by Ed McBain
“What do you mean, names?”
“‘Nitials, I mean. N is her initial. N for Nancy.”
Carella felt as if he’d been struck by lightning.
“The A is jus’ ‘and,’ you know. Nancy and Chris. Tha’ was his name. Chris. N. A. C.”
“Goddammit!” Carella said. “Then the Proschek girl’s tattoo meant Mary and Chris. I’ll be a son of a bitch!”
“Wha’?” Popeye said.
“How do you know his name was Chris?” Carella asked.
“She said so. When he said, ‘N-A-C,’ she said, ‘Why don’t we put th’ whole names, Nancy and Chris?’ Tha’s what she said.”
“What did he say?”
“Said there wasn’t enough space. Said it was just a tiny li’l heart. Hell, that li’l girl was goofy about him. He’da tole her to lay down an’ take off her bloomers, she’da done it ri’ here in the shop.”
“You said she cried while you were working on her?”
“Yeah. Bawled like a baby. Hurt like hell.”
“Were you drunk?”
“Me? Drunk? Hell, no. Wha’ makes you think I was drunk?”
“Nothing. What happened next?”
“She was cryin’, and I was working, and then all of a sudden, she fells sick. Han’some looked kind of worried. He kep’ tryin’ to rush her out of the shop, but the poor girl had to puke, you know? So I took her in back. Slobbed up the whole damn can.”
“Then what?”
“He wanted to take her away. Kep’ sayin’, ‘Come on, Nancy, we’ll go to my place. Come on.’ She wouldn’ go withim. Said she wanted me to finish th’ tattoo. Game kid, huh?”
“Did you finish it?”
“Yeah. She was sick as hell all the way through. You could see she was tryin’ to keep from pukin’ again.” Popeye paused. “But I finished it. Nice job, too. Han’some paid me, an’ away they went.”
“Into a car?”
“Yeah.”
“What make?”
“I dinn notice,” Popeye said.
“Goddamn,” Carella said.
“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “I dinn notice.”
“Did she mention the man’s last name? This Chris fellow.”
Popeye thought for a moment. “Yeah, yeah,” he said. “She did. She said something about the future Mrs. Somebody.”
“Mrs. Who?” Carella asked.
“I don’t remember.”
“Goddamn,” Carella said again. He snorted heavily. He bit his lower lip. “Can you give me a full description of the man?” he asked finally.
“Much’s I can remember,” Popeye said.
“Blond hair,” Carella said, “right?”
“Yeah.”
“Long or short?”
“Average.”
“He wasn’t wearing a crew cut or anything like that?”
“No.”
“All right, what about his eyes? What color?”
“Blue, I think. Or gray. One or th’ other.”
“What kind of a nose?”
“Good nose. Not long, not short. Good nose. He was a han’some guy.”
“Mouth?”
“Good mouth.”
“Was he smoking?”
“No.”
“Any scars or birthmarks on his face?”
“No.”
“Anywhere on his body?”
“I dinn undress him,” Popeye said.
“I meant visible. On his hands perhaps? Tattoos? Any tattoos on his hands?”
“Nope.”
“What was he wearing?”
“Topcoat. This was back in February, you know. A black topcoat. Had a kind of a red lining. Red silk, I think, and those straps you slip your hands through.”
“What straps?”
“Inside the coat. You know, so you can slip it over your shoulders while you’re at the track. That’s what I mean.”
“What kind of a suit?”
“A tweed. Gray.”
“Shirt?”
“White.”
“Tie?”
“Black tie. I remember asking him if he was in mourning. He jus’ grinned.”
“He would, the bastard. Are you sure you can’t remember the make of the car he was driving? That would be very helpful.”
“I ain’t good on cars,” Popeye said.
“Did you happen to notice the license plate?”
“Nope.”
“But I’ll bet you can tell me what kind of a tie-clasp he was wearing,” Carella said, sighing.
“Yeah. Silver bar with a horse’s head on it. Nice. I figured him for a horseplayer.”
