Ed McBain - The Con Man

“Sick... I...” Priscilla Ames could barely speak. She clung to the reassurance of his arm around her waist, and she staggered along the street with him, wondering where he was taking her, wondering why she was so deathly ill.

“Listen to me,” he said. There was a hard edge to his voice. He was breathing heavily, and she did not recognize his voice. Her throat burned, and she could only think of the churning in her stomach. Why should I be so sick, why, why? “I’m talking to you, do you hear me?” She’d never been sick in her life, never a day’s serious illness. Why, then, this sudden — “Goddammit, listen to me! You start throwing up again, I swear to Christ I’ll leave you here in the gutter!”

“Wh...wh...” She swallowed. She was ashamed of herself. The food, it must have been the food — that, and the fear of the needle. He shouldn’t have asked me to be tattooed, always afraid of needles—

“It’s the next house,” he said, “the big apartment house. I’m taking you in the back way. We’ll use the service elevator. I don’t want anyone to see you like this. Do you hear me? Can you understand me?”

She nodded, swallowing hard, wondering why he was telling her all this, squeezing her eyes shut tightly, knowing only excruciating pain, feeling weak all over, suddenly so very weak. “My purse, my purse, Chris, I’ve...”

She stopped.

She gestured limply with one hand.

“What is it?” he snapped. “What?” His eyes followed her gesture. He saw her purse where she’d dropped it onto the sidewalk. “Oh, goddammit,” he said, and he braced her with one arm and stooped, half turning for the purse.

He saw the pretty brunette then.

She was not more than fifty feet behind them, and when he stooped to pick up the purse, the girl stopped, stared at him for a moment, and then quickly turned away to look into one of the store windows.

Slowly, he picked up the purse. His eyes narrowed with thought.

He began walking again.

Behind him, he could hear the clatter of the girl’s heels.

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“Detective Carella, please,” the young voice said.

“He’s not here right now,” Murchison answered. “Talk to anyone else?”

“The note said Carella,” the young voice said.

“What note, son?”

“Aw, never mind,” the boy replied. “It’s probably a gag.”

“Well, what—”

The line went dead.

A fly was buzzing around the nose of Steve Carella. Carella swatted at it in his sleep.

The fly zoomed up toward the ceiling and then swooped down again. Ssssszzzzzzzzz. It landed on Carella’s ear.

Still sleeping, Carella brushed at it.

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison.”

“Is there a Detective Carella there?” the voice asked.

“Just a minute,” Murchison said. He plugged into the bull’s wire. Havilland picked up the phone.

“87th Detective Squad, Havilland,” he said.

“Rog, this is Dave,” Murchison said. “Has Carella come back yet?”

“Nope,” Havilland said.

“I’ve got another call for him. You want to take it?”

“I’m busy,” Havilland said.

“Doing what? Picking your nose?”

“All right, give me the call,” Havilland said, putting down the magazine and the story about the trunk murderer.

“Here’s the Detective Division,” he heard Murchison say.

“This is Detective Havilland,” Havilland said. “Can I help you?”

“Some dame handed me a note,” the voice said.

“Yeah?”

“Said to call Detective Carella and tell him the license number is D-N-1556. Is this on the level? Is there really a Carella?”

“Yeah,” Havilland said. “What was that number again?”

“What?”

“The license number.”

“Oh. D-N-1556. What’s it all about?”

“Mister,” Havilland said, “your guess is as good as mine. Thanks for calling.”

Kling sat in the squad car alongside the patrolman.

“Can’t you make this thing go any faster?” he asked.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the patrolman said with broad sarcasm, somewhat miffed with the knowledge that not too many months ago Kling had been a patrolman, too. “I wouldn’t want to get a speeding ticket.”

Kling studied the patrolman with an implacable eye. “Put on your goddamn siren,” he said harshly, “and get this thing to Chinatown, or your ass is going to be in a great big sling!”

The patrolman blinked.

The squad car’s siren suddenly erupted. The patrolman’s foot came down onto the accelerator.

Kling leaned forward, staring through the windshield.

Charlie Chen leaned forward, staring through the windshield.

He did not like to drive in city traffic.

Doggedly, he headed uptown.

When he heard the siren, he thought it was a fire engine, and he started to pull over to his right.

Then he saw that it was a police car, and not even on his side of the avenue. The police car sped by him, heading downtown, its siren blaring.

It strengthened Chen’s resolve. He gritted his teeth, leaned over the wheel, and stepped on the accelerator more firmly.

Carella swatted at the fly and then sat upright in his chair, suddenly wide awake. He blinked.

The apartment was very silent.

He stood and yawned. What the hell time is it, anyway? Where the hell is Teddy? He looked at his watch. She was usually home by this time, preparing supper. Had she left a note? He yawned again and began looking through the apartment for a note.

He could find none. He looked at his watch again. Then he went to his jacket and fished for his cigarettes. He reached into the package. It was empty. His fingers explored the sides. It was still empty.

Wearily, he sat down and put on his shoes.

He took his pad from his back pocket, slid the pencil out from under the leather loop, and wrote: Dear Teddy: I’ve gone down for some cigarettes. Be right back. Steve. He propped the note on the kitchen table. Then he went into the bathroom to wash his face.

“87th Squad, Detective Havilland.”

“I wanted Carella,” the woman’s voice said.

“He’s out,” Havilland said.

“A young lady stopped me and gave me a note,” the woman said. “I really don’t know whether or not it’s serious, but I felt I should call. May I read the note to you?”

“Please do,” Havilland said.

“It says, Call Detective Steve Carella, FRederick 7-8024. Tell him license number is D-N-1556. Hurry please! Does that mean anything?”

“You say a young lady gave this to you?” Havilland asked.

“Yes, a quite beautiful young lady. Dark hair and dark eyes. She seemed rather in a hurry herself.”

For the first time that afternoon, Havilland forgot his trunk murderer. He remembered, instead, that the Chinaman who’d called had said, “Man who tattoo girl. He was here shop. With Mrs. Carella.”

And now a girl who answered the description of Steve’s wife was going around handing out messages. That made sense. Carella’s wife was a deaf mute.

“I’ll get on it right away,” Havilland said. “Thanks for calling.”

He hung up, consulted his list of numbers, and then dialed the Bureau of Motor Vehicles. He gave them the license number and asked them to check it. Then he hung up and looked up another number.

He was dialing Steve Carella’s home when Charlie Chen walked down the corridor and came to a breathless stop outside the slatted rail divider.

Steve Carella put on his jacket.

He went into the kitchen again to check the note, and then, because he was there, he checked the handles on the gas range to make sure all the jets were out.