The Mugger (10 page)

“Yeah, she was here.”

“What’s her name?”

Tommy paused. When he answered, it had nothing whatsoever to do with Kling’s question. “This Jeannie kid, like you got to understand her. She never even
danced
with nobody down here. A real zombie. Pretty as sin, but an iceberg. Ten below, I’m not kidding.”

“Why’d she come down then?”

“Ask me an easy one. Listen, even when she did come down, she never stayed long. She’d just sit on the sidelines and watch. There wasn’t a guy in this club wouldn’ta liked to dump her in the hay, but what a terrifying creep she was.” Tommy paused. “Ain’t that right, Hud?”

Hud nodded. “That’s right. Dead and all, I got to say it. She was a regular icicle. A real spook. After a while, none of the guys even bothered askin’ her to dance. We just let her sit.”

“She was in another world,” Tommy said. “I thought for a while she was a dope addict or something. I mean it. You know, you read about them in the papers all the time.” He shrugged. “But it wasn’t that. She was just a Martian, that’s all.” He shook his head disconsolately. “Such a piece, too.”

“A terrifying creep,” Hud said, shaking his head.

“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling asked again.

A glance of muted understanding passed between Tommy and Hud. Kling didn’t miss it, but he bided his time.

“You get a pretty girl like Jeannie was,” Tommy said, “and you figure. Here’s something. Pal, did you ever see her? I mean, they don’t make them like that any—”

“What’s her girlfriend’s name?” Kling repeated, a little louder this time.

“She’s an older girl,” Tommy said, his voice very low.

“How old?”

“Twenty,” Tommy said.

“That almost makes her middle-aged like me,” Kling said.

“Yeah,” Hud agreed seriously.

“What’s her age got to do with it?”

“Well…” Tommy hesitated.

“For Christ’s sake, what is it?” Kling exploded.

“She’s been around,” Tommy said.

“So?”

“So…so we don’t want any trouble down here. This is a clean club. No, really, I’m not snowing you. So…so if once in a while we fool around with Claire—”

“Claire what?” Kling snapped.

“Claire…” Tommy stopped.

“Look,” Kling said tightly, “let’s just cut this short, okay? A seventeen-year-old kid had her head smashed in, and I don’t feel like playing around! Now, what the hell is this girl’s name? And say it damn fast!”

“Claire Townsend.” Tommy wet his lips. “Look, if our mothers found out we were…well, you know…fooling around with Claire down here, well. Look, can’t we leave her out of this? What’s to gain? Is there anything wrong with a little fun?”

“Nothing,” Kling said. “Do you find murder funny? Do you find it comical, you terrifying creep?”

“No, but—”

“Where does she live?”

“Claire?”

“Yes.”

“Right on Peterson. What’s the address, Hud?”

“728, I think,” Hud said.

“Yeah, that sounds about right. But look, Officer, leave us out of it, will you?”

“How many of you do I have to protect?” Kling said dryly.

“Well…only Hud and me, actually,” Tommy said.

“The Bobbsey Twins.”

“Huh?”

“Nothing.” Kling started for the door. “Stay away from big girls,” he said. “Go lift some weights.”

“You’ll leave us out of it?” Tommy called.

“I may be back,” Kling said, and then he left them standing by the record player.

In Riverhead—and throughout the city, for that matter, but especially in Riverhead—the cave dwellers have thrown up a myriad number of dwellings, which they call middle-class apartment houses. These buildings are usually constructed of yellow brick, and they are carefully set on the street so that no wash is seen hanging on the lines, except when an inconsiderate city transit authority constructs an elevated structure that cuts through backyards.

The fronts of the buildings are usually hung with a different kind of wash. Here is where the women gather. They sit on bridge chairs and stools, and they knit, and they sun themselves, and they talk, and their talk is the dirty wash of the apartment building. In three minutes flat, a reputation can be ruined by these Mesdames Defarge. The ax drops with remarkable abruptness, whetted by a friendly discussion of last-night’s mah-jongg game. The head, with equally remarkable suddenness, rolls into the
basket, and the discussion idles on to topics like, “Should birth control be practiced in the Virgin Isles?”

Autumn was a bold seductress on that late Monday afternoon, September 18. The women lingered in front of the buildings, knowing their hungry men would soon be home for dinner, but lingering nonetheless, savoring the tantalizing bite of the air. When the tall, blond man stopped in front of 728 Peterson, paused to check the address over the arched doorway, and then stepped into the foyer, speculation ran rife among the women knitters. After a brief period of consultation, one of the women— a girl named Birdie—was chosen to sidle unobtrusively into the foyer and, if the opportunity were ripe, perhaps casually follow the good-looking stranger upstairs.

Birdie, so carefully unobtrusive was she, missed her golden opportunity. By the time she had wormed her way into the inner foyer, Kling was nowhere in sight.

He had checked the name
Townsend
in the long row of brass-plated mailboxes, pushed the bell button, and then leaned on the inner door until an answering buzz released its lock mechanism. He had then climbed to the fourth floor, found Apartment 47, and pushed another button.

