Listen, don’t I know him? For God’s sake, he’s been coming in here for years. Don’t you think I know Jack Clifford?”
Jack Clifford came into the Three Aces at 3:15 that afternoon. The woman in the green sweater still sat at the table near the door. The bartender nodded when he entered, and Willis and Havilland moved off their stools quickly and intercepted him as he walked toward the bar.
“Jack Clifford?” Willis asked.
“Yeah?”
“Police officers,” Havilland said. “You’re coming with us.”
“Hey, what for?” Clifford said. He pulled his arm away from Havilland.
“Assault and suspicion of murder,” Willis snapped. He was running his hands over Clifford’s body, frisking him quickly and efficiently.
“He’s clea—” he started, and Clifford broke for the door.
“Get him!” Willis shouted. Havilland was reaching for his gun. Clifford didn’t look back. He kept his eyes glued to the entrance doorway, and he ran like a bat out of hell, and then he fel
l flat on his face.
He looked up from the floor instantly, startled. The lush still sat at the table, one leg spread out in front of her. Clifford looked at the leg that had tripped him, looked at it as if he wanted to cut it off at the hipbone. He was scrambling to his feet when Havilland reached him. He kicked out at Havilland, but Havilland was a cop with big hands, and Havilland enjoyed using those hands. He scooped Clifford off the floor and rammed his fist into Clifford’s face. Clifford staggered back against the door and then collapsed on the floor. He sat there shaking his head while Havilland put the cuffs on him.
“Did you enjoy your trip?” Havilland asked pleasantly.
“Go to hell,” Clifford said. “If it wasn’t for that old drunken bag, you’d never have got me.”
“Ah, but we did,” Havilland said. “Get up!”
Clifford got to his feet.
Willis came over and took his arm. He turned to the bartender. “Thanks,” he said.
Together, the three men started out of the bar. Havilland stopped just inside the doorway, at the table with the lush. The woman raised her head and studied him with alcohol-soaked eyes.
Havilland smiled, bowed, and swept one gorilla-like arm across his waist.
“Havilland thanks you, madam,” he said.
He admitted he had committed a total of thirty-four muggings in the past year. Fourteen of his victims had complained to the police. His last victim had turned out to be, of all goddamn things, a policewoman.
He denied flatly that he had assaulted and murdered Jeannie Paige.
They booked, mugged, and printed him—and then they sat with him in the interrogation room at the 87th and tried to break down his story. There were four cops in the room with him. Willis, Havilland, Meyer, and Lieutenant Byrnes. Were it not for the presence of the lieutenant, Havilland would have been practicing his favorite indoor sport. As it was, his barrage was confined to words alone.
“We’re talking about the night of September fourteenth. That was a Thursday night. Now, think about it a little, Clifford,” Meyer said.
“I’m thinking. I got an alibi a mile long for that night.”
“What were you doing?” Willis asked.
“I was sitting up with a sick friend.”
“Don’t get smart!” Byrnes said.
“I swear to God it’s the truth. Listen, you got me on eight thousand counts of assault. What’re you trying to stick me with a murder rap?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth and answer the questions,” Havilland said, contradicting himself.
“I am answering the questions. I was with a sick friend. The guy had ptomaine poisoning or something. I was with him all night.”
“What night was this?”
“September fourteenth,” Clifford said.
“How come you remember the date?”
“I was supposed to go bowling.”
“With whom?”
“This friend of mine.”
“Which friend?”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Where were you going bowling?”
“His name is Davey,” Clifford said.
“Davey what?”
“Davey Crockett, Clifford? Come on, Clifford.”
“Davey Lowenstein. He’s a Jew. You gonna hang me for that?”
“Where does he live?”
“Base Avenue.”
“Where on Base?”
“Near Seventh.
“What’s his name?”
“Davey Lowenstein. I told you already.”
“Where were you going bowling?”
“The Cozy Alleys.”
“Downtown?”
“Yes.”
“Where downtown?”
“You’re mixing me up.”
“What’d your friend eat?”
“Did he have a doctor?”
“Where’d you say he lived?”
“Who says he had ptomaine poisoning?”
“He lives on Base, I told you. Base and Seventh.”
“Check that, Meyer,” Lieutenant Byrnes said.
Meyer quickly left the room.
“Did he have a doctor?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it was ptomaine?”
