Ed McBain - The Mugger

“Your curiosity, pal, should concern itself only with hiring the club. Am I right, Hud?”

“Sure,” Hud answered.

“What can you pay, pal?”

“How often did Jeannie Paige come down here, pal?” Kling said. He watched Tommy’s face. The face did not change expression at all. A record slid from the stack Hud was holding, clattering to the floor.

“Who’s Jeannie Paige?” Tommy said.

“A girl who was killed last Thursday night.”

“Never heard of her,” Tommy said.

“Think,” Kling told him.

“I am thinking.” Tommy paused. “You a cop?”

“What difference does it make?”

“This is a clean club,” Tommy said. “We never had any trouble with the cops, and we don’t want none. We ain’t even had any trouble with the landlord, and he’s a louse from way back.”

“Nobody’s looking for trouble,” Kling said. “I asked you how often Jeannie Paige came down here.”

“Never,” Tommy said. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

Hud, reaching for the pieces of the broken record, looked up. “Yeah, that’s right, Tommy.”

“Suppose I am a cop?” Kling said.

“Cops have badges.”

Kling reached into his back pocket, opened his wallet, and showed the tin.

Tommy glanced at the shield. “Cop or no cop, this is still a clean club.”

“Nobody said it was dirty. Stop bulging your weight-lifter muscles and answer my questions straight. When was Jeannie Paige down here last?”

Tommy hesitated for a long time. “Nobody here had anything to do with killing her,” he said at last.

“Then she did come down?”

“Yes.”

“How often?”

“Every now and then.”

“How often?”

“Whenever there was socials. Sometimes during the week, too. We let her in ‘cause one of the girls…” Tommy stopped.

“Go ahead, finish it.”

“One of the girls knows her. Otherwise we wouldn’t’ve let her in except on social nights. That’s all I was gonna say.”

“Yeah,” Hud said, placing the broken record pieces on the player cabinet. “I think this girl was gonna put her up for membership.”

“Was she here last Thursday night?” Kling asked.

“No,” Tommy answered quickly.

“Try it again.”

“No, she wasn’t here. Thursday night is Work Night. Six kids from the club get the duty each week — different kids, you understand. Three guys and three girls. The guys do the heavy work, and the girls do the curtains, the glasses, things like that. No outsiders are allowed on Work Night. In fact, no members except the kids who are working are allowed. That’s how I know Jeannie Paige wasn’t here.”

“Were you here?”

“Yeah,” Tommy said.

“Who else was here?”

“What difference does it make? Jeannie wasn’t here.”

“What about her girlfriend? The one she knows?”

“Yeah, she was here.”

“What’s her name?”

Tommy paused. When he answered, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Kling’s question. “This Jeannie kid, like you got to understand her. She never even danced with nobody down here. A real zombie. Pretty as sin, but an iceberg. Ten below, I’m not kidding.”

“Why’d she come down then?”

“Ask me an easy one. Listen, even when she did come down, she never stayed long. She’d just sit on the sidelines and watch. There wasn’t a guy in this club wouldn’ta liked to dump her in the hay, but what a terrifying creep she was.” Tommy paused. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

Hud nodded. “That’s right. Dead and all, I got to say it. She was a regular icicle. A real spook. After a while, none of the guys even bothered askin’ her to dance. We just let her sit.”

“She was in another world,” Tommy said. “I thought for a while she was a dope addict or something. I mean it. You know, you read about them in the papers all the time.” He shrugged. “But it wasn’t that. She was just a Martian, that’s all.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Such a piece, too.”

“A terrifying creep,” Hud said, shaking his head.

“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling asked again.

A glance of muted understanding passed between Tommy and Hud. Kling didn’t miss it, but he bided his time.

“You get a pretty girl like Jeannie was,” Tommy said, “and you figure. Here’s something. Pal, did you ever see her? I mean, they don’t make them like that any—”

“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling repeated, a little louder this time.

“She’s an older girl,” Tommy said, his voice very low.

“How old?”

“Twenty,” Tommy said.

“That almost makes her middle-aged like me,” Kling said.

“Yeah,” Hud agreed seriously.

“What’s her age got to do with it?”

“Well…” Tommy hesitated.

“For Christ’s sake, what is it?” Kling exploded.

“She’s been around,” Tommy said.

“So?”

“So… so we don’t want any trouble down here. This is a clean club. No, really, I’m not snowing you. So… so if once in a while we fool around with Claire—”

“Claire what?” Kling snapped.

“Claire…” Tommy stopped.

“Look,” Kling said tightly, “let’s just cut this short, okay? A seventeen-year-old kid had her head smashed in, and I don’t feel like playing around! Now, what the hell is this girl’s name? And say it damn fast!”

“Claire Townsend.” Tommy wet his lips. “Look, if our mothers found out we were… well, you know… fooling around with Claire down here, well. Look, can’t we leave her out of this? What’s to gain? Is there anything wrong with a little fun?”

“Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”

“No, but—”

“Where does she live?”

“Claire?”

“Yes.”

“Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”

“728, I think,” Hud said.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”

“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.

“Well… only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.

“The Bobbsey Twins.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”

“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.

“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.

In Riverhead — and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead — the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.

The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into the basket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”

Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women — a girl named Birdie — was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.