“What else do you remember?”
“Tha’s about it.”
“Did they mention where they were going?”
“Yeah. To his place. He said she could lay down there an’ he’d get her something cool to put on her forehead.”
“Where? Did he say where?”
“No. He only said his place. That could be anyplace in the city.”
“You’re telling me?” Carella asked.
“I’m sorry,” Popeye said. “Guy wants to take care of a girl with a stomach ache, that’s his business. Wants to get her something for her head, ain’t none of my affair.”
“He got her something for her feet,” Carella said.
“Huh?”
“A hundred pound weight to carry her to the bottom of the river.”
“He drowned her?” Popeye asked. “You mean he drowned that nice li’l girl?”
“No, he—”
“Bravest li’l thing ever come in here. Even the sailors I get whimper. She bawled, an’ she got sick, but she come right back for more. That takes guts. To come back for more when you’re so scared you’re sick.”
“You don’t know just how much guts it took,” Carella said.
“An’ he drowned her, huh? How do you like that?”
“I didn’t say he—”
“What a way to die,” Popeye said, shaking his head. His nose was red and bulging with aggravated veins. His one good eye was watery and bloodshot. His breath stank of cheap wine. “What a way to die,” he repeated. “Drownin’.”
“You’re well on the way,” Carella said.
Then he thanked him and left the shop.
Chris Donaldson had already fed her the arsenic.
He had fed it to her in a half-dozen dishes—the tea, the fried rice, the chow mein, every dish he could get to while she was in the ladies’ room. When the food had come, he’d simply said, “Let’s wash up,” and then he’d taken Priscilla by the elbow and led her away from the table. He’d doubled back almost instantly and done his work, and she had consumed the odorless and almost tasteless arsenic with apparent relish.
They had gone to the Chinese restaurant directly after they’d left the bank. They had deposited Priscilla’s money in his account, and now she had consumed the arsenic, and now it was all a matter of time.
He watched her with the flat look of a reptile, a slight smile on his face. He hoped she would not get sick too soon, like the last one. That had been an embarrassing episode. Even beautiful women lost all their charm when they became violently ill, and the women he had murdered, and was now murdering, were far from beautiful.
“That was good,” Priscilla said.
“More tea, darling?” he asked.
“Yes, please.” He poured from the small, round pot. “Don’t you like tea?” she asked. “You haven’t had any.”
“Not particularly,” he said. “I’m a coffee drinker.”
She took the cup from him. “Did you put sugar in it?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said. “Everything’s in it,” and he smiled at his own grim humor.
“You’ll make a good husband,” Priscilla said. She felt full and warm and drowsy. That afternoon she would be married. She felt lazy and content and at complete peace with the world. “You’ll make a wonderful husband.”
“I’m going to try my damnedest,” he s
aid. “I’m going to make you the happiest woman in the world.”
“I’m the happiest woman in the world right now.”
“I want everyone to know you’re mine,” Donaldson said. “Everyone. I want to shout it at them. I want big signs telling them.”
Priscilla grinned.
He watched her grin, and he thought, Do you know you’ve been poisoned, my dear? Do you know what metallic poisoning is? He watched her, and he felt neither pity nor compassion. It would not be long now. A few hours at the most. Tonight he would dispose of her, the way he had disposed of the others. There was just one thing remaining, one concession to his ego. Like a great painter, he must sign his work. He must lead her into helping him sign his work.
“I get crazy ideas sometimes,” he said.
“Ah-ha,” she answered. “Now he tells me there’s insanity in his family. A few hours before the wedding and he trots out the skeletons.”
“I really do get crazy ideas,” he persisted, as if his speech were rehearsed, a speech that had worked for him before and that he was sure would work now, annoyed because she had interrupted the smooth, rehearsed flow of his speech with her silly witticism. “Like I…I want to brand you. I want to put my name on you so that people will know you’re mine.”
“They’ll know, anyway. They can see it in my eyes.”
