Ed McBain - The Mugger

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.