Ed McBain - The Mugger

“What?” Temple asked.

“Burning the cat!”

“Burning the cat? You mean, setting fire to the cat?”

“Yep,” Meyer said, nodding. “He stopped when they showed, and he ran like hell. They saved the cat, and they also got a good description of the suspect. After that, it was duck soup.”

“When’d they get him?” Temple asked.

“This afternoon. They broke into his apartment, and it was the damnedest thing ever, I’m telling you. This guy was actually burning up the cats, burning them to this powdery ash.”

“I don’t believe it,” Temple said.

“So help me. He’d kidnap the cats and burn them into ashes. He had shelves and shelves of these little jars, full of cat ashes.”

“But what in hell for?” Temple asked. “Was the guy nuts?”

“Nossir,” Meyer said. “But you can bet the boys at the 33rd were asking the same question.”

“Well, what was it?”

“They asked him, George. They asked him just that. Agnucci took him aside and said, ‘Listen, Mac, are you nuts or something? What’s the idea burnin’ up all them cats and then puttin’ the ashes in jars like that?’ Agnucci asked, all right.”

“Well, what’d the guy say?”

Meyer patiently said, “Just what you’d expect him to say. He explained that he wasn’t crazy and that there was a good reason for those cat ashes in all those jars. He explained that he was making something.”

“What?” Temple asked anxiously. “What in hell was he making?”

“Instant pussy,” Meyer said softly, and then he began chuckling.

The report on the package of Pall Mall cigarettes and the match folder came in later that afternoon. It simply stated that each article, as such articles are wont to be, had been fingered a good many times. The only thing the fingerprint boys got from either of them was an overlay of smeared, worthless latents.

The match folder, with its blatant advertisement for the Three Aces, was turned over to the Detective Bureau, and the detectives of Homicide North and the 87th Precinct sighed heavily because the match folder meant more goddamned legwork.

Kling dressed for his date carefully.

He didn’t know exactly why, but he felt that extreme care should be exercised in the handling and feeding of Claire Townsend. He admitted to himself that he had never (well, hardly ever) been so taken with a girl and that he would probably be devastated forever (well, for a long time) if he lost her. He had no ideas on exactly how to win her, except for this intuition that urged him to proceed with caution. She had, after all, warned him repeatedly. She had put out the KEEP OFF! sign, and then she had read the sign aloud to him, and then she had translated it into six languages, but she had, nonetheless, accepted his offer.

Which proves beyond doubt, he thought, that the girl is wildly in love with me.

Which piece of deduction was about on a par with the high level of detective work he had done so far. His abortive attempts at getting anywhere with the Jeannie Paige murder left him feeling a little foolish. He wanted very much to be promoted to detective 3rd/grade someday, but he entertained severe doubts now as to whether he really was detective material. It was almost two weeks since Peter Bell had come to him with his plea. It was almost two weeks since Bell had scribbled his address on a scrap of paper, a scrap still tucked in one of the pockets of Kling’s wallet. A lot had happened in those nearly two weeks. And those happenings gave Kling reason for a little healthy soul-searching.

He was, at this point, just about ready to leave the case to the men who knew how to handle such things. His amateurish legwork, his fumbling questions, had netted a big zero — or so he thought. The only important thing he’d turned up was Claire Townsend. Claire, he was certain, was important. She was important now, and he felt she would become more important as time went by.

So let’s polish our goddamn shoes. You want to look like a slob?

He took his shoes from the closet, slipped them on over socks he would most certainly smear with polish and later change, and set to work with his shine kit.

He was spitting on his right shoe when the knock sounded on the door.

“Who is it?” he called.

“Police. Open up,” the voice said.

“Who?”

“Police.”

Kling rose, his trouser cuffs rolled up high, his hands smeared with black polish. “Is this a gag?” he said to the closed door.

“Come on, Kling,” the voice said. “You know better than that.”

Kling opened the door. Two men stood in the hallway. Both were huge; both wore tweed jackets over V-necked sweaters; both looked bored.

“Bert Kling?” one of them asked.

“Yes?” he said puzzled.

A shield flashed. “Monoghan and Monroe,” one of them said. “Homicide. I’m Monoghan.”

“I’m Monroe,” the other one said.

They were like Tweedledum and Tweedledee, Kling thought. He suppressed his smile. Neither of his visitors was smiling. Each looked as if he had just come from an out-of-town funeral.

“Come in, fellers,” Kling said, “I was just dressing.”

“Thank you,” Monoghan said.

“Thank you,” Monroe echoed.

They stepped into the room. They both took off their fedoras. Monoghan cleared his throat. Kling looked at them expectantly.

“Like a drink?” he asked, wondering why they were there, feeling somehow awed and frightened by their presence.

“A short one,” Monoghan said.

“A tiny hooker,” Monroe said.

Kling went to the closet and pulled out a bottle. “Bourbon okay?”

“When I was a patrolman,” Monoghan said, “I couldn’t afford bourbon.”

“This was a gift,” Kling said.

“I never took whiskey. Anybody on the beat wanted to see me, it was cash on the line.”

“That’s the only way,” Monroe said.

“This was a gift from my father. When I was in the hospital. The nurses wouldn’t let me touch it there.”

“You can’t blame them,” Monoghan said.

“Turn the place into an alcoholic ward,” Monroe said, unsmiling.

Kling brought them their drinks. Monoghan hesitated.

“Ain’t you drinking with us?”

“I’ve got an important date,” he said. “I want to keep my head.”

Monoghan looked at him with the flat look of a reptile. He shrugged, then turned to Monroe and said, “Here’s looking at you.”

Monroe acknowledged the toast. “Up yours,” he said unsmilingly and then tossed off the shot.

“Good bourbon,” Monoghan said.

“Excellent,” Monroe amplified.

“More?” Kling asked.

“Thanks,” Monoghan said.

“No,” Monroe said.

Kling looked at them. “You said you were from Homicide?”

“Homicide North.”

“Monoghan and Monroe,” Monroe said. “Ain’t you heard of us? We cracked the Nelson-Nichols-Permen triangle murder.”

“Oh,” Kling said.

“Sure,” Monoghan said modestly. “Big case.”

“One of our biggest,” Monroe said.

“Big one.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you working on now?” Kling asked, smiling.

“The Jeannie Paige murder,” Monoghan said flatly.

A dart of fear shot up into Kling’s throat. “Oh?” he said.

“Yeah,” Monoghan said.

“Yeah,” Monroe said.

Monoghan cleared his throat. “How long you been with the force, Kling?” he asked.

“Just… just a short while.”

“That figures,” Monoghan said.

“Sure,” Monroe said.

“You like your job?”

“Yes,” Kling answered hesitantly.

“You want to keep it?”

“You want to go on being a cop?”

“Yes, of course.”