The Mugger by Ed McBain Read Free Book Online Page B

how many hours he put in.
    He was somewhat miffed, therefore, when Fats Donner failed to call him that Wednesday night. He had hung around the squadroom answering the phone every time it rang and generally making a nuisance of himself with the bulls who had come in on relief. He had listened for a while to Meyer, who was telling Temple about some case the 33rd had where some guy was going around stealing cats. The story had not interested him, and he had continually glanced at the big clock on the wall, waiting. He left the house at nine, convinced that Donner would not call that night.
    When he reported for work at 7:45 the next morning, the desk sergeant handed him a note, which told him Donner had called at 11:15 the night before. Donner had asked that Willis call him back as soon as possible. A number was listed on the sheet of paper. Willis walked past the desk and to the right, where a rectangular sign and a pointing hand showed the way to the DETECTIVE DIVISION. He climbed the metal steps, turned where the grilled window threw a pale-grayish morning light on a five-by-five-square interruption of the steps, and then proceeded up another sixteen steps to the second floor.
    He turned his back to the doors at the end of the corridor, the doors marked LOCKERS. He walked past the benches, the men’s lavatory, and the clerical office and then through the slatted rail divider and into the detective squadroom. He signed in, said good morning to Havilland and Simpson, who were having coffee at one of the desks, and then went to his own desk and slid the phone toward him. It was a gray, dull morning, and the hanging light globes cast a dust-covered luminescence over the room. He dialed the number and waited, looking over toward Byrnes’s office. The lieutenant’s door was wide open, which meant the lieutenant had not yet arrived. Byrnes generally closed his door as soon as he was in his office.
    “Got a hot lead, Hal?” Havilland called.
    “Yeah,” Willis said.
    A voice on the other end of his phone said, “Hello?” The voice was sleepy, but he recognized it as Donner’s.
    “Fats, this is Willis. You called me last night?”
    “What?” Donner said.
    “Detective Willis, 87th Squad,” Willis said.
    “Oh. Hi. Man, what time is it?”
    “About eight.”
    “Don’t you cats never sleep?”
    “What’ve you got for me?”
    “You make a guy going by Skippy Randolph?”
    “Not off the bat. Who is he?”
    “He’s recently from Chi, but I’m pretty sure he’s got a record here, too. He’s been mugging.”
    “You sure?”
    “Straight goods. You want to meet him?”
    “Maybe.”
    “There’s gonna be a little cube rolling tonight. Randolph’ll be there. You can rub elbows.”
    “Where?”
    “I’ll take you,” Donner said. He paused. “Steam baths cost, you know.”
    “Let me check him out first,” Willis said. “He may not be worth meeting. You sure he’ll be at this craps game?”
    “Posilutely, dad.”
    “I’ll call you back later. Can I reach you at this number?”
    “Until eleven. I’ll be at the baths after that.”
    Willis looked at the name he’d written on his pad. “Skippy Randolph. His own moniker?”
    “The Randolph is. I’m not so sure about the Skippy.”
    “But you’re sure he’s mugging?”
    “Absotively,” Donner said.
    “Okay, I’ll call you back.” Willis replaced the receiver, thought for a moment, and then dialed the Bureau of Criminal Identification.
    Miscolo, one of the patrolmen from Clerical came into the office and said, “Hey, Hal, you want some coffee?”
    “Yes,” Willis said, and then he told the IB what he wanted.
    The Bureau of Criminal Identification was located at Headquarters, downtown on High Street. It was open twenty-four hours a day,and its sole reason for existence was the collection and compilation and cataloguing of any and all information descriptive of criminals. The IB maintained a Fingerprint File, a Criminal Index File, a Wanted File, a