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 fell 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 Lowenstein 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.
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.”
“Tell 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.