He was now waiting.

He pushed the button again.

The door opened suddenly. He had heard no approaching footsteps, and the sudden opening of the door surprised him. Unconsciously, he looked first to the girl’s feet. She was barefoot.

“I was raised in the Ozarks,” she said, following his glance. “We own a vacuum cleaner, a carpet sweeper, a broiler, a set of encyclopedias, and subscriptions to most of the magazines. Whatever you’re selling, we’ve probably got it, and we’re not interested in putting you through college.”

Kling smiled. “I’m selling an automatic apple corer,” he said.

“We don’t eat apples,” the girl replied.

“This one mulches the seeds and converts them to fiber. The corer comes complete with an instruction booklet telling you how to weave fiber mats.”

The girl raised a speculative eyebrow.

“It comes in six colors,” Kling went on. “Toast Brown, Melba Peach, Tart Red—”

“Are you on the level?” the girl asked, puzzled now.

“Proofreader Blue,” Kling continued, “Bilious Green and Midnight Dawn.” He paused. “Are you interested?”

“Hell no,” she said, somewhat shocked.

“My name is Bert Kling,” he said seriously. “I’m a cop.”

“Now you sound like the opening to a television show.”

“May I come in?”

“Am I in trouble?” the girl asked. “Did I leave that damn shebang in front of a fire hydrant?”

“No.”

And then, as an afterthought, “Where’s your badge?”

Kling showed her his shield.

“You’re supposed to ask,” the girl said. “Even the man from the gas company. Everybody’s supposed to carry identification like that.”

“Yes, I know.”

“So come in,” she said. “I’m Claire Townsend.”

“I know.”

“How
do you know?”

“The boys at Club Tempo sent me here.”

Claire stared at Kling levelly. She was a tall girl. Even barefoot, she reached to Kling’s shoulders. In high heels, she would give the average American male trouble. Her hair was black. Not brunette, not brownette, but black, a total black, the black of a starless, moonless night. Her eyes were a deep brown, arched
with black brows. Her nose was straight, and her cheeks were high, and there wasn’t a trace of makeup on her face, not a tint of lipstick on her wide mouth. She wore a white blouse and black toreador pants, which tapered down to her naked ankles and feet. Her toenails were painted a bright red.

She kept staring at him. At last, she said, “Why’d they send you here?”

“They said you knew Jeannie Paige.”

“Oh.” The girl seemed ready to blush. She shook her head slightly, as if to clear it of an erroneous first impression, and then said, “Come in.”

Kling followed her into the apartment. It was furnished with good middle-class taste.

“Sit down,” she said.

“Thank you.” He sat in a low easy chair. It was difficult to sit erect, but he managed it. Claire went to the coffee table, shoved the lid off a cigarette box, took one of the cigarettes for herself, and then asked, “Smoke?”

“No, thanks.”

“Your name was Kling, did you say?”

“Yes.”

“You’re a detective?”

“No. A patrolman.”

“Oh.” Claire lighted the cigarette, shook out the match, and then studied Kling. “What’s your connection with Jeannie?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.”

Claire grinned. “I asked first.”

“I know her sister. I’m doing a favor.”

“Uh-huh.” Claire nodded, digesting this. She puffed on the cigarette, folded her arms across her breasts, and then said, “Well, go ahead. Ask the questions. You’re the cop.”

“Why don’t you sit down?”

“I’ve been sitting all day.”

“You work?”

“I’m a college girl,” Claire said. “I’m studying to be a social worker.”

“Why that?”

“Why not?”

Kling smiled. “This time, I asked first.”

“I want to get to people before you do,” she said.

“That sounds reasonable,” Kling said. “Why do you belong to Club Tempo?”

Her eyes grew suddenly wary. He could almost see a sudden film pass over the pupils, masking them. She turned her head and blew out a ball of smoke. “Why shouldn’t I?” she asked.

“I can see where our conversation is going to run around in the why/why not rut,” Kling said.

“Which is a damn sight better than the why/because rut, don’t you think?” There was an edge to her voice now.

He wondered what had suddenly changed her earlier friendliness. He weighed her reaction for a moment and then decided to plunge onward.

“The boys there are a little young for you, aren’t they?”

“You’re getting a little personal, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Kling said, “I am.”

“Our acquaintance is a little short for personal exchanges,” Claire said icily.

“Hud can’t be more than eighteen—”

“Listen—”

“And what’s Tommy? Nineteen? They haven’t got an ounce of brains between them. Why do you belong to Tempo?”

Claire squashed out her cigarette. “Maybe you’d better leave, Mr. Kling,” she said.

“I just got here,” he answered.

She turned. “Let’s set the record straight. So far as I know, I’m not obliged to answer any questions you ask about my personal affairs, unless I’m under suspicion for some foul crime. To bring the matter down to a fine technical point, I don’t have to answer any questions a patrolman asks me, unless he is operating in an official capacity, which you admitted you were not. I liked Jeannie Paige, and I’m willing to cooperate. But if you’re going to get snotty, this is still my home, and my home is my castle, and you can get the hell out.”