“Yes, but…Well, it’s silly, I admit it. It’s crazy. Didn’t I tell you it was crazy? Didn’t I warn you?”
“If I were a cow, darling,” she said, “I wouldn’t at all mind being branded.”
“There must be some way,” he said, as if mulling the problem over. He reached across the table for her hand, toyed with her fingers. “Oh, I don’t mean a red-hot branding iron. Pris, that would kill me. Any pain to you would kill me. But…” He stopped, studying her hand. “Say,” he said. “Saaaay…”
“What?”
“A tattoo. How about that?”
Priscilla smiled. “A what?”
“A tattoo.”
“Well…” Priscilla was puzzled. “What about a tattoo?”
“How would you like one?”
“I wouldn’t,” she said firmly.
“Oh.” His voice fell.
“Why on earth would I want a tattoo?”
“No,” he said. “Never mind.”
She stared at him, confused. “What’s the matter, darling?”
“Nothing.”
“Are you angry?”
“No.”
“You are, I can see it. Do you…do you want me to have a…a tattoo?”
“Yes,” he said.
“I’m not sure I understand.”
“A small one. Someplace on your hand.” He took her hand again. “Right here perhaps, between the thumb and forefinger.”
“I…I’m afraid of needles,” Priscilla said.
“Then forget it.” He stared at the tablecloth. “Finish your tea, won’t you, darling?” he said, and he smiled up at her, a defeated, boyish smile.
“If I…” She stopped, thinking. “It’s just that I’m afraid of needles.”
“It doesn’t hurt at all, you know,” he said. “I thought perhaps a little heart. With our initials in it. Priscilla and Chris. P-A-C. So that everyone would know. Everyone would know you’re my woman.”
“I’m afraid of needles,” she said.
“It doesn’t hurt,” he assured her.
“Chris, I…I’ll do anything else you want. Anything, really. It’s just that I’ve always been afraid of needles. Even getting a shot from the doctor.”
“Then forget it,” he said pleasantly.
She looked into his eyes. “You’re angry, aren’t you?”
“No, no, not at all.”
“You are.”
“Pris, really, I’m not. I’m just a little…disappointed.”
“In me?”
“No, of course not in you. How could I be disappointed in you?”
“In what then?”
“Well, I thought you’d like the idea.”
“I do like it, Chris. I want people to know I belong to you. But—”
“Yes, I know.”
“I feel like such a baby.”
“No, you’re perfectly right. If you have a fear of—”
“Chris, please, I feel so silly. It probably…” She bit her lip. “It probably doesn’t hurt at all.”
“Not at all,” he said.
“I am…I am being a baby.”
“Forget it,” he said, but there was an aloofness about him that chilled her. Desperately, she wanted to reach him again, wanted to be safe and secure in the warmth of his respect.
“I’ll…I’ll do whatever you say,” she told him.
“No, don’t be ridiculous,” he said. He snapped his fingers and called, “Waiter,” and to her, he said, “Let’s get out of here.”
“I’ll do it, Chris. I’ll…I’ll do it. The tattoo. Whatever you want.”
His eyes softened. He took her hands and said, “Would you, Pris? It would really make me very happy.”
“I want to make you happy,” she said.
“Good. There’s a tattoo parlor right on the edge of Chinatown. It won’t hurt, Pris. I can promise you that.”
She nodded. “I’m petrified,” she said.
“Don’t be. I’ll be right there with you.”
She covered her mouth and swallowed hard. “This food was awfully heavy,” she said. She smiled apologetically. “Very good, but heavy. I feel a little queasy.”
He looked at her, and there was concern in his eyes. The waiter approached the table, quietly depositing the check facedown. Donaldson picked up the check, glanced at it, left a tip on the table, and then took Priscilla’s arm. He paid the check at the cashier’s booth.
As they left the restaurant, he said, “Do you know the story about the man who goes to a Chinese brothel?”
“Oh, Chris,” she said.