“He said it felt like ptomaine.”
“How long were you with him?”
“I went by for him at eight. That was when I was supposed to pick him up. The alley we were going to is on Division.”
“He was sick in bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Who answered the door?”
“He did.”
“I thought he was sick in bed.”
“He was. He got out of bed to answer the door.”
“What time was this?”
“Eight.”
“You said eight-thirty.”
“No, it was eight. Eight, I said.”
“What happened?”
“He said he was sick, said he had ptomaine, said he couldn’t go with me. To the bowling alley, I mean.”
“Then what?”
“He told me to go without him.”
“Did you?”
“No, I stayed with him all night.”
“Until when?”
“Until the next morning. All night, I stayed with him.”
“Until what time?”
“All night.”
“WHAT TIME?”
“About nine in the morning. We had eggs together.”
“What happened to his ptomaine?”
“He was all right in the morning.”
“Did he sleep?”
“What?”
“Did he sleep at all that night?”
“No.”
“What’d you do?”
“We played checkers.”
“Who?”
“Me and Davey.”
“What time did you stop playing checkers?”
“About four in the morning.”
“Did he go to sleep then?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“We began telling jokes. I was trying to take his mind off his stomach.”
“You told jokes until nine the next morning?”
“No, until eight. We started breakfast at eight.”
“What’d you eat?”
“Eggs.”
“What bowling alley did you say that was?”
“The Cozy—”
“Where’s it located?”
“On Division.”
“What time did you get to Davey’s house?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Why’d you kill Jeannie Paige?”
“I didn’t. My God, the newspapers are killing me! I didn’t go anywhere near the Hamilton Bridge.”
“You mean, that night?”
“That night, any night. I don’t even know that cliff they wrote about. I thought cliffs were out west.”
“Which cliff?”
“Where the girl was found.”
“Which girl?”
“Jeannie Paige.”
“Did she scream? Is that why you killed her?”
“She didn’t scream.”
“What did she do?”
“She didn’t do nothing! I wasn’t there! How do I know what she did?”
“But you beat up your other victims, didn’t you?”
“Yes. You got me on that, okay.”
“You son of a bitch, we’ve got a thumbprint on the sunglasses you dropped. We’ll get you on that, so why don’t you tell us about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell. My friend was sick. I don’t know Jeannie Paige. I don’t know that cliff. Lock me up. Try me on assault. I didn’t kill that girl!”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You did!”
“No.”
“Why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t kill her!”
The door opened. Meyer came into the room. “I called this Lowe
nstein character,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“The story is true. Clifford was with him all that night.”
When the comparison tests were made with Clifford’s thumbprints and the single print found on the sunglasses, there was no longer any doubt. The prints did not match.
Whatever else Jack Clifford had done, he had not murdered Jeannie Paige.
There was only Molly Bell to call.
Once he’d done that he could leave the Jeannie Paige thing with a clear conscience. He had tried; he had honestly tried. And his efforts had led him into the jealously guarded realm of Homicide North, where he’d damn near wound up minus a shield and a uniform.
So now he would call her, and he would explain how useless he was, and he would apologize, and that would be the end of it.
Sitting in an armchair in his furnished room, Kling pulled the telephone toward him. He reached into his back pocket for his wallet, opened it, and then began leafing through the cards and scraps of paper, looking for the address and telephone number Bell had given him so long ago. He spread the cards on the end table. The collection of junk a man can…
He looked at the date on a raffle ticket. The drawing had been held three months ago. There was a girl’s name and telephone number on a match folder. He didn’t remember the girl at all. There was an entrance card to a discount house. There was the white card Claire had given him to explain Jeannie’s childish handwriting. He put the card on the table so that the reverse side showed, the side reading “Club Tempo, 1812 Klausner Street.”
And then he found the scrap of paper Peter Bell had handed to him, and he put that face up on the table alongside the other cards, and he reached for the phone receiver, studying the number at the same time.
And, suddenly, he remembered what he’d seen in the street at the first subway stop. He dropped the receiver.
He put all the cards and scraps of paper back into his wallet.
Then he put on his coat.
He was waiting for a murderer.
He had taken a train uptown, and he had got off at the first stop he’d visited earlier that week, and he was in the street now, standing alongside a police department sign and waiting for a murderer, the murderer of Jeannie Paige.
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.
