The Con Man (87th Precinct) - By Ed McBain Page 0,60

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?”

“Got a man here named Charlie Chen who says your killer was in his shop this afternoon. Teddy was there at the time, and—”

“What!”

“Teddy. Your wife. She trailed the guy when he left. Chen says the girl with him was very sick. I’ve gotten half a dozen phone calls in the past half hour. Girl who answers Teddy’s description has been handing out notes asking people to call you with a license number. I’ve got the MVB checking it now. What do you think?”

“Teddy!” Carella said, and that was all he could think of.

He heard a phone ringing someplace, and then Havilland said, “There’s the other line going now. Might be the license information. Hold on, Steve.”

He heard the click as the hold button was pressed, and he waited, squeezing the plastic of the phone, thinking over and over again, Teddy, Teddy, Teddy.

Havilland came back on in a minute.

“It’s a black 1955 Cadillac hardtop,” Havilland said. “Registered to a guy named Chris Donaldson.”

“That’s the bird,” Carella said, his mind beginning to function again. “What address have you got for him?”

“41-18 Ranier. That’s in Riverhead.”

“That’s about ten minutes from here,” Carella said. “I’m starting now. Get a call in to whichever precinct owns that street. Get an ambulance going, too. If that girl is sick, it’s probably from arsenic.”

“Right,” Havilland said. “Anything else, Steve?”

“Yeah. Start praying he hasn’t spotted my wife!”

He hung up, slapped his hip pocket to make sure he still had his .38, and then left the apartment without closing the door.

Standing in the concrete and cinder block basement of the building, Teddy Carella watched the indicator needle of the service elevator. She could see the washing machines going in another part of the basement, and beyond that, she could feel the steady thrum of the apartment building’s oil burner, and she watched the needle as it moved from numeral to numeral and then stopped at four.

She pressed the down button.

Donaldson and the girl had entered that service elevator and had got off at the fourth floor. And now, as the elevator dropped to the basement again, Teddy wondered what she would do when she discovered what apartment he was in, wondered, too, just how sick the girl was, just how much time she had. The elevator door slid open.

Teddy got in, pressed the No. 4 in the panel. The door slid shut. The elevator began its climb. Oddly, she felt no fear, no apprehension. She wished only that Steve were with her, because Steve would know what to do. The elevator climbed and then shuddered to a stop. The door did open. She started out of the car, and then she saw Donaldson.

He was standing just outside the elevator, waiting for the door to open, waiting for her. In blind panic, she stabbed at the panel with the floor buttons. Donaldson’s arm lashed out. His fingers clamped on her wrist, and he pulled her out of the car.

“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