Ed McBain - The Con Man

“I don’t remember.”

“God damn,” Carella said again. He snorted heavily. He bit his lower lip. “Can you give me a full description of the man?” he asked finally.

“Much’s I can remember,” Popeye said.

“Blond hair,” Carella said, “right?”

“Yeah.”

“Long or short?”

“Average.”

“He wasn’t wearing a crew cut or anything like that?”

“No.”

“All right, what about his eyes? What color?”

“Blue, I think. Or gray. One or th’ other.”

“What kind of a nose?”

“Good nose. Not long, not short. Good nose. He was a han’some guy.”

“Mouth?”

“Good mouth.”

“Was he smoking?”

“No.”

“Any scars or birthmarks on his face?”

“No.”

“Anywhere on his body?”

“I dinn undress him,” Popeye said.

“I meant visible. On his hands perhaps? Tattoos? Any tattoos on his hands?”

“Nope.”

“What was he wearing?”

“Topcoat. This was back in February, you know. A black topcoat. Had a kind of a red lining. Red silk, I think, and those straps you slip your hands through.”

“What straps?”

“Inside the coat. You know, so you can slip it over your shoulders while you’re at the track. That’s what I mean.”

“What kind of a suit?”

“A tweed. Gray.”

“Shirt?”

“White.”

“Tie?”

“Black tie. I remember asking him if he was in mourning. He jus’ grinned.”

“He would, the bastard. Are you sure you can’t remember the make of the car he was driving? That would be very helpful.”

“I ain’t good on cars,” Popeye said.

“Did you happen to notice the license plate?”

“Nope.”

“But I’ll bet you can tell me what kind of a tie-clasp he was wearing,” Carella said, sighing.

“Yeah. Silver bar with a horse’s head on it. Nice. I figured him for a horseplayer.”

“What else do you remember?”

“Tha’s about it.”

“Did they mention where they were going?”

“Yeah. To his place. He said she could lay down there an’ he’d get her something cool to put on her forehead.”

“Where? Did he say where?”

“No. He only said his place. That could be anyplace in the city.”

“You’re telling me?” Carella asked.

“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “Guy wants to take care of a girl with a stomach ache, that’s his business. Wants to get her something for her head, ain’t none of my affair.”

“He got her something for her feet,” Carella said.

“Huh?”

“A hundred pound weight to carry her to the bottom of the river.”

“He drowned her?” Popeye asked. “You mean he drowned that nice li’l girl?”

“No, he—”

“Bravest li’l thing ever come in here. Even the sailors I get whimper. She bawled, an’ she got sick, but she come right back for more. That takes guts. To come back for more when you’re so scared you’re sick.”

“You don’t know just how much guts it took,” Carella said.

“An’ he drowned her, huh? How do you like that?”

“I didn’t say he—”

“What a way to die,” Popeye said, shaking his head. His nose was red and bulging with aggravated veins. His one good eye was watery and bloodshot. His breath stank of cheap wine. “What a way to die,” he repeated. “Drownin’.”

“You’re well on the way,” Carella said.

Then he thanked him and left the shop.

Chris Donaldson had already fed her the arsenic.

He had fed it to her in a half-dozen dishes — the tea, the fried rice, the chow mein, every dish he could get to while she was in the ladies’ room. When the food had come, he’d simply said, “Let’s wash up,” and then he’d taken Priscilla by the elbow and led her away from the table. He’d doubled back almost instantly and done his work, and she had consumed the odorless and almost tasteless arsenic with apparent relish.

They had gone to the Chinese restaurant directly after they’d left the bank. They had deposited Priscilla’s money in his account, and now she had consumed the arsenic, and now it was all a matter of time.

He watched her with the flat look of a reptile, a slight smile on his face. He hoped she would not get sick too soon, like the last one. That had been an embarrassing episode. Even beautiful women lost all their charm when they became violently ill, and the women he had murdered, and was now murdering, were far from beautiful.

“That was good,” Priscilla said.

“More tea, darling?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” He poured from the small, round pot. “Don’t you like tea?” she asked. “You haven’t had any.”

“Not particularly,” he said. “I’m a coffee drinker.”

She took the cup from him. “Did you put sugar in it?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “Everything’s in it,” and he smiled at his own grim humor.

“You’ll make a good husband,” Priscilla said. She felt full and warm and drowsy. That afternoon she would be married. She felt lazy and content and at complete peace with the world. “You’ll make a wonderful husband.”

“I’m going to try my damnedest,” he said. “I’m going to make you the happiest woman in the world.”

“I’m the happiest woman in the world right now.”

“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” Donaldson said. “Everyone. I want to shout it at them. I want big signs telling them.”

Priscilla grinned. He watched her grin, and he thought, Do you know you’ve been poisoned, my dear? Do you know what metallic poisoning is? He watched her, and he felt neither pity nor compassion. It would not be long now. A few hours at the most. Tonight he would dispose of her, the way he had disposed of the others. There was just one thing remaining, one concession to his ego. Like a great painter, he must sign his work. He must lead her into helping him sign his work.

“I get crazy ideas sometimes,” he said.

“Ah-ha,” she answered. “Now he tells me there’s insanity in his family. A few hours before the wedding and he trots out the skeletons.”

“I really do get crazy ideas,” he persisted, as if his speech were rehearsed, a speech that had worked for him before and that he was sure would work now, annoyed because she had interrupted the smooth, rehearsed flow of his speech with her silly witticism. “Like I...I want to brand you. I want to put my name on you so that people will know you’re mine.”

“They’ll know, anyway. They can see it in my eyes.”

“Yes, but...Well, it’s silly, I admit it. It’s crazy. Didn’t I tell you it was crazy? Didn’t I warn you?”

“If I were a cow, darling,” she said, “I wouldn’t at all mind being branded.”

“There must be some way,” he said, as if mulling the problem over. He reached across the table for her hand, toyed with her fingers. “Oh, I don’t mean a red-hot branding iron. Pris, that would kill me. Any pain to you would kill me. But...” He stopped, studying her hand. “Say,” he said. “Saaaay...”

“What?”

“A tattoo. How about that?”

Priscilla smiled. “A what?”

“A tattoo.”

“Well...” Priscilla was puzzled. “What about a tattoo?”

“How would you like one?”

“I wouldn’t,” she said firmly.

“Oh.” His voice fell.

“Why on earth would I want a tattoo?”

“No,” he said. “Never mind.”

She stared at him, confused. “What’s the matter, darling?”

“Nothing.”

“Are you angry?”

“No.”

“You are, I can see it. Do you...do you want me to have a...a tattoo?”