The Con Man

by Ed McBain

  “Why are you following me?” he asked.

  She shook her head dumbly. Donaldson was pulling her down the hallway. He stopped before apartment 4C, threw open the door, and then shoved her into the apartment. Priscilla Ames was lying on the couch facedown. The apartment smelled of human waste.

  “There she is,” Donaldson said. “Is that who you’re looking for?”

  He snatched Teddy’s purse from her hands and began going through it, scattering lipstick, change, mascara, and an address book onto the floor. When he came upon her wallet, he unsnapped it and went through it quickly.

  “Mrs. Stephen Carella,” he read from the identification card. “Resident of Riverhead, eh? So we’re neighbors. Meet Miss Ames, Mrs. Carella. Or have you already met?” He looked at the card again. “In case of emergency, call…” His voice stopped. Then, like the slow trickle of a faulty waterspout, it came on again. “Detective Steve Carella, 87th Precinct, FRederick 7-802…” He looked up at Teddy. “Your husband’s a cop, huh?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “What’s the matter? Too scared to speak?” He studied her again. “I said…” He stopped, watching her. “Is something wrong with your voice?”

  Teddy nodded.

  “What is it? Can you talk?”

  She shook her head. Her eyes lingered on his mouth, and following her gaze, he suddenly knew.

  “Are you deaf?” he asked.

  Teddy nodded.

  “Good,” Donaldson said flatly. He was silent again, watching her. “Did your husband put you up to following me?”

  Teddy made no motion, no gesture. She stood as silent as a stone.

  “Does he know about me?”

  Again, no answer.

  “Why were you following me?” Donaldson asked, moving closer to her. “Who put you on to me? Where’d I slip up?” He took her wrist. “Answer me, goddammit!”

  His fingers were tight on her wrist. On the couch, Priscilla Ames moaned weakly. He turned abruptly.

  “She’s been poisoned, you know that, don’t you?” he said to Teddy. “I poisoned her. She’ll be dead in a little while, and tonight, she goes into the river.” He saw Teddy’s involuntary shudder. “What’s the matter? Does that frighten you? Don’t be frightened. She’s in pain, but she hardly knows what the hell’s happening anymore. All she can think about right now is her own sickness. Christ, it smells vile in here! How can you stand it?” He laughed a short, harsh laugh. The laugh was over almost before it began. His voice grew hard again. There was no compromise in it now. “What does your husband know?” he asked. “What does your husband know?”

  Teddy made no motion. Her face remained expressionless.

  Donaldson watched her. “All right,” he said. “I’ll assume the worst. I’ll assume he’s headed here right now with a whole damn battalion of police. Okay?”

  Again, there was nothing on Teddy’s face, nothing in her eyes.

  “He won’t find a damn thing when he gets here. I’ll be gone, and Miss Ames’ll be gone, and you’ll be gone. He’ll find the four walls.” He went to the closet, opened it quickly, and pulled out a suitcase. “Come with me,” he said. He shoved Teddy ahead of him, into the bedroom. “Sit down,” he said. “On the bed. Hurry up.”

  Teddy sat.

  Donaldson went to the dresser and threw open the top drawer. He began shoveling clothes into the suitcase. “You’re a pretty one,” he said. “If I came onto something like you…” He didn’t complete the sentence. “The trouble with my business is that you can’t enjoy yourself,” he said vaguely. “Plain girls are good. They buy whatever you sell. Get involved with a beauty, and your secret’s in danger. Murder is a big secret, don’t you think? It pays well, too. Don’t let anyone tell you crime doesn’t pay. It pays excellently. If you don’t get caught.” He grinned. “I have no intention of getting caught.” He looked at her again. “You’re a pretty one. And you can’t talk. A secret could be told to you.” He shook his head. “It’s too bad we haven’t got more time.” He shook his head again. “You’re a pretty one,” he repeated.

  Teddy sat on the bed, motionless.

