The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,42

She touched the throbbing eye. “Let’s get that steak, huh?”

“Sure. Just one thing.”

“What?”

“Matches. If he was carrying cigarettes in that pocket, he was probably carrying matches, too.” He took a pocket flashlight and thumbed it into life. The light spilled onto the sidewalk, traveling in a slow arc. “Ah, there they are,” he said. He stooped to pick up the match folder, using a second handkerchief he took from his inside pocket.

“Listen, can’t we get that steak?” Eileen asked.

Willis looked at the folder. “We may be in luck,” he said.

“How so?”

“The ad on these matches. It’s for a place here in the city. A place named the Three Aces. Maybe we’ve got a hangout for Clifford now.”

He looked at Eileen and grinned broadly. She stooped, putting on her shoe.

“Come on,” he said, “let’s take care of that peeper.”

“I was beginning to think you didn’t care anymore,” Eileen said. She took his arm, and they started up the street together.

That Thursday afternoon, Kling called Claire Townsend the first chance he got.

The first chance he got was on his lunch hour. He ordered a Western sandwich and a cup of coffee, went to the phonebook, looked up Townsend at 728 Peterson in Riverhead, and came up with a listing for Ralph Townsend. He went into the booth, deposited a dime, and dialed the number. He allowed the phone to ring for a total of twelve times, and then he hung up.

There were a lot of things to keep him busy on the beat that afternoon. A woman, for no apparent reason other than that her husband had called her “Babe,” had struck out at him with a razor, opening a gash the size of a banana on the side of his face. Kling made the pinch. The razor, by the time he arrived on the scene, had gone the way of all discreet assault weapons—down the nearest sewer.

No sooner was he back on the street than a gang of kids attacked a boy as he was coming home from school. The boy had committed the unpardonable sin of making a pass at a deb who belonged to a rival street gang. Kling arrived just as the gang members were ready to stomp the kid into the pavement. He collared one of them, told him he knew the faces of all the kids who’d participated in the beating and that if anything happened to the boy they’d jumped on from here on in, he’d know just where to look. The gang member nodded solemnly and then took off after his friends. The boy they’d jumped survived with only a few bumps on his head. This time, fists had been the order of the day.

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