The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,20

the idea of knocking over old guys.” He paused. “And dames.”

“Who said anything about dames? I steer away from them. You get all kinds of trouble with dames.”

“Yeah?” Willis said.

“Sure. Well, don’t you know? They get you on attempted rape as well as assault. Even if you didn’t lay a hand on them.”

“That right?” Willis said, somewhat disappointed.

“Sure. I stay away like they’re poison. Besides, most dames don’t carry too much cash.”

“I see,” Willis said.

“So what do you think? You know judo, and I know it, too. We could knock this city on its side.”

“I don’t know,” Willis said, convinced that Randolph was not his man now, but wanting to hear more so that he could set him up for a pinch. “Tell me more about how you work it.”

While the two men talked in one part of the city, the girl lay face down in the bushes in another part of the city.

The bushes were at the base of a sharp incline, a miniature cliff of earth and stone. The cliff sloped down toward the bushes, and beyond the bushes was the river, and arching overhead was the long span of the bridge leading to the next state.

The girl lay in a crooked heap.

Her stockings had been torn when she rolled down the incline to the bushes, and her skirt was twisted so that the backs of her legs were exposed clear to her buttocks. The legs were good legs, youthful legs, but one was twisted at a curious angle, and there was nothing attractive about the girl’s body as it lay in the bushes.

The girl’s face was bleeding. The blood spread from the broken features to the stiff branches of the bushes and then to the ground, where the parched autumn earth drank it up thirstily. One arm was folded across the girl’s full breasts, pressed against the sharp, cutting twigs of the bushes. The other arm dangled loosely at her side. Her hand was open.

On the ground, close to the spreading blood, several feet from the girl’s open palm, a pair of sunglasses rested. One of the lenses in the glasses was shattered.

The girl had blonde hair, but the bright yellow was stained with blood where something hard and unyielding had repeatedly smashed at her skull.

The girl was not breathing. She lay face down in the bushes at the bottom of the small cliff, her blood rushing onto the ground, and she would never breathe again.

The girl’s name was Jeannie Paige.

Lieutenant Byrnes studied the information on the printed sheet.

Translated into English, it simply meant that somebody had goofed. The body had been taken to the mortuary, and some young intern there had probably very carefully studied the broken face and the shattered skull and come up with the remarkable conclusion that death had been caused by “brain concussion apparently.” He could understand why a full report was not on his desk, but even understanding, the knowledge griped him. He could not expect people, he supposed, to go gallivanting around in the middle of the night—the body had probably been delivered to the mortuary in the wee hours—trying to discover whether or not a stomach holds poison. No, of course not. Nobody starts work until 9:00 in the morning, and nobody works after 5:00 in the afternoon. A wonderful country. Short hours for everyone.

Except the fellow who killed this girl, of course.

He hadn’t minded a little overtime, not him.

Seventeen years old, Byrnes thought. My son is seventeen!

He walked to the door of his office. He was a short, solidly packed man with a head that seemed to have been blasted loose from a huge chunk of granite. He had small blue eyes, which constantly darted, perpetually alert. He didn’t like people getting killed. He didn’t like young girls getting their heads smashed in. He opened the door.

“Hal!” he called.

Willis looked up from his desk.

“Come in here, will you?” He left the door and began pacing the office. Willis came into the room and stood quietly, his hands behind his back.

“Anything on those sunglasses yet?” Byrnes asked, still pacing.

“No, sir. There was a good thumbprint on the unbroken lens, but it’s not likely we’ll get a make on a single print.”

“What about your pal? The one you brought in last night?”

“Randolph. He’s mad as hell because I conned him into making a full confession to a cop. I think he suspects it won’t stand up in court, though. He’s screaming for a lawyer right now.”

“I’m talking about the thumbprint.”

“It