  “You must know how it is,” he said, “being good looking. It’s a pain sometimes, isn’t it? Men get to hate you, distrust you. Me, I mean. They don’t like a man who’s too good looking. Makes them feel uncomfortable. Too much virility for them. Points up their own petty quarrels with the world, makes than feel inadequate.” He paused. “I can get any girl I want, do you know that? Any girl. I just flutter my lashes, and they fall down dead.” He chuckled. “Dead. That’s a laugh, isn’t it? You must know, I guess. Men fall all over you, don’t they?” He looked at her, questioning. “Okay, sit there in your shell. You’re coming with me, you know that, don’t you? You’re my insurance.” He laughed again. “We’ll make a good couple. We’ll really give the spectators something to ogle. We offset each other. Blond and brunette. That’s very good. It won’t be bad, being seen with a pretty girl for a change. I get tired of these goddamn witches. But they pay well. I’ve got a nice bank balance.”

  On the couch, Priscilla Ames moaned. Donaldson went to the doorway and looked into the living room. “Relax, lover,” he called. “In a little while, you’ll go for a nice refreshing swim.” He burst out laughing and turned to Teddy. “Nice girl,” he said. “Ugly as sin. Nice.” He went back to packing the bag, silent now, working rapidly.

  Teddy watched him. He had not packed a gun, so perhaps he didn’t own one.

  “You’ll help me downstairs with her,” he said suddenly. “The service elevator again. In and out, and whoosh, we’re on our way. You’ll stay with me for a while. You can’t talk; that’s good. No phone calls, no idle gossip to waiters, good, good. Just have to keep you away from pen and paper, I guess, huh?” He studied her again, his eyes changing. “Be good to have a ball for a change,” he said. “I get so goddamn tired of these witches, and you can’t trust the beauties. If you want to know something, you can’t trust anybody. The world is full of con men. But we’ll have a ball.” He looked at her face. “Don’t like the idea, huh? That’s rough. It’ll make it more interesting. You should consider yourself lucky. You could be scheduled for a swim with Miss Ames, you know. You should consider yourself lucky. Most women fall down when I come into a room. Consider yourself lucky. I’m pleasant company, and I know the nicest places in town. That’s my business, you know. My avocation. I’m really an accountant. Actually, accounting is my avocation, I suppose. Women are my business. The lonely ones. The plain Janes. You’re a surprise. I’m glad you followed me.” He grinned boyishly. “Nice having somebody to talk to who doesn’t talk back. That’s the secret of the Catholic confession, and also the secret of psychoanalysis. You can tell the truth, and the worst that’ll happen to you is twelve Hail Marys or the discovery that you hate your mother. With you, there’s no punishment. I can talk, and you can listen, and I don’t have to spout the love phrases or the undying bliss bit. You look sexy, too. Still water. Deep, deep.”

  He heard the sudden, sharp snap of the front door lock. He whirled quickly and ran into the living room.

  Carella saw a blond giant appear in the doorframe, eyes alert, fists clenched. The giant took in the .38 in Carella’s fist, took in the unwavering glint in Carella’s eye, and then lunged across the room.

  Carella was no fool. This man was a powerhouse. This man could rip him in two.

  Steadily, calmly, Carella leveled the .38.

  And then he fired.

  April was dying.

  The rains had come and gone, and the cruelest month was being put to rest. May would burst with flowers. In June, there would be sunshine.

  Priscilla Ames sat in the squadroom of the 87th Precinct. Steve Carella sat opposite her.

  “Will he live?” she asked.

  “Yes,” Carella said.

  “That’s unfortunate,” she replied.

  “It depends how you look at it,” Carella said. “He’ll go to trial, and he’ll be conv
icted. He’ll die, anyway.”

  “I was a fool, I suppose. I should have known better. I should have known there’s no such thing as love.”

  “You’re a fool if you believe that,” Carella said.

  “I should have known,” Priscilla said, nodding. “It took a stomach pump to teach me.”

  “Love is for the birds, huh?” Carella said.

