The 1st Deadly Sin

5

Xerox copies of the Operation Lombard reports constituted a bundle of almost 500 sheets of typed papers, official forms, photostats, transcriptions of tape recordings, signed statements, etc. In addition, there was a separate envelope of more than 30 photo copies: Lombard in death and in life, his wife, mother, two brothers, politcal and business associates, and close friends. The dead man and his wife had been childless.

Captain Delaney, impressed with this mass of material spread out on the desk in his study, and realizing the urgency with which Operation Lombard was working, set out to organize the documents into manila folders marked Physical Evidence, Personal History, Family, Business (Lombard had been an active partner in a Brooklyn law firm), Politics, and Miscellaneous.

It took him almost two hours to get the material filed in some kind of rough order. Then he mixed a rye highball, put his feet up on the desk, and began reading. By two in the morning he had read every report and stared at every photo in every file. He was doubly impressed with the thoroughness of Broughton’s investigation, but as far as first impressions went, Ivar Thorsen was right: there was nothing-no leads, no hints, no mysteries at all-except who killed Frank Lombard.

He started his second reading, going slower this time and making notes on a pad of long yellow legal notepaper. He also set aside a few documents for a third reading and study. Dawn was lightening the study windows when he closed the final folder. He rose to his feet, stretched and yawned, put his hands on his hips and bent his torso backward until his spine cracked.

Then he went into the kitchen and drank a large glass of tomato juice with a lemon wedge squeezed into it. He made a carafe of three cups of instant coffee, black, and carried that into the study along with a dry and stale bagel.

He consulted his notes and, sipping coffee, read for the third time Dr. Sanford Ferguson’s medical report. It was one of Ferguson’s usual meticulous autopsies; the eight-page statement included two sketches showing the outside wound in actual size and a profile outline of the human skull showing the location and shape of the penetration. It looked like an elongated isosceles triangle. The outside wound was roughly circular in shape, slightly larger than a quarter.

The essential paragraph of the report was as follows:

“The blow caused a penetrating wound, fracturing the right occipital bone, lacerating the dura, piercing the right occipital lobe. Laceration of the cerebellum caused hemorrhaging with resultant rupture into the posterior fossa and 4th ventrical causing acute compression of the brain stem with subsequent death.” Delaney made several additional notes on the autopsy report. He had questions he knew could only be answered in a personal interview with Ferguson. How he would explain to the doctor his interest in the Lombard homicide was a problem he’d face when he came to it.

His other notes concerned the interviews with the widow, Mrs. Clara Lombard. She had been interviewed five times by three different detectives. Delaney nodded approvingly at Chief Pauley’s professionalism. It was standard detective procedure: you send three different detectives for the first three interviews. Then the three get together with their chief, discuss the subject’s personality, and select the detective who has established the closest rapport with her, the one she feels most simpatico with. He returns for the two final interviews.

Delaney began to get a picture of the widow from the typed reports. (The first three were transcriptions made from tape recordings.) Mrs. Clara Lombard seemed to be a flighty, feather-brained women, trying hard to appear devastated by the tragedy of her husband’s violent death, but still capable of infantile laughter, jokes of a dubious nature, sudden inquiries about insurance money, questions about probating the will, illogical threats of legal action against New York City, and statements that could only be construed as outright flirtation.

Delaney wasn’t interested in all that; careful investigation showed that although Clara was a very social woman-a happy party-goer with or without her husband-she had no boyfriend, and no one, not even her women friends, even hinted she might have been unfaithful.

The portion of her testimony that interested Delaney most was concerned with Frank Lombard’s wallet. That damned wallet irritated the Captain…its position near the body…the fact that it had been deliberately removed from the hip pocket…it was lying open…it was still full of money…

To Delaney’s surprise, in only one interview had Mrs. Lombard been handed a detailed inventory of the wallet. This document was included in the Physical Evidence file. Clara had been asked if, to her knowledge, anything was missing. She had replied no, she thought all her late husband’s identification and credit cards were there, and the sum of money-over two hundred dollars-was what he customarily carried. Even two keys, one to his home, one to his office-in a “secret pocket” in the wallet-were there.

Delaney didn’t accept her statement. How many wives could tell you exactly what their husbands carried in their wallets? How many husbands could list exactly what their wife’s purse contained? As a matter of fact, how many men knew exactly how much money they had in their own wallets? To test this, Delaney thought a moment and guessed he had fifty-six dollars in the wallet in his hip. Then he took it out and counted. He had forty-two-and wondered where his money was going.

The only other Operation Lombard report that interested him was an interview with the victim’s grieving mother. Delaney read this transcription again. As he had suspected, Mrs. Sophia Lombard lived in a converted brownstone between the East River and the point where her son’s body had been found.

Mrs. Lombard had been questioned-and very adroitly, Delaney acknowledged; that was Chief Pauley’s doing-on the circumstances of her son’s visits to her. Did he come every week? The same night every week? The same time every night? In other words, was it a regular, established routine? Did he call beforehand? How did he travel over from Brooklyn?

