Ed McBain - The Con Man

“Excellent,” Claire said.

“Think she’ll buy it?”

“What have we got to lose?”

“Nothing. I need an envelope.” Claire rose and went to the secretary. “Stop wiggling,” he called after her.

“It’s natural,” she answered.

“It’s too natural,” Kling said. “That’s the trouble.”

He began doodling while she searched for an envelope. She found the envelope and started back across the room, walking as rigidly as she could, inhibiting the instinctive sway of her hips.

“That’s better,” Kling said.

“I feel like a robot.”

She handed him the envelope, and he quickly scrawled Miss Anna Kale across its face. He folded the letter, put it into the envelope, sealed the envelope, and then handed it to Claire. “You are to deliver this tomorrow,” he said. “Without fail. The fate of a nation hinges on your mission.”

“I’m more interested in your doodling,” Claire said, looking down at the drawing Kling had inked onto one of the stationery sheets.

“Oh, that,” Kling said. He expanded his chest. “I was an ace in art appreciation, you know.”

He had drawn a heart on the sheet of paper. He had put lettering into the heart. The completed masterpiece looked like this:

“For that,” Claire said, “you deserve a kiss.”

She kissed him. She probably would have kissed him anyway, heart or no. Kling was, nonetheless, surprised and delighted. He accepted Claire’s kiss, and her lips completely wiped out of his mind any connection he may have made between his own artistic endeavor and the tattoos found on the 87th’s floaters.

He never knew how close he’d come to solving at least one mystery.

The second floater’s name was Nancy Mortimer.

Her body had been identified by her parents who’d come from Ohio at the request of the police. She was thirty-three years old, a plain girl with simple tastes. She had left home two months ago, heading for the city. She had taken $2,000 in cash with her. She had told her parents she was going to meet a friend. If things went well, she’d told them, she would bring the friend home for them to meet.

Things, apparently, had not gone well.

The girl had been in the River Harb, according to the autopsy report, for at least a month.

And, according to the same report, the girl had died of arsenic poisoning.

There is an old Arab saying.

Actually, it is said by young Arabs, too. It fits many occasions, and so it is probably used with regularity. It is:

Show them the death, and they will accept the fever.

We don’t have to look for hidden meanings in this gem of Arabian wisdom. The Freudian con men would probably impart thanatopsic values to what is undoubtedly an old folk saying. We don’t have to do that. We can simply look at it for what it is and understand it for what it says.

It says:

Feed a man gravel, and he will then appreciate hardtack.

It says:

Bed a man down with an aged old crone, and he will then appreciate a middle-aged mahjong player.

It says:

Show them the death, and they will accept the fever.

Priscilla Ames had seen the death and was ready to accept the fever. In her native town of Phoenix, Priscilla Ames had gone out with many men who had considerably lowered her estimation of the species. She had seen the death, and after a considerably lengthy correspondence with a man whose address she’d got from a pen pal magazine, she was now ready to accept the fever.

To her delighted surprise, the fever turned out to be a delirium.

A blind date, after all, is something about which you exercise a little caution. When you travel away the hell from Phoenix to meet a man — even though you’ve already seen that man’s picture, even though the picture looked good, but hadn’t she sent a somewhat exotic pose, too, hadn’t she cheated a little in the exchange of photos — you don’t expect to meet a knight in shining armor. You approach cautiously.

Especially if you were Priscilla Ames, who had long ago dismissed such knights as figments of the imagination.

But here, by God, was a knight in shining armor.

Here, by all that was holy, was a shining resplendent man among men, a towering blond giant with a wide, white grin and laughing eyes, and a gentle voice, and a body like Apollo!

Here, by the saints, was the answer to every young maiden’s prayer, the devoutly sought answer, the be-all and the end-all!

Here — was a man!

You could have knocked Priscilla over with a Mack truck. She had stepped off the plane, and there he was, coming toward her, grinning, and she had felt her heart quickening and then immediately thought, No, he’s made a mistake; it’s the wrong man, and then she knew it was the right man, the man she’d possibly been waiting for all her life.

That first day had sung, absolutely sung. Being in this magical, wonderful city, and drinking in the sights, and hearing the noise and the clamor, and feeling wonderfully alive again, and feeling above all his presence beside her, the tentative touch of his fingers on her arm, gentle with the promise of force. He had taken her to lunch and then to her hotel, and she had not been out of his sight since. It had been two weeks now, and she still could not adjust to the miracle of him. Ecstatically, she wondered if her life with this man would always be like this, would always be accompanied by a reckless headiness. Good Lord, she was drunk on him!

She stood before the mirror in her hotel bedroom now, waiting for him. She looked prettier, she felt. Her hair looked browner, and her eyes had more sparkle, and her breasts seemed fuller, and her hips seemed more feminine, and all because of him, all because of what he did to her. She wore his love like bright-white armor.

When she heard his knock on the door, she ran to open it. He was wearing a deep-blue trench coat, and the rain had loosened a wisp of his blond hair so that it hung boyishly on his forehead. She went into his arms instantly, her mouth reaching for his.

“Darling, darling,” she said, and he held her close to him, and she could smell tobacco on him and aftershave, and she could smell, too, the close smell of rain-impregnated cloth.

“Pris,” he said, and the word was a caress. No one had ever said her name the way he said it. No one had ever made it an important name, a name that was hers alone. He held her at arm’s length and looked down at her. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “How come I’m so lucky?”

She never knew what to say in answer to his compliments. At first, she suspected he was simply flattering her. But there was sincerity and honesty about this man, and she could read truth in his eyes. Whatever her shortcomings, she felt this man honestly believed she was beautiful, and witty, and vivacious.

“I’ll get an umbrella,” she said.

“We don’t need one,” he answered. “It’s a nice rain, Pris, warm. Do you mind? I like to walk in the rain. I’d like to walk in the rain with you.”

“Whatever you say,” she answered. She looked up at him. I must look like a complete idiot, she thought. He must surely see adoration in my eyes. He must think I’m a stupid child instead of a grown woman. “Where...where are we going tonight?” she asked.

“A wonderful place for dinner,” he said. “We have a lot of talking to do.”

“Talking?”

“Yes,” he said. He saw the frown on her face, and his eyes twinkled. His fingers touched her forehead, smoothing out the frown. “Stop looking so serious,” he chided. “Don’t you know I love you?”