The Mugger 87th Precinct Series, Book 2 - By Ed McBain Page 0,57
he had assaulted and murdered Jeannie Paige.
They booked, mugged, and printed him—and then they sat with him in the interrogation room at the 87th and tried to break down his story. There were four cops in the room with him. Willis, Havilland, Meyer, and Lieutenant Byrnes. Were it not for the presence of the lieutenant, Havilland would have been practicing his favorite indoor sport. As it was, his barrage was confined to words alone.
“We’re talking about the night of September fourteenth. That was a Thursday night. Now, think about it a little, Clifford,” Meyer said.
“I’m thinking. I got an alibi a mile long for that night.”
“What were you doing?” Willis asked.
“I was sitting up with a sick friend.”
“Don’t get smart!” Byrnes said.
“I swear to God it’s the truth. Listen, you got me on eight thousand counts of assault. What’re you trying to stick me with a murder rap?”
“Shut your goddamn mouth and answer the questions,” Havilland said, contradicting himself.
“I am answering the questions. I was with a sick friend. The guy had ptomaine poisoning or something. I was with him all night.”
“What night was this?”
“September fourteenth,” Clifford said.
“How come you remember the date?”
“I was supposed to go bowling.”
“With whom?”
“This friend of mine.”
“Which friend?”
“What’s your friend’s name?”
“Where were you going bowling?”
“His name is Davey,” Clifford said.
“Davey what?”
“Davey Crockett, Clifford? Come on, Clifford.”
“Davey Lowenstein. He’s a Jew. You gonna hang me for that?”
“Where does he live?”
“Base Avenue.”
“Where on Base?”
“Near Seventh.
“What’s his name?”
“Davey Lowenstein. I told you already.”
“Where were you going bowling?”
“The Cozy Alleys.”
“Downtown?”
“Yes.”
“Where downtown?”
“You’re mixing me up.”
“What’d your friend eat?”
“Did he have a doctor?”
“Where’d you say he lived?”
“Who says he had ptomaine poisoning?”
“He lives on Base, I told you. Base and Seventh.”
“Check that, Meyer,” Lieutenant Byrnes said.
Meyer quickly left the room.
“Did he have a doctor?”
“No.”
“Then how do you know it was ptomaine?”
“He said it felt like ptomaine.”
“How long were you with him?”
“I went by for him at eight. That was when I was supposed to pick him up. The alley we were going to is on Division.”
“He was sick in bed?”
“Yeah.”
“Who answered the door?”
“He did.”
“I thought he was sick in bed.”
“He was. He got out of bed to answer the door.”
“What time was this?”
“Eight.”
“You said eight-thirty.”
“No, it was eight. Eight, I said.”
“What happened?”
“He said he was sick, said he had ptomaine, said he couldn’t go with me. To the bowling alley, I mean.”
“Then what?”
“He told me to go without him.”
“Did you?”
“No, I stayed with him all night.”
“Until when?”
“Until the next morning. All night, I stayed with him.”
“Until what time?”
“All night.”
“WHAT TIME?”
“About nine in the morning. We had eggs together.”
“What happened to his ptomaine?”
“He was all right in the morning.”
“Did he sleep?”
“What?”
“Did he sleep at all that night?”
“No.”
“What’d you do?”
“We played checkers.”
“Who?”
“Me and Davey.”
“What time did you stop playing checkers?”
“About four in the morning.”
“Did he go to sleep then?”
“No.”
“What did he do?”
“We began telling jokes. I was trying to take his mind off his stomach.”
“You told jokes until nine the next morning?”
“No, until eight. We started breakfast at eight.”
“What’d you eat?”
“Eggs.”
“What bowling alley did you say that was?”
“The Cozy—”
“Where’s it located?”
“On Division.”
“What time did you get to Davey’s house?”
“Eight o’clock.”
“Why’d you kill Jeannie Paige?”
“I didn’t. My God, the newspapers are killing me! I didn’t go anywhere near the Hamilton Bridge.”
“You mean, that night?”
“That night, any night. I don’t even know that cliff they wrote about. I thought cliffs were out west.”
“Which cliff?”
“Where the girl was found.”
“Which girl?”
“Jeannie Paige.”
“Did she scream? Is that why you killed her?”
“She didn’t scream.”
“What did she do?”
“She didn’t do nothing! I wasn’t there! How do I know what she did?”
“But you beat up your other victims, didn’t you?”
“Yes. You got me on that, okay.”
“You son of a bitch, we’ve got a thumbprint on the sunglasses you dropped. We’ll get you on that, so why don’t you tell us about it?”
“There’s nothing to tell. My friend was sick. I don’t know Jeannie Paige. I don’t know that cliff. Lock me up. Try me on assault. I didn’t kill that girl!”
“Who did?”
“I don’t know.”
“You did!”
“No.”
“Why’d you kill her?”
“I didn’t kill her!”
The door opened. Meyer came into the room. “I called this Lowenstein character,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“The story is true. Clifford was with him all that night.”
When the comparison tests were made with Clifford’s thumbprints and the single print found on the sunglasses, there was no longer any doubt. The prints did not match.
Whatever else Jack Clifford had done, he had not murdered Jeannie Paige.
There was only Molly Bell to call.
Once he’d done that he could leave the Jeannie Paige thing with a