The dime in the slot brought him Peter Bell.
Bell’s voice was sleepy. “I didn’t wake you, did I?” Kling asked.
“Yes, you did,” Bell said, “but that’s all right. What is it, Bert?”
“Well, is Molly there?”
“Molly? No. She went down to pick up a few things. What is it?”
“I’ve been…Well, she asked me to check around a little.”
“Oh? Did she?”
“Yeah. I went to Club Tempo this afternoon, and I also talked with a girl named Claire Townsend. Nice girl.”
“What did you find out, Bert?”
“That Jeannie was seeing some guy regularly.”
“Who?”
“Well, that’s just it. Miss Townsend didn’t know. She ever mention anybody’s name to you or Molly?”
“No, not that I can remember.”
“That’s too bad. Might give me something to go on, you know, if we had even a first name. Something to work with.”
“No,” Bell said, “I’m sorry, but…” He stopped dead. There was a painful silence on the line, and then he said, “Oh my God!”
“What’s the matter?”
“She did, Bert. She did mention someone. Oh my God!”
“Who? When was this?”
“We were talking once. She was in a good mood, and she told me…Bert, she told me the name of the fellow she was seeing.”
“What was the name?”
“Clifford! My God, Bert! His name is Clifford!”
It was Roger Havilland who brought in the first real suspect in the alleged mugger murder.
The suspect was a kid named Sixto Fangez, a Puerto Rican boy who had been in the city for a little more than two years. Sixto was twenty years old and had, until recently, been a member of a street gang known as “The Tornadoes.” He was no longer active, having retired in favor of marriage to a girl named Angelita. Angelita was pregnant.
Sixto had allegedly beat up a hooker and stolen $32 from her purse. The girl was one of the better-known prostitutes in the precinct territory and had, in fact, rolled in the hay on a good many occasions with members of the legion in blue. Some of these policemen had paid her for the privilege of her company.
In ordinary circumstances, in spite of the fact that the girl had made a positive identification of Sixto Fangez, Havilland might have been willing to forget the whole matter in consideration of a little legal tender. Assault charges had been known to slip the minds of many policemen when the right word, together with the right amount of currency, was exchanged.
It happened, however, that the newspapers were giving a big play to the funeral of Jeannie Paige—a funeral which had been delayed by the extensive autopsy examination performed on the body—on the morning that Sixto was brought upstairs to the squadroom. The newspapers were also pressuring the cops to do something about the rampant mugger, and so perhaps Havilland’s extreme enthusiasm could have been forgiven.
He booked a bewildered and frightened Sixto, barked “Follow me!” over his shoulder, and then led him to a room politely marked INTERROGATION. Inside the room, Havilland locked the door and calmly lighted a cigarette. Sixto watched him. Havilland was a big man who, in his own words, “took nonsense from nobody.” He had once started to break up a street fight and, in turn, had his arm broken in four places. The healing process, considering the fact that the bones would not set properly the first time and had to be rebroken and reset, was a painful thing to bear. The healing process had given Havilland a lot of time to think. He thought mostly about being a good cop. He thought also about survival. He formed a philosophy.
Sixto was totally unaware of the thinking process that had led to the formation of Havilland’s credo. He only knew that Havilland was the most hated and most feared cop in the barrio. He watched him with interest, a light film of sweat beading his thin upper lip. His eyes never left Havilland’s hands.
“Looks like you’re in a little trouble, huh, Sixto?” Havilland said.
Sixto nodded, his eyes blinking. He wet his lips.
“Now, why’d you go and beat up on Carmen, huh?” Havilland said. He leaned against the table in the room, leisurely blowing out a stream of smoke.
Sixto, thin, birdlike, wiped his bony hands on the coarse tweed of his trousers. Carmen was the prostitute he’d allegedly mugged. He knew that she had, on occasion, been friendly with the bulls. He did not know the extent of her relationship with Havilland. He maintained a calculating silence.