“He goes there, and then the madam is surprised to see him returning five minutes later. She says to him, ‘But you were here just five minutes ago with Ming Toy, our most beautiful girl.’ And the fellow looks at her and says, ‘Well, you know how it is with a Chinese meal.’”
Priscilla laughed and then sobered almost instantly. “I still feel queasy,” she said.
He took her elbow and glanced at her quickly. Then he quickened his pace and said, “We’d better hurry.”
To say that Charlie Chen was surprised to see Teddy Carella would be a complete understatement.
The door to his shop had been closed, and he heard the small tinkle of the bell when the door opened, and he glanced up momentarily and then lifted his hulk from the chair in which he sat smoking and went to the front of the shop.
“Oh!” he said, and then his round face broke into a delighted grin. “Pretty detective lady come back,” he said. “Charlie Chen is much honored. Charlie Chen is much flattered. Come, sit down, Mrs.…” He paused. “Charlie Chen forget name.”
Teddy touched her lips with the tips of her fingers and then shook her head. Chen stared at her, uncomprehending. She repeated the gesture.
“You can’t talk, maybe?” he asked. “Laryngitis?”
Teddy smiled, shook her head, and then her hand traveled swiftly from her mouth to her ears, and Chen at last understood.
“Oh,” he said. “Oh.” His eyes clouded. “Very sorry, very sorry.”
Teddy gave a slight shake of her head and a slight lift of her shoulders and a slight twist of her hands, explaining to Chen that there was nothing to be sorry for.
“But you understand me?” he asked. “You know what I say?”
Yes, she nodded.
“Good. You most beautiful lady ever come into Charlie Chen’s poor shop. I speak this from my heart. Beauty is not plentiful in the world today. There is not much beauty. To see true beauty, this gladdens me. Makes me very happy, very happy. I talk too fast for you?”
Teddy shook her head.
“You read my lip
s?” He nodded appreciatively. “That very clever, very clever. Why you come visit Charlie Chen?”
Teddy looped her thumbs together and then moved her hands as if they were in flight.
“The butterfly?” Chen asked, astounded. “You want the butterfly?”
Yes, she nodded, delighted by his response.
“Oh,” he said, “ohhhhhh,” as if her acknowledgment were the fulfillment of his wildest dream. “I make very pretty. I make pretty big butterfly.”
Teddy shook her head.
“No big butterfly? Small butterfly?”
Yes.
“Ah, very clever, very clever. Delicate butterfly for pretty lady. Big butterfly no good. Small, little, pretty butterfly better. You very smart. You very beautiful, and you very smart. I do. Come. Come in. Please. Come in.”
He parted the curtains leading to the back of the shop and then gallantly bowed and stepped aside while Teddy passed through. She went directly to the butterfly design pinned to the wall. Chen smiled and then seemed to notice for the first time the calendar with its naked woman on the other wall.
“Excuse other pretty lady, please,” he said. “Stupid sons do.”
Teddy glanced at the calendar and smiled.
“You decide color?” Chen asked.
She nodded.
“Which?”
Teddy touched her hair.
“Black? Ah, good. Black very good. Little, black butterfly. Come. Sit. I do. No pain. Charlie Chen be very careful.”
He sat her down, and she watched him, beginning to get a little frightened now. Deciding to get one’s shoulder decorated was one thing. Going ahead with it was another thing again. She watched his movements as he walked around the shop preparing his tools. Her eyes were saucer wide.
“You frightened?” he asked.
She gave a very small nod.
“No be. Everything go hunky-dory. I promise. Very clean, very sanitary, very harmless.” He smiled. “Very painless, too.”
Teddy kept watching him, her heart in her mouth.
“I use very-deep black. Black no good unless really black. Otherwise is gray. Life is all full of grays, pretty lady. No sharp whites, no sharp blacks. All grays. Very sad, life is.” Chen brought a pencil and a sheet of paper to the table. He drew several circles on it, one the size of a dime, the next the size of a nickel, then the size of a quarter, and lastly, the size of a half-dollar.