The answers were disappointing and perplexing. Frank Lombard had no regular schedule for dining with his mother. He came to see her when he could. Sometimes two weeks, sometimes a month would elapse before he could make it. But he was a good boy, Mrs. Sophia Lombard assured her interrogator; he called every day. On the day he could come to dinner, he would call before noon so Mrs. Lombard could go out and shop in the markets along First Avenue for the things he liked.

Lombard didn’t drive his car over from Brooklyn because parking space was hard to find near his mother’s apartment. He would take the subway, and a bus or taxi from the subway station. He didn’t like to walk on the streets at nights. He always left for his Brooklyn home before midnight.

Did Mrs. Clara Lombard ever accompany her husband to his mother’s home for dinner?

“No,” Mrs. Sophia Lombard said shortly. And reading that reply, Delaney smiled, understanding the discord that must have existed in that family.

Delaney replaced the reports in their folders, and put all the Operation Lombard file in a small safe in the corner of the study. As he well knew, an experienced “can man” could be into that in one minute flat. And two inexperienced thieves could carry it out between them to sledge it open later.

His eyes were sandy and his bones ached. It was almost seven a.m. He dumped the cold coffee, went upstairs, undressed and rolled into bed. Something was nagging at his mind, something he had read in the Operation Lombard reports. But that had happened to him frequently: a lead sensed but not recognized. It didn’t worry him; he tried not to think about it.

He knew from experience that it would come to him eventually, sliding into his mind like a remembered name or a tune recalled. He set the alarm for eight-thirty, closed his eyes and was instantly asleep.

He arrived at the precinct house a little after nine a.m. The Desk Sergeant was a policewoman, the second of her rank in New York to be assigned to such duty. He went over to the log with her, and asked questions. She was a tall, powerfully built woman with what he termed to himself, without knowing why, a thunderous body. In truth, he was intimidated by her, but could not deny her efficiency. The book was in order; nothing had been neglected that could have been done-a sad, sad list of drunks, missing persons, beaten wives, stolen welfare checks, mistreated children, burglaries, Peeping Toms, prostitutes, dying oldsters, homosexuals, breaking-and-entering, exhibitionists…People. But the moon was full, and Delaney knew what that meant.

He climbed the creaking wooden steps to his office and, on the landing, met Detective Lieutenant Jeri Fernandez who was, or had been, in command of detectives assigned to the 251st. “Morning, Captain,” Fernandez said glumly.

“Good morning, lieutenant,” Delaney said. He looked at the man sympathetically. “Having a rough time, aren’t you?”

“Oh shit!” Fernandez burst out. “Half my men are gone already. The others will be gone within a week. Okay, that’s one thing. But the paper work! All our open cases have to be transferred to the proper unit covering this precinct. Jesus, it’s a mess.”

“What did you get?”

“I drew a Safe, Loft and Truck Division in midtown,” Fernandez said disgustedly. “It covers four precincts including the Garment Center. How does that grab you? I’m second in command, and we’ll be getting dicks from all over Manhattan. It’ll take us at least a year to set up our snitches. What great brain dreamed up this idea?”

Delaney knew how Fernandez felt. The man was a conscientious, efficient, but unimaginative detective. He had done a good job in the 251st, training his men, being hard when he had to be hard and soft when he had to be soft. Now they were breaking up his crew and farming them out to specialized divisions. And Fernandez himself would now be number two man under a detective captain. He had a right to his anger.

“I would have guessed Broughton would have grabbed you for Operation Lombard,” Delaney said.

“Not me,” Fernandez said with a sour grin. “I ain’t white enough.”

They nodded and separated. Delaney went on to his office, marveling how quickly a man’s prejudices and record spread throughout the Department. More fool Broughton, he thought; Fernandez could have been a big help. Unimaginative he might have been, but when it came to dull, foot-flattening routine, he was excellent. The important thing was to know how to use men, to take advantage of their particular talents and the best in them.

The moment he was at his desk he called the hospital. The head floor nurse told him his wife was down in the lab, having more X-ray plates taken, but she was doing “as well as can be expected.” Trying to conceal his distaste for that particular phrase, Delaney thanked her and said he’d call later.

Then he called Dr. Sanford Ferguson and, unexpectedly, was put through to him immediately at his office.

“That you, Edward?”

“Yes. Can we get together?”

“How’s Barbara?”

“Doing as well as can be expected.”

“I seem to recognize the words. Is it about Barbara you want to see me?”

“No. The Lombard homicide.”

“Oh? I was glad to hear you hadn’t retired. Now it’s an indefinite leave of absence.”

“News travels fast.”

“It was on the Telex about ten minutes ago. Edward, what’s this about Lombard? I thought Broughton was handling it.”

“He is. But I want to see you, to talk to you. Can you make it?”

“Well…” Ferguson was cautious, and Delaney didn’t blame him. “Look, I’ve got to go up to 34th Street today. It’s my sister’s birthday, and I want to get her something. At Macy’s. Any suggestions?”

“When in doubt, a gift certificate.”

“Won’t work. I know her. She wants something personal.”

“A silk scarf. That’s what I always buy for Barbara. She’s got enough silk scarves to make a parachute.”

