The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,44

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.

This was not a time for Clifford, and this was not a time for murder.

But murder had been done, and the Homicide cops were cold-eyed men who had never been seventeen.

Kling had once been seventeen.

He walked down the steps and directly to the change booth. The man behind the grilled window was reading a “comic” book. Kling recognized it as one of the more hilarious attempts now on the stands, a strip dealing with a widow who had multiple sclerosis. The attendant looted up.

“Good evening,” Kling said.

The attendant eyed him suspiciously. “Evening,” he replied.

“Mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“Depends what the questions are,” the attendant said.

“Well—”

“If you’re planning a holdup, young man, forget it,” the attendant advised. “You won’t get a hell of lot for your trouble, and the cops in this town are pretty damn good on transit stickups.”

“Thanks. I wasn’t planning a holdup.”

“Good thing. My name’s Ruth, Sam Ruth. The fellows call this ‘Ruth’s Booth.’ What can I do for you?”

“Are you usually working nights?”

“Sometimes yes, sometimes no. Why?”

“I’m trying to trace a young girl who generally boarded a train from this platform.”

“Lots of young girls get on trains here.”

“This one usually came up between ten and ten-thirty. Are you on at that time?”

“When I work the afternoon shift, I come on at four, and I go off at midnight.”

“Then you’re on at ten.”

“It would appear that way, yeah.”

“This girl was a blonde,” Kling said. “A very pretty blonde.”

“There’s a blonde widow works in the bakeshop downstairs. She comes up about eight each night.”

“This girl was young. Seventeen.”

“Seventeen, huh?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t recall,” Ruth said.

“Think.”

“What for? I don’t recall her.”

“Very pretty. If you’d seen her, you’d remember her. Well built, big blue eyes, a knockout.”

Ruth squinched up his eyes. “Yeah,” he said.

“Huh?”

“I remember. Nice young kid. Yeah, I remember.”

“What time did she come up?”

“‘Bout ten twenty-five usually. Yeah, I remember her, all right. Always went up the downtown side of the platform. Used to watch her all the way. A damn pretty girl. Only seventeen, you say? Seemed a lot older.”

“Only seventeen. Are you sure we’re talking about the same girl?”

“Listen, how do I know? This blonde came up about ten twenty-five most of the time. Reason I remember her is she once asked me to change a ten-dollar bill. We ain’t allowed to change bigger than two dollars, not that many folks carry two-dollar bills, you know. Consider it hard luck. Superstition’s bad, bad.” Ruth shook his head.

“Did you change it for her?” Kling asked.

“Out of my own pocket. That’s how I remember her. She gave me a big smile. Nice smile, that girl. Nice everything, you ask me. Yeah, she’s the one, all right. Used to go up on the downtown side, caught the ten-thirty train.” Ruth pulled a gold watch from his pocket. He nodded, replaced the watch. “Yeah, caught the ten-thirty.”

“All the time?”

“Whenever I seen her, she caught the same train. After I cashed that bill for her, she always give me a smile. She was worth looking at, all right.”

Kling glanced over his shoulder. The clock on the wall read 10:16.

“If I got on that ten-thirty train,” he asked, “where would I get off a half hour from now?”

“Say, I don’t know,” Ruth said. He thought for a moment. “Can tell you how to find out, though.”

“Yes?”

“Get on it,” Ruth said.

“Thanks.”

“Not at all. Glad to be of help.” He turned back to his comic book, anxious to get back to the funny pages about the sick widow.

The train screeched through the heart of the city, on intimate terms with the windows of the buildings it passed. Kling sat and watched the city pass by in review outside. It was a big city, and a dirty city, but when you were born and raised in it, it became as much a part of you