The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,56

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