Ed McBain - The Mugger

“Do you smell this stuff or drink it?” Kling wanted to know. He rolled the glass between his big hands.

“Both,” Claire said. “That’s what makes it a good experience. Taste it. Go ahead.”

Kling took a deep swallow, and Claire opened her mouth and made an abrupt “Stop!” signal with one outstretched hand. “Good God,” she said, “don’t gulp it! You’re committing an obscenity when you gulp cognac. Sip it; roll it around your tongue.”

“I’m sorry,” Kling apologized. He sipped the cognac, rolled it on his tongue. “Good,” he said.

“Virile,” she said.

“Velvety,” he added.

“End of commercial.”

They sat silently, sipping the brandy. He felt very cozy and very warm and very comfortable. Claire Townsend was a pleasant person to look at and a pleasant person to talk to. Outside the apartment, the shadowy grays of autumn dusk were washing the sky.

“About Jeannie,” he said. He did not feel like discussing death.

“Yes?”

“How well did you know her?”

“As well as anyone, I suppose. I don’t think she had many friends.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You can tell. That lost-soul look. A beautiful kid, but lost. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the looks she had.”

“You’re not so bad,” Kling said, smiling. He sipped more brandy.

“That’s the warm, amber glow of the cognac,” Claire advised him. “I’m a beast in broad daylight.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” Kling said. “How’d you first meet her?”

“At Tempo. She came down one night. I think her boyfriend sent her. In any case, she had the name of the club and the address written on a little white card. She showed it to me, almost as if it were a ticket of admission, and then she just sat in the corner and refused dances. She looked… It’s hard to explain. She was there, but she wasn’t there. Have you seen people like that?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“I’m like that myself sometimes,” Claire admitted. “Maybe that’s why I spotted it. Anyway, I went over and introduced myself, and we started talking. We got along very well. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged telephone numbers.”

“Did she ever call you?”

“No. I only saw her at the club.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Oh, a long time now.”

“How long?”

“Let me see.” Claire sipped her cognac and thought. “Gosh, it must be almost a year.” She nodded. “Yes, just about.”

“I see. Go ahead.”

“Well, it wasn’t hard to find out what was troubling her. The kid was in love.”

Kling leaned forward. “How do you know?”

Claire’s eyes did not leave his face. “I’ve been in love, too,” she said tiredly.

“Who was her boyfriend?” Kling asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she mention his name ever? I mean, in conversation?”

“No.”

“Hell,” Kling said.

“Understand, Mr. Kling, that this was a new bird taking wing. Jeannie was leaving the nest, testing her feathers.”

“I see.”

“Her first love, Mr. Kling, and shining in her eyes, and glowing on her face, and putting her in this dream world of hers where everything outside it was shadowy.” Claire shook her head. “God, I’ve seen them green, but Jeannie…” She stopped and shook her head again. “She just didn’t know anything, you know? Here was this woman’s body… Well, had you ever seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean. This was the real item, a woman. But inside… a little girl.”

“How do you figure that?” Kling asked, thinking of the autopsy results.

“Everything about her. The way she used to dress, the way she talked, the questions she asked, even her handwriting. All a little girl’s. Believe me, Mr. Kling, I’ve never—”

“Her handwriting?”

“Yes, yes. Here, let me see if I’ve still got it.” She crossed the room and scooped her purse from a chair. “I’m the laziest girl in the world. I never copy an address into my address book. I just stick it in between the pages until I’ve…” She was thumbing through a little black book. “Ah, here it is,” she said. She handed Kling a white card. “She wrote that for me the night we met. Jeannie Paige and then the phone number. Now, look at the way she wrote.”

Kling looked at the card in puzzlement. “This says ‘Club Tempo,’” he said. “‘1812 Klausner Street.’”

“What?” Claire frowned. “Oh, yes. That’s the card she came down with that night. She used the other side to give me her number. Turn it over.”

Kling did.

“See the childish scrawl? That was Jeannie Paige a year ago.”

Kling flipped the card over again. “I’m more interested in this side,” he said. “You told me you thought her boyfriend might have written this. Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. I just assumed he was the person who sent her down, that’s all. It’s a man’s handwriting.”

“Yes,” Kling said. “May I keep this?”

Claire nodded. “If you like.” She paused. “I guess I have no further use for Jeannie’s phone number.”

“No,” Kling said. He put the card into his wallet. “You said she asked you questions. What kind of questions?”

“Well, for one, she asked me how to kiss.”

“What?”

“Yes. She asked me what to do with her lips, whether she should open her mouth, use her tongue. And all this delivered with that wide-eyed, baby-blue stare. It sounds incredible, I know. But, remember, she was a young bird, and she didn’t know how strong her wings were.”

“She found out,” Kling said.

“Huh?”

“Jeannie Paige was pregnant when she died.”

“No!” Claire said. She put down the brandy glass. “No, you’re joking!”

“I’m serious.”

Claire was silent for several moments. Then she said, “First time at bat and she gets beaned. Dammit! Goddammit!”

“But you don’t know who her boyfriend was?”

“No.”

“Had she continued seeing him? You said this was a year ago. I mean—”

“I know what you mean. Yes, the same one. She’d been seeing him regularly. In fact, she used the club for that.”

“He came to the club!” Kling said, sitting erect.

“No, no.” Claire was shaking her head impatiently. “I think her sister and brother-in-law objected to her seeing this fellow. So she told them she was going down to Tempo. She’d stay there a little while, just in case anyone was checking, and then she’d leave.”

“Let me understand this,” Kling said. “She came to the club and then left to meet him. Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“This was standard procedure? This happened each time she came down?”

“Almost each time. Once in a while she’d stay at the club until things broke up.”

“Did she meet him in the neighborhood?”

“No, I don’t think so. I walked her down to the El once.”

“What time did she generally leave the club?”

“Between ten and ten-thirty.”

“And she walked to the El, is that right? And you assume she took a train there and went to meet him.”

“I know she went to meet him. The night I walked her, she told me she was going downtown to meet him.”

“Downtown where?”

“She didn’t say.”

“What did he look like, this fellow?”

“She didn’t say.”

“She never described him?”

“Only to say he was the handsomest man in the world. Look, who ever describes his love? Shakespeare, maybe. That’s all.”

“Shakespeare and seventeen-year-olds,” Kling said. “Seventeen-year-olds shout their love to the rooftops.”