“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 said. “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 face down. 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.