Ed McBain - The Con Man

And so the chief of detectives went through the prescribed ritual, and the bulls listened and watched.

“Riverhead, one,” the chief of detectives said, calling off the area of the city in which the arrest had been made and the number of the case from that area that day. “Riverhead, one. Hunter, Curt, thirty-five. Drinking heavily in a bar on Shelter Place. Got into an argument with the bartender and hurled a chair at the bar mirror. No statement. What happened, Curt?”

Hunter had been led to the steps at the side of the stage by his arresting officer, a burly patrolman. The patrolman would have had to be burly to arrest Hunter, who cleared the six-foot-two marker and who must have weighed about 200 pounds. He had broad shoulders and a narrow waist, and he took aggressive strides to where the microphone hung. He had blond hair, combed slickly back from a wide forehead. He had a straight nose and steel-gray eyes. His cheekbones were high, and his mouth was a strong mouth, and his chin was cleft. He looked as if he were walking on stage to take instructions from a director rather than to face the fire of the chief of detectives.

“How about what?” he asked.

“What’d you argue about?” the chief of detectives said.

Hunter crowded the microphone. “That jail I was in last night was a pigsty. Somebody puked all over the floor.”

“We’re not here to discuss—”

“I’m no goddamn criminal!” Hunter shouted. “I got into a little fray, all right. That’s no reason to put me in a cell smelling of somebody’s goddamn vomit!”

“You should have thought of that before you committed a felony,” the chief of detectives said.

“Felony?” Hunter shouted. “Is getting drunk a felony?”

“No, but assault is. You hit that bartender, didn’t you?”

“All right, I hit him,” Hunter said.

“That’s assault.”

“I didn’t hit him with anything but my fist!”

“That’s second-degree assault.”

“There are guys hitting guys every day of the week,” Hunter said. “I don’t see them getting pulled in on first-degree or second-degree or even third-degree assault.”

“This is your first offense, isn’t it?” the chief of detectives asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hunter said.

“Relax, you may get off with just a fine. Now, let’s hear the story.”

“The bartender called me ‘pretty boy,’” Hunter said.

“So you hit him?”

“No, not then. I hit him later.”

“Why?”

“He said something about us big handsome hunks of men never being any good with a woman. He said you could never judge a book by its cover. That’s when I hit him.”

“Why’d you throw the chair at the bar mirror?”

“Well, I hit him, and he called me a name.”

“What name?”

“A name.”

“We’ve heard them all,” the chief of detectives said. “Let’s have it.”

“It’s a name I associate with abnormal men,” Hunter said. “That’s when I threw the chair. I wasn’t aiming at the mirror; I was aiming at him. That son of a bitch! I can get any woman I want!”

“You always lose your temper so easily?” the chief of detectives asked.

“Not usually,” Hunter said.

“What made you so touchy last night?”

“I was just touchy,” Hunter said.

“The arresting officer found a thousand dollars in small bills in your pocket. How about that?”

“Yeah, how about that?” Hunter shouted. “When do I get it back? I hit a guy, and next thing you know, I’m being robbed and thrown into a cell that smells of vomit.”

“Where’d you get that thousand?”

“From the bank,” Hunter said.

“Which bank?”

“My bank. The bank where I save.”

“When did you withdraw it?”

“Yesterday afternoon.”

“Why?”

Hunter hesitated.

“Well?”

“I thought I might take a little trip,” Hunter said. His voice had become suddenly subdued. He squinted into the lights, as if trying to read the face of his questioner.

“What kind of a trip?”

“Pleasure.”

“Where?”

“Upstate.”

“Alone?”

Hunter hesitated again.

“How about it, Curt? Alone or with somebody?”

“With somebody,” Hunter said.

“Who?”

“A girl.”

“Who?”

“That’s my business.”

“That’s your pleasure,” the chief of detectives corrected, and all the bulls — including Brown and Kling — laughed. “What happened to change your plans?”

“Nothing,” Hunter said, annoyed by the laughter, on guard now, waiting for the next question.

“You drew a thousand dollars from your bank yesterday afternoon, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Because you thought you just might take a little trip with a girl. Last night, you’re drinking alone in a bar, the thousand dollars in your pocket, and a bartender says something about your inability to please a woman, so you haul off and sock him. Is that right?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Okay. What happened? The girl call it off?”

“That’s my business,” Hunter said again.

“Do you like girls?” the chief of detectives asked.

Hunter’s eyes were narrow now, peering into the lights suspiciously. “Don’t you ?” he asked.

“I love ’em,” the chief of detectives said. “But I’m asking you.”

“I like ’em fine,” Hunter said.

“This girl you planned the trip with — a special friend?”

“A doll,” Hunter said, his face blank.

“But a friend?”

“A doll,” he repeated, and the chief of detectives knew that was all he’d get from Hunter. The tall, handsome blond man waited. Kling watched him, never once connecting him with the blond man who had allegedly led Mary Louise Proschek into Charlie Chen’s tattoo parlor. Kling had read Carella’s report, but his mind simply did not make any connection.

“Next case,” the chief of detectives said, and Hunter walked across the stage. When he reached the steps on the other side, he turned and shouted, “The city hasn’t heard the end of that goddamn pukey prison!” and then he went down the steps.

“Riverhead, two,” the chief of detectives said. “Donaldson, Chris, thirty-five. Tried to pick a man’s pocket in the subway. Transit cop made the pinch. Donaldson stated it was a mistake. How about it, Chris?”

Chris Donaldson could have been a double for Curt Hunter. As he walked across the stage, in fact, the chief of detectives murmured, “What is this? A twin act?” Donaldson was tall and blond and handsome. If there were any detectives in the audience with inferiority complexes, the combination of Hunter and Donaldson should have been enough to shove them over the thin line to psychosis. It was doubtful that the lineup had ever had such a combined display of masculine splendor since its inception. Donaldson seemed as unruffled as Hunter had been. He walked to the microphone. His head crossed the six-foot-three marker on the white wall behind him.

“There’s been a mistake,” Donaldson said.

“Really?”

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I didn’t pick anybody’s pocket, nor did I attempt to. I’m a gainfully employed citizen. The man whose pocket was picked simply accused the wrong person.”

“Then how come we found his wallet in your jacket pocket?”

“I have no idea,” Donaldson said. “Unless the real pickpocket dropped it there when he felt he was about to be discovered.”

“Tell us what happened,” the chief of detectives said, and then in an aside to the assembled bulls, he added, “This man has no record.”

“I was riding the subway home from work,” Donaldson said. “I work in Isola, live in Riverhead. I was reading my newspaper. The man standing in front of me suddenly wheeled around and said, ‘Where’s my wallet? Somebody took my wallet!’”