“Huh?” Havilland asked pleasantly, his voice unusually soft. “Now, why’d you go and beat up on a nice-looking little girl like Carmen?”
Sixto remained silent.
“Were you looking for some trim, huh, Sixto?”
“I am married,” Sixto said formally.
“Looking for a little gash, huh, Sixto?”
“No, I am married. I don’t go to the prostitutes,” Sixto said.
“What were you doing with Carmen, then?”
“She owe me money,” Sixto said. “I went to collec’ it.”
“You lent her money, is that right, Sixto?”
“Si,” Sixto said.
“How much money?”
“Abou’ forty dollars.”
“And so you went to her and tried to collect it, is that right?”
“Si. Iss my money. I lenn it to her maybe three, maybe four munns ago.”
“Why’d she need it, Sixto?”
“Hell, she’s a junkie. Don’t you know that?”
“I heard something along those lines,” Havilland said, smiling pleasantly. “So she needed a fix and she came to you for the loot, that right, Sixto?”
“She dinn come to me. I happen to be sittin’ in the bar, an’ she say she wass low, so I lay the forty on her. Thass all. So now I wenn aroun’ to collec’ it. So she gave me a hard time.”
“What kind of a hard time?”
“She say business iss bad, an’ she don’t get many johns comin’ from downtown, an’ like that. So I tell her I don’t care abou’ her business. All I wann is my forty dollars back. I’m a married man. I’m gonna have a baby soon. I cann fool aroun’ lennin money to hookers.”
“You working, Sixto?”
“Si. I work in a res’aurant downtown.”
“How come you needed this forty bucks so bad right now?”
“I tol’ you. My wife’s pregin. I got doctor bills, man.”
“So why’d you hit Carmen?”
“Because I tell her I don’t have to stann aroun’ bullin’ with a hooker. I tell her I wann my money. So she come back and say my Angelita iss a hooker, too! Man, thass my wife. Angelita! She’s clean like the Virgin Mary! So I bust her in the mouth. Thass what happen.”
“And then you went through her purse, huh, Sixto?”
“Only to get my forty dollars.”
“And you got thirty-two, right?”
“Si. She still owe me eight.”
Havilland nodded sympathetically and then slid an ashtray across the tabletop. With small, sharp stabs, he stubbed out his cigarette. He looked up at Sixto then, a smile on his cherubic face. He sucked in a deep breath, his massive shoulders heaving.
“Now, what’s the real story, Sixto?” he said softly.
“Thass the real story,” Sixto said. “Thass the way it happen.”
“What about these other girls you’ve been mugging?”
Sixto looked at Havilland unblinkingly. For a moment, he seemed incapable of speech. Then he said, “What?”
“These other girls all over the city? How about it, Sixto?”
“What?” Sixto said again.
Havilland moved off the table gracefully. He took three steps to where Sixto was standing. Still smiling, he brought his fist back and rammed the knuckles into Sixto’s mouth.
The blow caught Sixto completely by surprise. His eyes opened wide, and he felt himself staggering backward. Then he collided with the wall and automatically wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. A red smear stained the tan of his fingers. He blinked his eyes and looked across at Havilland.
“What for you hit me?” he asked.
Tell me about the other girls, Sixto,” Havilland said, moving toward him again.
“What other girls? What are you crazy or something? I hit a hooker to get back my—”
Havilland lashed out backhanded, then swung his open palm around to catch Sixto’s other cheek. Again, the hand lashed back, forward, back, forward, until Sixto’s head was rocking like a tall blade of grass in a stiff breeze. He tried to cover his face, and Havilland jabbed out at his stomach. Sixto doubled over in pain.
“Ave Maria,” he said, “why are you—”
“Shut up!” Havilland shouted. Tell me about the muggings, you spic son of a bitch! Tell me about that seventeen-year-old blonde you killed last week!”
“I dinn kill—”
Havilland hit him again, throwing his huge fist at Sixto’s head. He caught Sixto under the eye, and the boy fell to the floor, and Havilland kicked him with the point of his shoe.
