Ed McBain - The Mugger

“Then keep out of Homicide.”

“What?” Kling said.

“He means,” Monroe explained, “keep out of Homicide.”

“I… I don’t know what you mean.”

“We mean, keep away from stiffs. Stiffs are our business.”

“We like stiffs,” Monroe said.

“We’re specialists, you understand? You call in a heart doctor when you got heart disease, don’t you? You call in an eye, ear, nose, and throat man when you got laryngitis, don’t you? Okay, when you got a stiff, you call in Homicide. That’s us. Monoghan and Monroe.”

“You don’t call in a patrolman.”

“Homicide. Not a beat-walker.”

“Not a pavement-pounder.”

“Not a nightstick twirler.”

“Not a traffic jockey.”

“Not you!” Monoghan said.

“Clear?” Monroe asked.

“Yes,” Kling said.

“It’s gonna get a lot clearer,” Monoghan added. “The lieutenant wants to see you.”

“What for?”

“The lieutenant is a funny guy. He thinks Homicide is the best damn department in the city. He runs Homicide, and he don’t like police coming in where they ain’t asked. I’ll let you in on a secret. He don’t even like the detectives from your precinct to go messing around in murder. Trouble is, he can’t refuse their assistance or their cooperation, ‘specially when your precinct manages to stack up so many goddamn homicides each year. So he suffers the dicks — but he don’t have to suffer no goddamn patrolman.”

“But… but why does he want to see me? I understand now. I shouldn’t have stuck my nose in, and I’m sorry I—”

“You shouldn’t have stuck your nose in,” Monoghan agreed.

“You definitely shouldn’t have.”

“But I didn’t do any harm. I just—”

“Who knows what harm you done?” Monoghan said.

“You may have done untold harm,” Monroe said.

“Ah, hell,” Kling said. “I’ve got a date.”

“Yeah,” Monoghan said. “With the lieutenant.”

“Call your broad,” Monroe advised. “Tell her the police are bugging you.”

Kling looked at his watch. “I can’t reach her,” he said. “She’s at school.”

“Impairing the morals of a minor,” Monoghan said, smiling.

“Better you shouldn’t mention that to the lieutenant.”

“She’s in college,” Kling said. “Listen, will I be through by seven?”

“Maybe,” Monoghan said.

“Get your coat,” Monroe said.

“He don’t need a coat. It’s nice and mild.”

“It may get chilly later. This is pneumonia weather.”

Kling sighed heavily. “All right if I wash my hands?”

“What?” Monoghan asked.

“He’s polite,” Monroe said.

“No, I have to wash my hands.”

“Okay, so wash them. Hurry up. The lieutenant don’t like to be kept waiting.”

The building that housed Homicide North was the shabbiest, dowdiest, dirtiest, crummiest building Kling had ever seen. It was a choice spot for Homicide, Kling thought instantly. It even stinks of death. He had followed Monoghan and Monroe past the desk sergeant and then through a narrow, dimly lighted hallway lined with benches. He could hear typewriters clacking behind closed doors. An occasional open door revealed a man in shirtsleeves and shoulder holster. The entire place gave the impression of being the busy office of a numbers banker. Phones rang, people carried files from one office to another, men stopped at the water cooler — all in a dimly illuminated Dante interior.

“Sit down,” Monoghan had said.

“Cool your heels a little,” Monroe added.

“The lieutenant is dictating a memo. He’ll be with you in a little while.”

Whatever the good lieutenant was dictating, Kling decided after waiting an hour, it was not a memo. It was probably volume two of his autobiography, The Patrolman Years. He had long ago given up the possibility of being on time for his date with Claire. It was now 6:45, and tempus was fugiting along at a merry clip. With luck, though, he might still catch her at the school, assuming she’d give him the benefit of the doubt and wait around a while. Which, considering her reluctance to make the date in the first place, was a hell of a lot to assume.

Impatiently, Kling bided his time.

At 8:20, he stopped a man in the corridor and asked if he could use a phone. The man studied him sourly and said, “Better wait until after the lieutenant sees you. He’s dictating a memo.”

“On what?” Kling cracked. “How to dismantle a radio motor patrol car?”

“What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it. Pretty funny.” He left Kling and went to the water cooler. “You want some water?”

“I haven’t eaten since noon,” Kling said.

“Take a little water. Settle your stomach.”

“No bread to go with it?” Kling asked.

“What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it. Pretty funny.”

“How much longer do you think he’ll be?”

“Depends. He dictates slow.”

“How long has he been with Homicide North?”

“Five, ten years. I don’t know.”

“Where’d he work before this? Dachau?”

“What?” the man said. “Oh, I get it.”

“Pretty funny,” Kling said dryly. “Where are Monoghan and Monroe?”

“They went home. They’re hard workers, those two. Put in a big day.”

“Listen,” Kling said, “I’m hungry. Can’t you kind of goose him a little?”

“The lieutenant?” the man said. “Me goose the lieutenant? That’s the funniest thing you said yet.” He shook his head and walked off down the corridor, turning once to look back at Kling incredulously.

At 10:33, a detective with a .38 tucked into his waistband came into the corridor.

“Bert Kling?” he asked.

“Yes,” Kling said wearily.

“Lieutenant Hawthorne will see you now,” he said.

“Glory hall—”

“Don’t make wisecracks with the lieutenant,” the detective advised. “He ain’t eaten since suppertime.”

He led Kling to a frosted door appropriately marked LIEUTENANT HENRY HAWTHORNE, threw it open, said, “Kling, Lieutenant,” and then ushered Kling into the room. The detective left, closing the door behind him.

Hawthorne sat behind a desk at the far end of the room. He was a small man with a bald head and bright blue eyes. The sleeves on his white shirt were rolled up past the elbows. The collar was unbuttoned, the tie knot yanked down. He wore a shoulder holster from which protruded the walnut stock of a.45 automatic. His desk was clean and bare. Green file cabinets formed a fortress wall behind the desk and on the side of it. The blinds on the window to the left of the desk were pulled tightly closed. A wooden plaque on the desk read: LT. HAWTHORNE.

“Kling?” he said. His voice was high and brassy, like a double C forced from the bell of a broken trumpet.

“Yes, sir,” Kling said.

“Sit down,” Hawthorne said, indicating the straight-backed chair alongside the desk.

“Thank you, sir,” Kling said. He walked to the chair and sat. He was nervous, very nervous. He certainly didn’t want to lose his job, and Hawthorne seemed like a tough customer. He wondered if a lieutenant in Homicide could ask the commissioner to fire a patrolman, and he decided a lieutenant in Homicide definitely could. He swallowed. He wasn’t thinking of Claire any longer, nor was he thinking of food.

“So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?” Hawthorne said.

Kling didn’t know what to answer. He didn’t know whether to smile or cast his eyes downward. He didn’t know whether to sit or go blind.

Hawthorne watched him. Emphatically, he repeated, “So you’re Mr. Sherlock Holmes, eh?”

“Sir?” Kling said politely.