  “Yes,” she answered. She lifted her head, and her eyes behind the glasses glared defiance. But they asked for something else, too, and Carella gave it to her.

  “I love my wife,” he said simply. “It may be for the birds, but it’s for the humans, too. Don’t let Donaldson sour you. Love is the biggest American industry. I know.” He grinned. “I’m a stockholder.”

  “I suppose…” Priscilla sighed. “Anyway, thank you. That’s why I came by. To thank you.”

  “Where to now?” Carella asked.

  “Back home,” Priscilla said. “Phoenix.” She paused and then smiled for the first time that afternoon. “There are a lot of birds in Phoenix.”

  Arthur Brown was conducting a post mortem.

  “I couldn’t figure why two big con men who are knocking over marks in the two-hundred- to a thousand-dollar category should bother with a little colored girl. Five bucks he got! He worked it as a single, without his partner, and all he got was five bucks!”

  “So?” Havilland said.

  “So it annoyed me. What the hell, a cop’s got to bank on something, doesn’t he? I asked Parsons. I asked him why the hell he bothered conning a little girl out of five bucks. You know what he said?”

  “No, what?” Havilland asked.

  “He said he wanted to teach the girl a lesson. Now, how the hell do you like that? He wanted to teach her a lesson!”

  “We’re losing a great teacher,” Havilland said. “The world is losing a great teacher.”

  “You mustn’t look at it that way,” Brown said. “I prefer to think that the state penitentiary is gaining one.”

  On the telephone, Bert Kling said, “So?”

  “It worked!”

  “What!”

  “It worked. She bought it. She’s letting me go with my aunt,” Claire said.

  “You’re kidding!”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  “We leave on June tenth?”

  “We do,” Claire said.

  “Yippppeeeee!” Kling shouted, and Havilland turned to him and said, “For Christ’s sake, pipe down! I’m trying to read!”

  The working day was over.

  There was May mixed in the April air. It touched the cheeks mildly; it lingered on the mouth. Carella walked and drank of it, and the draught was heady.

  When he opened the door to his apartment, he was greeted with silence. He turned out the light in the living room and went into the bedroom.

  Teddy was asleep.

  He undressed quietly and then got into bed beside her. She wore a fluffy, white gown, and he lowered the strap of the gown from her right shoulder and kissed the warm flesh there. A cloud passed from the moon, filling the room with pale yellow. Carella moved back from his wife’s shoulder and blinked. He blinked again.

  “I’ll be goddamned!” he said.

  The warm April moonlight illuminated a small, lacy, black butterfly on Teddy’s shoulder.

  “I’ll be goddamned!” Carella said again, and he kissed her so hard that she woke up.

  And, big detective that he was, he never once suspected she’d been awake all the while.

  AFTERWORD

  It’s necessary that this be an afterword rather than an introduction because if it were placed before the book began, it would spoil the suspense—such as it is—of scenes you’ve now already read.

  If you’ve been paying attention, you know that my original plan was to kill Carella at the end of The Pusher, which gleefully malignant intent was stifled by my misguided and greedy publishers who insisted that I could not kill a hero—who, by the way, had only appeared in one and a half books by then. Some hero!

  Having had time to think over their suggestions while hanging in chains in the basement and being fed only bread and water—and never mind the brutal torture and such, which I am reluctant to describe in detail lest it cause vapors in those among you who are fainthearted—having had time, as I say, to reconsider the untimely demise of Stephen Louis Carella, to resurrect him, so to speak, I was now confronted with writing the next book in the series wherein this big hero, mind you, was to become a *** star ***!!!

  Recognizing the rarely disputed fact that behind all great men there stands a woman, it occurred to me that Teddy Carella—who had been invisible in the second book of the series and virtually nonexistent in the third book, wherein Carella should have lain down and died if he had a decent bone in his body—it occurred to me, as I say, that it wouldn’t be a bad notion to revive Teddy Carella, too, to give her a larger role in the proceedings, in fact, to have a sizable segment of the plot revolve around her. This was not too difficult a task to accomplish in that she had been conceived as someone both hearing-and speech-impaired, and therefore presumably more vulnerable to attack.