“Get up!”
“I dinn—”
Havilland kicked him again. The boy was sobbing now. He climbed to his feet, and Havilland punched him once in the stomach and then again in the face. Sixto crumpled against the wall, sobbing wildly.
“Why’d you kill her?”
Sixto couldn’t answer. He kept shaking his head over and over again, sobbing. Havilland seized his jacket front and began pounding the boy’s head against the wall.
“Why, you friggin spic? Why? Why? Why?”
But Sixto only kept shaking his head, and after a while his head lolled to one side, and he was unconscious.
Havilland studied him for a moment. He let out a deep sigh, went to the washbasin in the corner, and washed the blood from his hands. He lighted a cigarette then and went to the table, sitting on it and thinking. It was a damn shame, but he didn’t think Sixto was the man they wanted. They still had him on the Carmen thing, of course, but they couldn’t hang this mugger kill on him. It was a damn shame.
In a little while, Havilland unlocked the door and went next door to Clerical. Miscolo looked up from his typewriter.
“There’s a spic next door,” Havilland said, puffing on his cigarette.
“Yeah?” Miscolo said.
Havilland nodded. “Yeah. Fell down and hurt himself. Better get a doctor, huh?”
In another part of the city, a perhaps more orthodox method of questioning was being undertaken by Detectives Meyer and Temple.
Meyer, personally, was grateful for the opportunity. In accordance with Lieutenant Byrnes’s orders, he had been questioning known sex offenders until he was blue in the face. It was not that he particularly disliked questioning; it was simply that he disliked sex offenders.
The sunglasses found alongside the body of Jeannie Paige had borne a small “C” in a circle over the bridge. The police had contacted several jobbers, one of whom identified the © as the trademark of a company known as Candrel, Inc. Byrnes had extricated Meyer and Temple from the sticky, degenerate web at the 87th and sent them shuffling off to Majesta, where the firm’s factory was located.
The office of Geoffrey Candrel was on the third floor of the factory, a soundproofed rectangle of knotty-pine walls and modern furniture. The desk seemed suspended in space. A painting on the wall behind the desk resembled an electronic computing machine with a nervous breakdown.
Candrel was a fat man in a big leather chair. He looked at the broken sunglasses on his desk, shoved at them with a pudgy forefinger as if he were prodding a snake to see if it were still alive.
“Yes,” he said. His voice was thick. It rumbled up out of his huge chest. “Yes, we manufacture those glasses.”
“Can you tell us something about them?” Meyer asked.
“Can I tell you something about them?” Candrel smiled in a peculiarly superior manner. “I’ve been making frames for all kinds of glasses for more than fourteen years now. And you ask me if I can tell you something about them? My friend, I can tell you whatever you want to know.”
“Well, can you tell us—”
“The trouble with most people,” Candrel went on, “is that they think it’s a simple operation to make a pair of sunglass frames—or any kind of eyeglass frames, for that matter. Well, gentlemen, that’s simply not true. Unless you’re a sloppy workman who doesn’t give a damn about the product you’re putting out. Candrel gives a damn. Candrel considers the consumer.”
“Well, perhaps you can—”
“We get this sheet stock first,” Candrel said, ignoring Meyer. “It’s called zyl—that’s the trade term for cellulose nitrate, optical grade. We die-stamp the fronts and temple shapes from that sheet stock.”
“Fronts?” Meyer said.
“Temples?” Temple said.
“The front is the part of the eyeglass that holds the lenses. The temples are the two gizmos you put over your ears.”
“I see,” Meyer said. “But about these glasses—”
“After they’re stamped, the fronts and temples are machined,” Candrel said, “to put the grooves in the rims and to knock off the square edges left by the stamping. Then the nose pads are cemented to the fronts. After that, a cutter blends the pads to the fronts in a ‘phrasing’ operation.”
