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 side glance 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 tore off a slip of paper, put 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 seal 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 DN 1556. 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 yellow pages. He asked the desk sargeant 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 lover’s 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.