“Okay,” Kling said, embarrassed. “I’m sorry, Miss Townsend.”

“Okay,” Claire said.

A silence clung to the atmosphere. Claire looked at Kling. Kling looked back at her.

“I’m sorry, too,” Claire said finally. “I shouldn’t be so goddamn touchy.”

“No, you were perfectly right. It’s none of my business what you—”

“Still, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, really, it’s—”

Claire burst out laughing, and Kling joined her. She sat, still chuckling, and said, “Would you like a drink, Mr. Kling?”

Kling looked at his watch. “No, thanks,” he said.

“Too early for you?”

“Well—”

“It’s never too early for cognac,” she said.

“I’ve never tasted cognac,” he admitted.

“You haven’t?” Her eyebrows shot up onto her forehead. “Ah, monsieur, you are meesing one of ze great treats of life. A little,
oui? Non?”

“A little,” he said.

She crossed to a bar with green leatherette doors, opened them, and drew out a bottle with a warm, amber liquid showing within.

“Cognac,” she announced grandly, “the king of brandies. You can drink it as a highball, cocktail, punch—or in coffee, tea, hot chocolate, and milk.”

“Milk?” Kling asked, astonished.

“Milk, yes indeed. But the best way to enjoy cognac is to sip it—neat.”

“You sound like an expert,” Kling said.

Again, quite suddenly, the veil passed over her eyes. “Someone taught me to drink it,” she said flatly, and then she poured some of the liquid into two medium-sized, tulip-shaped glasses. When she turned to face Kling again, the mask had dropped from her eyes. “Note that the glass is only half filled,” she said. “That’s so you can twirl it without spilling any of the drink.” She handed the glass to Kling. “The twirling motion mixes the cognac vapors with the air in the glass, bringing out the bouquet. Roll the glass in your palms, Mr. Kling. That warms the cognac and also brings out the aroma.”

“Do you smell this stuff or drink it?” Kling wanted to know. He rolled the glass between his big hands.

“Both,” Claire said. “That’s what makes it a good experience. Taste it. Go ahead.”

Kling took a deep swallow, and Claire opened her mouth and made an abrupt “Stop!” signal with one outstretched hand. “Good God,” she said, “don’t gulp it! You’re committing an obscenity when you gulp cognac. Sip it; roll it around your tongue.”

“I’m sorry,” Kling apologized. He sipped the cognac, rolled it on his tongue. “Good,” he said.

“Virile,” she said.

“Velvety,” he added.

“End of commercial.”

They sat silently, sipping the brandy. He felt very cozy and very warm and very comfortable. Claire Townsend was a pleasant
person to look at and a pleasant person to talk to. Outside the apartment, the shadowy grays of autumn dusk were washing the sky.

“About Jeannie,” he said. He did not feel like discussing death.

“Yes?”

“How well did you know her?”

“As well as anyone, I suppose. I don’t think she had many friends.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You can tell. That lost-soul look. A beautiful kid, but lost. God, what I wouldn’t have given for the looks she had.”

“You’re not so bad,” Kling said, smiling. He sipped more brandy.

“That’s the warm, amber glow of the cognac,” Claire advised him. “I’m a beast in broad daylight.”

“I’ll just bet you are,” Kling said. “How’d you first meet her?”

“At Tempo. She came down one night. I think her boyfriend sent her. In any case, she had the name of the club and the address written on a little white card. She showed it to me, almost as if it were a ticket of admission, and then she just sat in the corner and refused dances. She looked…It’s hard to explain. She was there, but she wasn’t there. Have you seen people like that?”

“Yes,” Kling said.

“I’m like that myself sometimes,” Claire admitted. “Maybe that’s why I spotted it. Anyway, I went over and introduced myself, and we started talking. We got along very well. By the end of the evening we’d exchanged telephone numbers.”

“Did she ever call you?”

“No. I only saw her at the club.”

“How long ago was this?”

“Oh, a long time now.”

“How long?”

“Let me see.” Claire sipped her cognac and thought. “Gosh, it must be almost a year.” She nodded. “Yes, just about.”

“I see. Go ahead.”

“Well, it wasn’t hard to find out what was troubling her. The kid was in love.”

Kling leaned forward. “How do you know?”

Claire’s eyes did not leave his face. “I’ve been in love, too,” she said tiredly.

“Who was her boyfriend?” Kling asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Didn’t she tell you?”

“No.”

“Didn’t she mention his name ever? I mean, in conversation?”

“No.”

“Hell,” Kling said.

“Understand, Mr. Kling, that this was a new bird taking wing. Jeannie was leaving the nest, testing her feathers.”

“I see.”

“Her first love, Mr. Kling, and shining in her eyes, and glowing on her face, and putting her in this dream world of hers where everything outside it was shadowy.” Claire shook her head. “God, I’ve seen them green, but Jeannie…” She stopped and shook her head again. “She just didn’t know anything, you know? Here was this woman’s body…Well, had you ever seen her?”

“Yes.”

“Then you know what I mean. This was the real item, a woman. But inside…a little girl.”