“Yes, sir, but—”
“Nor is that the end of it,” Candrel said. “To blend the nose pads further, they are rubbed on a wet pumice wheel. Then the fronts and temples go through a roughing operation. They’re put into a tumbling barrel of pumice, and the tumbling operation takes off all the rough machine marks. In the finishing operation, these same fronts and temples are put into a barrel of small wooden pegs—about an inch long by three-sixteenths of an inch wide—together with a lubricant and our own secret compound. The pegs slide over the fronts and temples, polishing them.”
“Sir, we’d like to get on with—”
“After that,” Candrel said, frowning, a man obviously not used to being interrupted, “the fronts and temples are slotted for hinges, and then the hinges are fastened with shields, and then fronts are assembled to temples with screws. The corners are mitred, and then the ends are rounded on a pumice wheel in the rubbing room. After that—”
“Sir—”
“After that, the frames are washed and cleaned and sent to the polishing room. All of our frames are hand-polished, gentlemen. A lot of companies simply dip the frames into a solvent to give it a polished look. Not us. We hand-polish them.”
“That’s admirable, Mr. Candrel,” Meyer said, “but—”
“And when we insert plain glass lenses, we use a six-base lens, a lens that has been ground and is without distortion. Our plano sunglasses are six-diopter lenses, gentlemen. And remember, a six-base lens is optically correct.”
“I’m sure it is,” Meyer said tiredly.
“Why, our best glasses retail for as high as twenty dollars,” Candrel said proudly.
“What about these?” Meyer asked, pointing to the glasses on Candrel’s desk.
“Yes,” Candrel said. He poked at the glasses with his finger again. “Of course, we also put out a cheaper line. We injection-mold them out of polystyrene. It’s a high-speed die-casting operation done under hydraulic pressure. Semiautomatic, you understand. And, of course, we use less expensive lenses.”
“Are these glasses a part of your cheaper line?” Meyer asked.
“Ah…yes.” Candrel seemed suddenly embarrassed.
“How much do they cost?”
“We sell them to our jobbers for thirty-five cents a pair. They probably retail anywhere from seventy-five cents to a dollar.”
“What about your distribution?” Temple asked.
“Sir?”
“Where are these glasses sold? Any particular stores?”
Candrel pushed the glasses clear to the other side of his desk, as if they had grown suddenly leprous.
“Gentlemen,” he said, “you can buy these glasses in any five-and-ten-cent store in the city.”
At 2:00 on the morning of Thursday, September 21, Eileen Burke walked the streets of Isola in a white sweater and a tight skirt.
She was a tired cop.
She had been walking the streets of Isola since 11:45 the previous Saturday night. This was her fifth night of walking. She wore high-heeled pumps, and they had definitely not been designed for hikes. In an attempt to lure the mugger, whose basic motivation in choosing women might or might not have been sexually inspired, she had hitched up her brassiere a notch or two higher so that her breasts were cramped and upturned, albeit alluring.
The allure of her mammary glands was not to be denied by anyone, least of all someone with so coldly analytical a mind as Eileen Burke possessed.
During the course of her early-morning promenades, she had been approached seven times by sailors, four times by soldiers, and twenty-two times by civilians in various styles of male attire. The approach had ranged from polite remarks such as, “Nice night, ain’t it?” to more direct opening gambits like, “Walking all alone, honey?” to downright unmistakable business inquiries like, “How much, babe?”
All of these Eileen had taken in stride.
They had, to be truthful, broken the monotony of her otherwise lonely and silent excursions. She had never once caught sight of Willis behind her, though she knew with certainty that he was there. She wondered now if he was as bored as she, and she concluded that he was possibly not. He did, after all, have the compensating sight of a backside, which she jiggled jauntily for the benefit of any unseen, observant mugger.
Where are you, Clifford? she mentally asked.
Have we scared you off? Did the sight of the twisted and bloody young kid whose head you split open turn your stomach, Clifford? Have you decided to give up this business, or are you waiting until the heat’s off?
Come on, Clifford.
See the pretty wiggle? The bait is yours, Clifford. And the only hook is the .38 in my purse.
