The Con Man (87th Precinct #4)

by Ed McBain

Teddy Carella nodded and sighed heavily. She had just had a visit to her husband’s office and seen him at work. And she could still remember the terrible swiftness of his hands, hands which she had only known tenderly before. And so she sighed heavily because she had just discovered the world was not populated with gentle little boys playing games. And then she reached across the table, and she took his right hand and brought it to her mouth, and she kissed the knuckles, and she kissed the palm, and Carella was surprised to feel the wetness of her tears against his flesh.

His time, he assumed, could be better spent in a thorough rundown of the city’s tattoo parlors in an effort to track down the NAC that had appeared on the second floater’s hand. So he allowed Brown to take his place, and that was most unfortunate. It was unfortunate in that there were two handsome blond men who were shown at the lineup that Wednesday. One of them had killed Mary Louise Proschek and the second unidentified floater. Brown was interested, at the moment, in con men—not murderers. Carella was interested in tattoo parlors. Kling was a new cop.

Kling and Brown made their way unobtrusively past the dais and speaking stand and then shuffled into one of the rows, sitting as quickly and quietly as they could.

For the purpose of these Monday-to-Thursday, early-morning parades was simply to acquaint every detective in the city with the men who were committing crime in their city. Sometimes, a victim was invited to the lineup in an attempt to identify a suspect, but such occasions were rare and usually fruitless. They were rare because a victim generally had a thousand good reasons for not wanting to be at the lineup. They were usually fruitless because a victim generally had a thousand good reasons for not wanting to identify a suspect. The least valid of these reasons, if the most popularly accepted, was fear of reprisal. In any case, not many suspects were identified by victims. Were this the sole purpose of the lineup, the whole affair would have been a dreadful flop.

“Felony?” Hunter shouted. “Is getting drunk a felony?” “No, but assault is. You hit that bartender, didn’t you?” “All right, I hit him,” Hunter said. “That’s assault.” “I didn’t hit him with anything but my fist!” “That’s second-degree assault.”

“The bartender called me ‘pretty boy,’” Hunter said. “So you hit him?” “No, not then. I hit him later.” “Why?” “He said something about us big handsome hunks of men never being any good with a woman. He said you could never judge a book by its cover. That’s when I hit him.”

“The arresting officer found a thousand dollars in small bills in your pocket. How about that?” “Yeah, how about that?” Hunter shouted. “When do I get it back? I hit a guy, and next thing you know, I’m being robbed and thrown into a cell that smells of vomit.”

Kling watched him, never once connecting him with the blond man who had allegedly led Mary Louise Proschek into Charlie Chen’s tattoo parlor. Kling had read Carella’s report, but his mind simply did not make any connection.

“I’m quite sure of it,” Donaldson said. “I’ve led an honest life, and I have no desire to get involved with the police.”

Donaldson walked off the stage. Kling watched him, wondering if his story were true, again making no connection between Mary Louise Proschek’s blond escort and the man who’d claimed he’d been falsely accused of pickpocketing.

“I find sarcastic males vulgar,” Genevieve said. “Did you find stabbing your husband vulgar?” “I did not stab him. I scratched him with a knife. I see no reason for promoting this case to federal proportions.” “Why’d you stab him?” “Nor do I see,” Genevieve persisted, “any pertinent reasons for discussing my marital affairs before an assemblage of barbarians.” She paused and cleared her throat. “If you would relinquish my wrapper, I assure you I would depart without—” “Sure,” the chief of detectives said. “Next case.”

When it was all over, Kling and Brown went downstairs and lighted cigarettes. “No con man,” Brown said. “These lineups are a waste of time,” Kling offered. He blew out a stream of smoke. “How’d you like those two handsome bastards?”

The two handsome bastards, considering the fact that one of them was a murderer, got off pretty lightly. Curt Hunter was found guilty and paid a $500 fine, plus damages. Chris Donaldson was found not guilty. Both men were, once again, free to roam the city.