  (Incidentally, as a point of perhaps minor interest, in these earlier books Teddy was called a “deaf mute.” A reader pointed out to me some two or three years ago that this expression was now considered derogatory. Out the window it went, and Teddy is now speech-and-hearing impaired.)

  As I say, it was easy to get Teddy in and out of trouble. More important, however, was fleshing out this wife of the *** star *** who—if Carella was to continue as the hero in subsequent books in the series—would have to play more than a mere supporting role. Have I mentioned that after the wild critical and public acclaim of the first three books (which sold fourteen copies each, including those purchased by my relatives), my greedy and misguided publishers decided to give me a contract for yet another three books, the first of which was to be The Con Man? If not, this was an oversight, and I beg your indulgence.

  I don’t know from whither sprang the notion of Teddy getting herself a tattoo. I feel positive that it preceded the idea of a killer tattooing his victims as a sort of calling card. I know that I still like the scenes between her and Charlie Chen—who makes a repeat performance many years later in Ice—and it’s my continuing hope that a woman brave enough to submit to the torture of a tattoo needle (though nothing like what I suffered in that basement while my publishers were convincing me to bring Carella back to life) was a woman who could not, by the farthest stretch of the imagination, be considered “handicapped.” I had never thought of Teddy as being handicapped, anyway, but it seemed to me that with the simple act of acquiring a tattoo, she achieved the heroic dimensions essential to the tracking of a killer, thereby elevating her to proper *** STARDOM *** alongside her big-hero husband.

  As a final note of minor importance, I call your attention to the beginning of chapter 19, reproduced here as it appeared originally in the 1957 Permabooks edition:

  If you are as careful a reader as the one who pointed out the error to me some years after the book’s publication, you will have already noticed that in the second line of the opening paragraph, Teddy can hear. Yes. She hears the washing machines going, and she hears the steady thrum of the oil burner. (Be Still, my thrumming heart!) Was this a miracle of modern science? No. It was simply the author’s unfamiliarity with a character who was poised on the brink of celestial permanence. Which is to say, it was merely the author’s stupidity, belatedly corrected in subsequent editions.

  For those of you who wish to learn more about the impermanence of stardom and the fragility of fame, stay tuned for the introduction to Killer’s Choice, coming soon to your local bar and grille, maybe.

  Ed McBain

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Photograph © Dragica Hunter

  Ed McBain was one of the many pen names of the successful and prolific crime fiction author Evan Hunter (1926-2005). Born Salvatore Lambino in New York, McBain served abo
ard a destroyer in the US Navy during World War II and then earned a degree from Hunter College in English and psychology. After a short stint teaching in a high school, McBain went to work for a literary agency in New York, working with authors such as Arthur C. Clarke and P.G. Wodehouse, all the while working on his own writing on nights and weekends. He had his first breakthrough in 1954 with the novel The Blackboard Jungle, which was published under his newly legal name Evan Hunter and based on his time teaching in the Bronx.

  Perhaps his most popular work, the 87th Precinct series (released mainly under the name Ed McBain) is one of the longest running crime series ever published, debuting in 1956 with Cop Hater and featuring over fifty novels. The series is set in a fictional locale called Isola and features a wide cast of detectives including the prevalent Detective Steve Carella.

  McBain was also known as a screenwriter. Most famously he adapted a short story from Daphne Du Maurier into the screenplay for Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds (1963). In addition to writing for the silver screen, he wrote for many television series, including Columbo and the NBC series 87th Precinct (1961-1962), based on his popular novels.

  McBain was awarded the Grand Master Award for lifetime achievement in 1986 by the Mystery Writers of America and was the first American to receive the Cartier Diamond Dagger award from the Crime Writers Association of Great Britain. He passed away in 2005 in his home in Connecticut after a battle with larynx cancer.