Come on, Clifford!
From where Willis jogged doggedly along behind Eileen, he could make out only the white sweater and occasionally a sudden burst of bright red when the lights caught at her hair.
He was a tired cop.
It had been a long time since he’d walked a beat, and this was worse than walking any beat in the city. When you had a beat, you also had bars and restaurants and sometimes tailor shops or candy stores. And in those places you could pick up, respectively, a quick beer, cup of coffee, snatch of idle conversation, or warmth from a hissing radiator.
This girl Eileen liked walking. He had followed behind her for four nights now, and this was the fifth, and she hadn’t once stopped walking. This was an admirable attitude, to be sure, a devotion to duty that was not to be scoffed aside.
But good Christ, man, did she have a motor?
What propelled those legs of hers? (Good legs, Willis. Admit
it.)
And why so fast? Did she think Clifford was a cross-country track star?
He had spoken to her about her speed after their first night of breakneck pacing. She had smiled easily, fluffed her hair, and said, “I always walk fast.”
That, he thought now, had been the understatement of the year.
What she meant, of course, was, “I always run slow.”
He did not envy Clifford. Whoever he was, wherever he was, he would need a motorcycle to catch this redhead with the paperback-cover bosoms.
Well, he thought, she’s making the game worth the candle.
Wherever you are, Clifford, Miss Burke’s going to give you a run for your money.
He had first heard the tapping of her heels.
The impatient beaks of woodpeckers riveting at the stout mahogany heart of his city. Fluttering taps, light-footed, strong legs and quick feet.
He had then seen the white sweater, a beacon in the distance, coming nearer and nearer, losing its two-dimensionality as it grew closer, expanding until it had the three-sidedness of a work of sculpture, then taking on reality, becoming woolen fiber covering firm, high breasts.
He had seen the red hair then, long, lapped by the nervous fingers of the wind, enveloping her head like a blazing funeral pyre. He had stood in the alleyway across the street and watched her as she pranced by, cursing his station, wishing he had posted himself on the other side of the street instead. She carried a black patent-leather sling bag over her shoulder, the strap loose, the bag knocking against her left hipbone as she walked. The bag looked heavy.
He knew that looks could be deceiving, that many women carried all sorts of junk in their purses, but he smelled money in this one. She was either a whore drumming up trade or a society bitch out for a late-evening stroll—it was sometimes difficult to tell them apart. Whichever she was, the purse promised money, and money was what he needed pretty badly right now.
The newspapers shrieking about Jeannie Paige!
They had driven him clear off the streets. But how long can a murder remain hot? And doesn’t a man have to eat?
He watched the redhead swing past, and then he ducked into the alleyway, quickly calculating a route that would intersect her apparent course.
He did not see Willis coming up behind the girl.
Nor did Willis see him.
There are three lampposts on each block, Eileen thought.
It takes approximately one and a half minutes to cover the distance between lampposts. Four and a half minutes a block. That’s plain arithmetic.
Nor is that exceptionally fast. If Willis thinks that’s fast, he should meet my brother. My brother is the type of person who rushes through everything—breakfast, dinner…
Hold it now!
Something was moving up ahead.
Her mind, as if instantly sucked clean of debris by a huge vacuum cleaner, lay glistening like a hard, cut diamond. Her left hand snapped to the drawstrings on her purse, wedging into the purse and enlarging the opening. She felt the reassuring steel of the .38, content that the butt was in a position to be grasped instantly by a cross-body swipe of her right hand.
She walked with her head erect. She did not break her stride. The figure ahead was a man, of that much she was certain. He had seen her now, and he moved toward her rapidly. He wore a dark-blue suit, and he was hatless. He was a big man, topping six feet.
“Hey!” he called. “Hey, you!” and she felt her heart lurch into her throat because she knew with rattling certainty that this was Clifford.
And, suddenly, she felt quite foolish.
