Ed McBain - The Con Man

“Call him, would you, Chris? Please, call him. Let’s get this over with.”

Call him, Teddy Carella wrote on the sheet of paper under the circles Chen had drawn. My husband, Detective Carella. Call him. FRederick 7-8024. Tell him.

“Now?” Chen whispered.

Teddy nodded urgently. On the paper, she wrote, You must keep that man here. You must not allow him to leave the shop.

“The phone,” Chen said. “The phone is out front. How I can call?”

“Hey there!” Donaldson said. “Are you coming out?”

The beaded curtains parted. Chen stepped through them. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “Slight delay. Sit a moment, please. Must call friend.”

“Can’t that wait?” Donaldson asked. “We’re in something of a hurry.”

“No can wait, sir, sorry. Be with you one moment. Promised dear friend to call. Must do.” He moved toward the phone quickly. Quickly, he dialed. FR 7-8024. He waited. He could hear the phone ringing on the other end. Then...

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“I speak to Mr. Carella, please?” Chen said. Donaldson stood not three feet from him, impatiently toeing the floor. The girl sat in the chair opposite the phone, her head cradled in her hands.

“Just a second,” the desk sergeant said. “I’ll connect you with the Detective Division.”

Chen listened to the clicking on the line.

A voice said, “87th Squad, Havilland speaking.”

“Mr. Carella, please,” Chen said.

“Carella’s not here right now,” Havilland said. “Can I help you?”

Chen looked at Donaldson. Donaldson looked at his watch. “The...ah...The tattoo design he wanted,” Chen said. “Is in the shop now.”

“Just a minute,” Havilland said. “Let me take that down. Tattoo design he wanted, in shop now. Okay. Who’s this, please?”

“Charlie Chen.”

“Charlie Chan? What is this, a gag?”

“No, no. You tell Mr. Carella. You tell him call me back soon as he get there. Tell him I try to hold design.”

“He may not even come back to the squad,” Havilland said. “He’s—”

“You tell him,” Chen said. “Please.”

“Okay,” Havilland said, sighing. “I’ll tell him.”

“Thank you,” Chen said, and he hung up.

Bert Kling walked over to Havilland’s desk.

“Who was that?” he asked.

“Charlie Chan,” Havilland said. “A crackpot.”

“Oh,” Kling said. He had half hoped it was Claire, even though he’d talked to her not five minutes earlier.

“Guys got nothing to do but bug police stations,” Havilland said. “There ought to be a law against some of the calls we get!”

“Was your friend out?” Donaldson asked.

“Yes. He call me back. What kind tattoo you want?”

“A small heart with initials in it,” Donaldson said.

“What initials?”

“P-A-C.”

“Where you want heart?”

“On the young lady’s hand.” Donaldson smiled. “Right here between the thumb and forefinger.”

“Very difficult to do,” Chen said. “Hurt young lady.”

Priscilla Ames looked up. “Chris,” she said, “I...I don’t feel well...honestly, I don’t. Couldn’t we...couldn’t we let this wait?”

Donaldson took one quick look at Priscilla. His face grew suddenly hard. “Yes,” he said, “it will have to wait. Until another time. Come, Pris.” He took her elbow, pulled her to her feet, held her arm in a firm grip. He turned to Chen. “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll have to go now.”

“Can do now,” Chen said desperately. “You sit lady down, I make tattoo. Do very pretty heart with initials. Very pretty.”

“No,” Donaldson said. “Not now.”

Chen grabbed Donaldson’s arm. “Take very quick. I do good job.”

“Take your hand off me,” Donaldson said, and he opened the door. The tinkle of the bell was loud in the small shop. The door slammed. Chen rushed into the back room.

“They go!” he said. “Can’t keep them! They go!”

Teddy was buttoning her blouse. She scooped the pencil and paper from the tabletop and threw them into her bag.

“His name Chris,” Chen said. “She call him Chris.”

Teddy nodded and started for the door.

“Where you go?” Chen shouted. “Where you go?”

She turned and smiled at him fleetingly. Then the door slammed again, and she was gone.

Chen stood in the middle of his shop, listening to the reverberating tinkle of the bell.

“What I do now?” he said aloud.

She followed behind them closely. They were not easy to lose. He as tall as a giant, his blond hair catching the afternoon sunlight. She unsteady on her feet, his arm circling her waist, holding her. She followed behind them closely, and she could feel her heart hammering inside her rib cage.

What do I do now? she wondered, but she kept following because this was the man her husband wanted.

When she saw them stop before an automobile, she suddenly lost heart. The chase seemed to be a futile one. He opened the door for the girl and helped her in, and Teddy watched as he walked to the other side of the car. And then the taxicab appeared, and she knew the chase was not over, but that it was just beginning. She hailed the cab, and it pulled to the side of the curb, and the cabbie flicked open the rear door, and Teddy climbed in. He turned to face her, and quickly, she gestured to her ears and her mouth, and miraculously, he understood her at once. She pointed through the windshield where Donaldson was just entering his car. She took a long hard look at the rear of the car.

“What, lady?” the cabbie asked.

Again, she pointed.

“You want me to follow him?” The cabbie watched Teddy nod, watched the door of Donaldson’s car slam shut, and then watched as the sedan pulled away from the curb. The cabbie couldn’t resist the crack.

“What happened, lady?” he asked. “That guy steal your voice?”

He gunned away from the curb, following Donaldson, and then he glanced over his shoulder to see if Teddy had appreciated his humor.

Teddy wasn’t even looking at him.

She had taken Chen’s pencil and paper from her purse and was scribbling furiously.

He hoped she would not die in the car.

It did not seem possible or likely that she would, but he planned ahead for the eventuality, because if it happened, he didn’t want to be caught short. It would be difficult getting her out of the car. This had never happened to him before, and he felt a tenseness in his hands as he gripped the wheel and navigated the car through the afternoon traffic. He must not panic. Whatever happened, he must not panic. Things had gone too well up to now. Panic could throw everything out the window. Whatever happened, he had to keep a clear head. Whatever happened, there was too much at stake, too much to lose. He had to think clearly and coolly. He had to face each situation as it presented itself. He had to face it and handle it.

“I’m sick, Chris,” Priscilla said. “I’m very sick.”

You don’t know just how sick, he thought. He kept his eyes on the road and his hands on the wheel. He did not answer her.

“Chris, I’m...I’m going to throw up.”

“Can’t you—”

“Please, stop the car, Chris. I’m going to throw up.”

“I can’t stop the car,” he said. He looked at her briefly, a side-glance that took in the pale-white face, the watery eyes. Roughly, he pulled a neatly folded white handkerchief from his breast pocket, thrusting it at her. “Use this,” he said.

“Chris, can’t you stop? Can’t you please—”

“Use the handkerchief,” he said, and there was something strange and new in his voice, and she was suddenly frightened. She could not think of her fright very long. In the next moment, she was violently ill and violently ashamed of herself for being ill.