The Con Man (16 page)

“What’d you say that guy’s name was?”

“What?” Havilland asked, looking up from the magazine. “Here’s a case about a guy who cut up his victims. Put them in trunks.”

“This guy who called for Steve,” Kling said. “What’d you say his name was?”

“A crackpot. Sam Spade or something.”

“Didn’t you say Charlie Chan?”

“Yeah, Charlie Chan. A crackpot.”

“What’d he say to you?”

“Said Carella’s tattoo design was in the shop. Said he’d try to keep it there.”

“Charlie Chen,” Kling said, thoughtfully. “Carella questioned him. Chen. He was the man who tattooed Mary Proschek.” He thought again. Then he said, “What’s his number?”

“He didn’t leave any,” Havilland said.

“It’s probably in the book,” Kling said, starting back for his own desk.

“The hell of this thing is that the cops didn’t tip to this guy for three years,” Havilland said, wagging his head. “Cutting up dames for three years and they didn’t tip.” He wagged his head again. “Jesus, how could they be so stupid!”

“It looks like he’s pulling over, lady,” the cabbie said. “You want I should pull in right behind him?”

Teddy shook her head.

The cabbie sighed. “So where, then? Right here okay?”

Teddy nodded.

The cabbie pulled in and stopped his meter. Up ahead, Donaldson had parked and was helping Priscilla from the car. Teddy watched them as she fished in her purse for money to pay the cabbie. She paid him, and then she scooped up the pile of paper slips from the seat beside her. She handed one to the cabbie,
stepped out, and began running because Donaldson and Priscilla had just turned the corner.

“What…” the cabbie said, but his fare was gone.

He looked at the narrow slip of paper. In a hurried hand, Teddy had written:

Call Detective Steve Carella, FRederick 7-8024. Tell him license number is DN1556. Hurry please!

The cabbie stared at the note.

He sighed heavily.

“Women writers!” he said aloud, and he crumpled the slip, threw it out the window, and gunned away from the curb.

Kling found the number in the classified. He asked the desk sergeant for a line, and then he dialed.

He could hear the phone ringing on the other end. Methodically, he began counting the rings.

Three…four…five…

Kling waited.

Six…seven…eight…

Come on, Chen,
he thought.
Answer the damn thing!

And then he remembered the message Chen had given Havilland:
He would try to keep the tattoo design in the shop.

Jesus, had something happened to Chen?

He hung up on the tenth ring.

“I’m checking out a car,” he shouted to Havilland. “I’ll be back later.”

Havilland looked up from his magazine. “What?” he asked.

But Kling was already through the gate in the slatted railing and heading for the steps leading to the first floor.

Besides, the phone on Havilland’s desk was ringing.

Chen was walking away from the shop when he heard the telephone. He had left the shop a moment earlier, fired with the decision to go directly to the 87th Precinct, find Carella, and tell him what had happened. He had locked up and was walking toward his car when the telephone began ringing.

Perhaps there is no difference in the way a telephone rings. It does not ring differently for sweethearts making lovers’ calls, it does not ring differently when it carries bad news, or when it carries news of a big deal being closed.

Chen was in a hurry. He had to see Carella, had to talk to him.

So perhaps the ring of the telephone in his closed and locked shop was not really so urgent. Perhaps it did not really sound so terribly important. It was, after all, only a telephone ring.

It was, nonetheless, urgent-sounding enough to pull him back from the curb and over to the locked door. It sounded urgent enough to force him to reach for his keys rapidly, find the right key, shove it into the hanging padlock, snap open the lock, and then throw open the door and rush to the phone.

It sounded urgent as hell until it stopped ringing.

By the time Chen lifted the receiver, all he got was a dial tone.

And since he had a dial tone, he used it.

He called FRederick 7-8024.

“87th Precinct, Sergeant Murchison,” the voice said.

“Detective Carella, please,” Chen said.

“Second,” the desk sergeant answered.

Chen waited. He was right, then. Carella was back. He listened to the clicking on the line.

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

“I speak to Detective Carella, please?”

“Not here,” Havilland said. “Who’s this?” From the corner of his eye, he saw Kling disappear into the stairwell leading to the first floor.

“Charlie Chen. When he be back?”

“Just a second,” Havilland said. He covered the mouthpiece. “Hey, Bert!” he shouted. “Bert!” There was no answer from the stairwell. Into the phone, Havilland said, “I’m a cop, too, mister. What’s on your mind?”

“Man who tattoo girl,” Chen said. “He was here shop. With Mrs. Carella.”

“Slow down,” Havilland said. “What man? What girl?”

“Carella knows,” Chen said. “Tell him man’s name is Chris. Big, blond man. Tell him wife follows. When he be back? Don’t you know when he be back?”

“Listen—” Havilland started.

Chen impatiently said, “I come. I come tell him. You ask him wait.”

“He may not even—” Havilland said, but he was talking to a dead line.

The girl was bent over double, the handkerchief pressed to her mouth. The tall, blond man kept his arm around her waist, holding her up, half walking her, half dragging her down the street.

Behind them, Teddy Carella followed.

Teddy Carella knew very little about con men.

She knew, though, that you could stand on a corner and offer to sell $5 gold pieces for 10¢, and you wouldn’t get a buyer all day. She knew that the city was an inherently distrustful place, that strangers did not talk to strangers in restaurants, that people somehow did not trust people.

And so she had taken out insurance.

If she had a tongue, she’d have shouted her message.

She could not speak, and so she’d taken insurance that would shout her message, a dozen narrow slips of paper, with the identical message on each slip:

Call Detective Carella, FRederick 7-8024. Tell him license number is DN1556. Hurry please!

And now, as she followed along behind Donaldson and the girl, she began to shout her message. She could not linger long with each passerby because she could not afford to lose sight of the pair. She could only touch the sleeve of an old man and hand him the paper and then walk off. She could only gently press the dip into the hand of a matron in a gray dress and leave her puzzled and somewhat amused. She could only stop a teenager, avoid the open invitation in his eyes, and hand him the message. She left behind her a trail of people with a scrap of paper in their hands. She hoped that one of them would call the 87th. She hoped the license number would reach her husband. In the meantime, she followed a sick girl and a killer, and she didn’t know what she would do if her husband didn’t reach her, if her husband didn’t somehow reach her.

“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.

He walked out of the kitchen and into the living room and then to the front door. He was in the corridor and closing the door behind him when the telephone rang. He cursed mildly, went to the phone, and lifted the receiver.

“Hello?” he said.

“Steve?”

“Yeah.”

“Rog Havilland.”

“What’s up, Rog?”