She had seen the markings on the sleeve of the blue suit, had seen the slender white lines on the collar. The man she’d thought to be Clifford was only a hatless sailor. The tenseness flooded from her body. A small smile touched her lips.
The sailor came closer to her, and she saw now that he was weaving unsteadily, quite unsteadily. He was, to be kind, as drunk as a lord, and his condition undoubtedly accounted for his missing white hat.
“Wal now,” he bawled, “if’n it ain’ a redhaid! C’mere, redhaid!”
He grabbed for Eileen, and she knocked his arm aside quickly and efficiently. “Run along, sailor,” she said. “You’re in the wrong pew!”
The sailor threw back his head and guffawed boisterously. “Th’ wrong pew!” he shouted. “Wal now, Ah’ll be hung fer a hoss thief!”
Eileen, not caring at all what he was hung for so long as he kept his nose out of the serious business afoot, walked briskly past him and continued on her way.
“Hey!” he bellowed. “Wheah y’goin’?”
She heard his hurried footsteps behind her, and then she felt his hand close on her elbow. She whirled, shaking his fingers free.
“Whutsamatter?” he asked. “Doan’choo like sailors?”
“I like them fine,” Eileen answered. “But I think you ought to be getting back to your ship. Now, go ahead. Run along.” She stared at him levelly.
He returned her stare soberly and then quite suddenly asked, “Hey, you-all like t’go to bed wi’ me?”
Eileen could not suppress the smile. “No,” she said. “Thank you very much.”
“Why not?” he asked, thrusting forward his jaw.
“I’m married,” she lied.
“Why, tha’s awright,” he said. “Ah’m married, too.”
“My husband is a cop,” she further lied.
“Cops doan scare me none. On’y the SOBSP ah got to worry ‘bout. Hey now, how ‘bout it, huh?”
“No,” Eileen said firmly. She turned to go, and he wove quickly around her, skidding to a stop in front of her.
“We can talk ‘bout yo’ husbin an’ mah wife, how’s that? Ah got th’ sweetes’ li’l wife in th’ whole wide world.”
“Then go home to her,” Eileen said.
“Ah cain’t! Dammit all, she’s in Alabama!”
“Take off, sailor,” Eileen said. “I’m serious. Take off before you get yourself in trouble.”
“No,” he said, pouting.
She turned and looked over her shoulder for Willis. He was nowhere in sight. He was undoubtedly resting against an alley wall, laughing his fool head off. She walked around the sailor and started up the street. The sailor fell in beside her.
“Nothin’ ah like better’n walkin’,” he said. “Ah’m goan walk mah big feet off, right here ‘longside you. Ah’m goan walk till hell freezes over.”
“Stick with me, and you will,” Eileen muttered, and then she wondered how soon it would be until she spotted an SP. Dammit, there never was a cop around when you needed one!
Now she’s picking up sailors, Willis thought.
We’ve got nothing better to do than humor the fleet. Why doesn’t she conk him on the head and leave him to sleep it off in an alleyway?
How the hell are we going to smoke Clifford if she insists on a naval escort? Shall I go break it up? Or has she got something up her sleeve?
The terrible thing about working with women is that you can never count on them to think like men.
He watched silently, and he cursed the sailor.
Where had the fool materialized from? How could he get that purse now? Of all the goddamn rotten luck, the first good thing that had come along on his first night out since the papers started that Jeannie Paige fuss, and this stupid sailor had to come along and louse it up.
Maybe he’d go away.
Maybe she’d slap him across the face and he’d go away.
Or maybe not. If she was a prostitute, she’d take the sailor with her, and that would be the end of that.
Why did the police allow the Navy to dump its filthy cargoes into the streets of the city, anyway?
He watched the wiggle of the girl’s backside, and he watched the swaying, bobbing motion of the sailor, and he cursed the police, and he cursed the fleet, and he even cursed the redhead.
And then they turned the corner, and he ducked through the alley and started through the backyard, hoping to come out some two blocks ahead of the pair, hoping she’d have gotten rid of him by then, his fingers aching to close around the purse that swung so heavily from her left shoulder.