“You did crack a murder case, you know! And the commissioner did personally commend you and did personally promote you! What do you have to do in order to get a vacation spot that jibes with your fiancée’s schedule? Stop mass fratricide? Cure the common cold?”

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

The second floater’s name was Nancy Mortimer.

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.

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.

“I want to hear you say you’ll marry me.” “You know I will,” she answered, reaching across the table for his hand. “Tomorrow,” he said.

“Pris,” he said, his eyes gleaming now, “I’ve got something like ten thousand dollars in the bank. I’m going to ask for a vacation, by God! I’ll ask for a month, and we’ll go to Bermuda or someplace, how about that? Maybe Europe. What do you say, Pris?”

“In any case, we’ve still got my ten thousand. That should furnish an apartment, all right.” “And my money,” she added quietly. “Your what?” “The money I brought with me,” she said. “Oh, yes. I’d forgotten completely about it.” He smiled indulgently. “What is it, darling, something like five hundred dollars?” Her eyes opened wide in surprise. “You know very well it’s closer to five thousand dollars,” she said.

“Of course not. Don’t you remember, darling? In one of my letters, I told you I would be closing out my bank account, and you suggested I carry it in traveler’s checks.” “Yes, but I had no idea…five thousand dollars.” “It’s really about forty-seven hundred,” she said. “Still…Honey, you’ve got to put that in the bank right away.” “Why?” “So that it can start collecting interest. For God’s sake, why do you need forty-seven hundred dollars in traveler’s checks?” “You’re right,” she said. “Tomorrow, early in the morning,” he said, “before the wedding, we’ll open an account for you at my bank.” “A separate account, do you mean?” she asked. “Naturally. It’s your money, isn’t it?” “A little while ago, you said…you said when we were married everything you had was mine.” “Of course it is. You know that, darling. I meant every word I said.” “Then aren’t you being a bit unfair?” she asked. “Unfair? How?” He seemed very troubled. “What have I done, Pris? Have I said something wrong?” “You said separate account.” “I don’t understand.” She leaned across the table, and her eyes held his in a steady gaze. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we’ll be married. I’ll go wherever you want to go and do whatever you want to do. I’ll be yours—forever. And that means completely. No games, no kidding. Forever. I’ve waited a long time for you, darling, and I expect this to be for keeps. Tomorrow morning, we'll go to your bank. I’ll endorse the traveler’s checks and deposit the forty-seven hundred dollars in your...

“I don’t want you to cash them at all,” he said. “But I suppose I’d feel a lot easier if you cashed them there.” “All right, I’ll have them cashed at the hotel. I’ll have the money in good American currency when you come to call for me. To take me to my wedding.” He grinned. “I suppose I am being foolish. All right, cash them at the hotel. Then we’ll go to the bank, deposit the money, and away we go. To our wedding.”

He snapped his fingers for the waiter, and while they waited for him to come to their table, she leaned over and whispered the three most expensive words in the English language. “I love you.” And he looked at her with tender guile and answered with the three cheapest words in the English language. “I love you.”

What would Steve’s reactions be if he came to her one night, found her in a flimsy nightgown, and upon lowering one of the delicate straps to kiss her shoulder, discovered there a lacy, black butterfly?

But would it be very painful? she wondered. Yes, it probably would be very painful. Although, Chen seemed like a man you could trust. Chen seemed like a man who would not hurt her. And Chen knew how much she loved her husband. That was important somehow. The butterfly would be a gift to Steve, and it should rightfully be tattooed by a man who knew and understood a woman’s love for her man.

She made her mental assignation. Tomorrow, after lunch, she would visit Charlie Chen.

“Excuse me,” he said. The young man looked up. “My name is Charlie Parsons. I wonder if you’d do me a favor.” “What’s that?” the young man asked. “This fellow here,” Parsons said, indicating the redhead, “has a gold coin, and I might be interested in buying it from him. Trouble is, I left my glasses home, and I can’t read the date on it. I wonder if you’d be so kind.”