The Con Man (87th Precinct)

Chen may not have recognized the tall, blond man were it not for the fact that Teddy Carella was in the back of his shop, waiting to be tattooed.

For whereas the handsome blond had been an impressive figure, Chen had only seen him once, and that had been a long time ago. But now, with Teddy in the rear of the shop, with Chen keenly reminded of Teddy’s relationship to a husband who was a cop, he recognized the blond man the instant he stepped through the beaded curtains to confront him.

“Yes?” he said, and he saw the man’s face, and curiously, he automatically began thinking in Chinese. This is the man the detective seeks, he thought. The husband of the beauty who now waits to be tattooed. This is the man.

“Hello, there,” Donaldson said. “We’ve got some work for you.”

Chen’s eyes fled to the girl beside Donaldson. She was not pretty. Her hair was a mousy brown, and her eyes were a faded brown, and she wore glasses, and she peered through the glasses, she was not pretty at all. She also looked a little sick. There was a tight, drawn expression to her face, and her skin was pallid. She did not look well at all.

“What kind of work, please?” Chen asked.

“A tattoo,” Donaldson said, smiling.

Chen nodded. “A tattoo for the gentleman, yes, sir,” he said.

“No,” Donaldson corrected, “a tattoo for the lady,” and there was no longer the slightest doubt in Chen’s mind. This was the man. A girl was dead, perhaps because of this man. Chen eyed him narrowly. This man was dangerous.

“You will sit down, please?” he asked. “I be with you in one minute.”

“Hurry, won’t you?” Donaldson said. “We haven’t got much time.”

“I be with you two shakes,” Chen said, and he parted the curtains and moved quickly to the back of the shop. He walked directly to Teddy. She saw the anxiety on his face immediately. She gave him her complete attention at once. Something had happened, and Chen was very troubled.

In a whisper, he said, “Man here. One your husband wants. Do you understand?”

For a moment, she didn’t understand. Man here? One my husband…And then the meaning became clear, and she felt a sudden chill at the base of her spine, felt her scalp begin to prickle.

“He here with girl,” Chen said. “Want tattoo. You understand?”

She swallowed hard, and then she nodded.

“What I should do?” Chen asked.





“I…I don’t feel too well,” Priscilla Ames said.

“This won’t take but a moment,” Donaldson assured her.

“Chris, I really don’t feel well. My stomach…” She shook her head. “Do you suppose that food was all right?”

“I’m sure it was, darling. Look, we’ll get the tattoo, and then we’ll stop for a bromo or something, all right? We have a long drive ahead, and I wouldn’t want you to be sick.”

“Chris, do we…do we have to get the tattoo? I feel awful. I’ve never felt like this before in my life.”

“It’ll pass, darling. Perhaps the food was a little too rich.”

“Yes, it must have been something. Chris, I feel awful.”





Carella opened the door to his apartment.

“Teddy?” he called, and then he realized that calling her name was useless if she could not see his lips. He closed the door behind him and walked into the living room. He took off his jacket, threw it onto one of the easy chairs, and then walked through to the kitchen.

The kitchen was empty.

Carella shrugged, went back to the living room, and then opened the door leading to their bedroom. Teddy wasn’t in the bedroom, either.

He stood looking into the room for several moments. Then he sighed, went into the living room again, and opened the window wide. He picked up the newspaper, kicked off his shoes, loosened his tie, and then sat down to read and wait for his wayward wife.

He was dog-tired.

In ten minutes, he was sound asleep in the easy chair.





Bert Kling was making a call on the company’s time.

“How’d it go?” he asked Claire.

“It’s too early to tell,” she said.

“Did she read it?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“And?”

“No expression.”

“None?”

“None. She read it and said she would let my father know. Period.”

“What do you think?”

“I think I love you,” Claire said.

“Don’t get mushy,” Kling told her. “Do you think it’ll work?”

“Time will tell,” Claire said. “I adore you.”





“I adore you, Chris,” Priscilla said, “and I want to do this for you, but I just...don’t...feel well.”

“You’ll feel better in a little while,” Donaldson said. He paused and smiled. “Would you like some chewing gum?” he asked pleasantly.

“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 sideglance 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.





“That guy’s going to Riverhead,” the cabbie said, turning to Teddy. “See, he’s crossing the bridge. You sure you want me to follow him?”

Teddy nodded. Riverhead. She lived in Riverhead. She and Steve lived in Riverhead, but Riverhead was a big part of the city. Where in Riverhead was the man taking the girl? And where was Steve? Was he at the squad? Was he home? Was he still out canvassing tattoo parlors? Was it possible he’d visit Charlie Chen again? she wondered. She tore off a slip of paper, putting it with the growing pile of slips beside her on the seat. Then she began writing again.

And then, as if to check the accuracy of her first observation, she looked at the rear of Donaldson’s car again.

“Are you a writer or something?” the cabbie asked.





It bothered Kling.

He got up and walked to where Havilland was reading a true detective magazine, his feet propped up on the desk.

“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.