“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 on 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?
Shuffle the deck of Cliffords, cut, and then pick a Clifford, any Clifford.
This was not a time for picking Cliffords.
This was a time for walks in the country, with the air spanking your cheeks, and the leaves crisp and crunching underfoot, and the trees screaming in a riot of splendid color. This was a time for brier pipes and tweed overcoats and juicy red McIntosh apples. This was a time to contemplate pumpkin pie and good books and thick rugs and windows shut tight against the coming cold.
This was not a time for Clifford, and this was not a time for murder.
But murder had been done, and the Homicide cops were cold-eyed men who had never been seventeen.
Kling had once been seventeen.
He walked down the steps and directly to the change booth. The man behind the grilled window was reading a “comic” book. Kling recognized it as one of the more hilarious attempts now on the stands, a strip dealing with a widow who had multiple sclerosis. The attendant looted up.
“Good evening,” Kling said.
The attendant eyed him suspiciously. “Evening,” he replied.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
“Depends what the questions are,” the attendant said.
“Well—”
“If you’re planning a holdup, young man, forget it,” the attendant advised. “You won’t get a hell of lot for your trouble, and the cops in this town are pretty damn good on transit stickups.”
“Thanks. I wasn’t planning a holdup.”
“Good thing. My name’s Ruth, Sam Ruth. The fellows call this ‘Ruth’s Booth.’ What can I do for you?”
“Are you usually working nights?”
“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Why?”
“I’m trying to trace a young girl who generally boarded a train from this platform.”
“Lots of young girls get on trains here.”
“This one usually came up between ten and ten-thirty. Are you on at that time?”
“When I work the afternoon shift, I come on at four, and I go off at midnight.”
“Then you’re on at ten.”
“It would appear that way, yeah.”
“This girl was a blonde,” Kling said. “A very pretty blonde.”
“There’s a blonde widow works in the bakeshop downstairs. She comes up about eight each night.”
“This girl was young. Seventeen.”
“Seventeen, huh?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t recall,” Ruth said.
“Think.”
“What for? I don’t recall her.”
“Very pretty. If you’d seen her, you’d remember her. Well built, big blue eyes, a knockout.”
Ruth squinched up his eyes. “Yeah,” he said.
“Huh?”
“I remember. Nice young kid. Yeah, I remember.”
“What time did she come up?”
“‘Bout ten twenty-five usually. Yeah, I remember her, all right. Always went up the downtown side of the platform. Used to watch her all the way. A damn pretty girl. Only seventeen, you say? Seemed a lot older.”
“Only seventeen. Are you sure we’re talking about the same girl?”
“Listen, how do I know? This blonde came up about ten twenty-five most of the time. Reason I remember her is she once asked me to change a ten-dollar bill. We ain’t allowed to change bigger than two dollars, not that many folks carry two-dollar bills, you know. Consider it hard luck. Superstition’s bad, bad.” Ruth shook his head.
“Did you change it for her?” Kling asked.
“Out of my own pocket. That’s how I remember her. She gave me a big smile. Nice smile, that girl. Nice everything, you ask me. Yeah, she’s the one, all right. Used to go up on the downtown side, caught the ten-thirty train.” Ruth pulled a gold watch from his pocket. He nodded, replaced the watch. “Yeah, caught the ten-thirty.”
“All the time?”
“Whenever I seen her, she caught the same train. After I cashed that bill for her, she always give me a smile. She was worth looking at, all right.”
Kling glanced over his shoulder. The clock on the wall read 10:16.
“If I got on that ten-thirty train,” he asked, “where would I get off a half hour from now?”
“Say, I don’t know,” Ruth said. He thought for a moment. “Can tell you how to find out, though.”
“Yes?”
“Get on it,” Ruth said.
“Thanks.”
“Not at all. Glad to be of help.” He turned back to his comic book, anxious to get back to the funny pages about the sick widow.