“Good idea. Well then, how about lunch?”

“Fine.”

“I know a good chop house near Macy’s. Do you like mutton chops?”

“Hate them.”

“Idiot. That heavy, gamy taste…nothing like it.”

“Can I get a broiled kidney?”

“Of course.”

“Then let’s have lunch at your chop house.”

“Good. You get there at twelve-thirty. I’ll be finished shopping by then and will be there before you. Ask the head waiter for my table. He knows me. It will be in the bar, not the main dining room. All right?”

“Of course. Thank you.”

“For what? I haven’t done anything for you yet.”

“You will.”

“Will I? In that case you’re paying for the lunch.”

“Done,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said.

Ferguson gave him the address of the chop house and they hung up.

“Oysters!” Ferguson boomed happily. “I definitely recommend the oysters. The horse-radish is freshly ground. Then I’ll have the mutton chop.”

“Very good, sir,” the waiter said.

“Oysters for me also,” Delaney nodded. “Then I’ll have the broiled kidney. What comes with that?”

“Home-fries and salad, sir.”

“Skip the potatoes, please. Just the salad. Oil and vinegar.”

“I’ll have everything,” Ferguson cried, and drained half his martini.

“What did you buy your sister?” Delaney asked.

“A silk scarf. What else? Come on, Edward, what’s this all about? You’re on leave of absence.”

“Do you really want to know?”

Dr. Sanford Ferguson was suddenly sober and quiet. He stared at Delaney a long moment. “No,” he said finally. “I really don’t want to know. Except…will my name be brought into it?”

“I swear to you-no.”

“That’s good enough for me.”

Their oysters were brought, and they looked down at them, beaming. They went through the business with the horse-radish sauce and the hot stuff. They swallowed, looked at each other, groaned with pleasure.

“All right,” Ferguson said. “What do you want?”

“About your report on the Lombard-”

“How did you get my report?”

Delaney looked at him steadily. “You said you didn’t want to know.”

“That’s right; I don’t. All right, what about the report?”

“I have a few questions.” Delaney took a short list out of his side pocket, put it on the cloth before him, donned his heavy glasses, consulted it, then leaned toward Ferguson.

“Doctor,” he said earnestly, “your official reports are most complete. I don’t deny it. But they’re couched in medical language. As they should be, of course,” he added hastily. “So?”

“I have some questions about what your medical terms mean.”

“Edward, you’re jiving me.”

“Well…really what the significance is.”

“That’s better,” Ferguson smiled. “You can read a PM as well as a third-year medical student.”

“Yes. Also, I happen to know, doctor, that you include in your official reports only that which you objectively observe and which could be substantiated by any other capable surgeon doing the identical post-mortem. I also know that in an autopsy-in any investigation-there are impressions, feelings, hunches-call them what you like-that can never be part of an official report because the physical evidence doesn’t exist. And its those impressions, feelings and hunches that I want from you.”

Ferguson slipped a dipped oyster into his mouth, swallowed, rolled his eyes.

“You’re a bastard, Edward,” he said amiably. “You really are a bastard. You’ll use anyone, won’t you?”

“Yes,” Delaney nodded. “I’ll use anyone. Any time.”

“Let’s start from word one,” Ferguson said, busily stirring his oyster sauce. “Let’s start with head wounds. Much experience?”

“No. Not much.”

“Edward, the human skull and the human brain are tougher beyond your comprehension. Ever read a detective novel or see a movie where a man has a single bullet fired into his head and dies instantly? Practically impossible. I’ve had cases of victims with five bullets in their heads who lived. They were vegetables, true, but they lived. Three years ago I had a would-be suicide who fired a bullet at his head with a low calibre revolver. Twenty-two, I think. The slug bounced off his skull and hit the ceiling. Literally. Commit suicide by firing a bullet into your temple? Forget it. The slug could pass completely through, come out the other side, and you still wouldn’t be dead. You might live hours, weeks, or years. Maybe you couldn’t talk, or move, or control your bowels, but you’d be alive. How are your oysters, Edward?”

“Very good. Yours?”

“Marvelous. There’s only one way of committing sure suicide-instantaneous suicide-by a gunshot to the head. That’s by using a pistol or revolver of reasonably heavy calibre, say a thirty-eight at least-a rifle or shotgun would do as well, of course-put the muzzle deep into your mouth aimed at the back of your head, close your lips and teeth firmly about the barrel, pull the trigger, and splatter your brains onto the opposing wall. Some of these little oysterettes, Edward?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Now about the Lombard homicide. The entry was made from the back, low on the crown. About halfway to where the spine joins the skull. The only other spot where death might be instantaneous.”

“You think the killer had a surgeon’s knowledge?”

“Oh God, no,” Ferguson said, signaling the waiter to remove their emptied oyster plates. “Yes, to hit that spot deliberately would require a surgeon’s experience. But the victim would have to be on an operating table. No killer swinging a weapon violently could hope to hit it. It was luck. The killer’s luck, not Lombard’s luck.”

“Was death instantaneous?” Delaney asked.

“Close to it. If not instant, then within a few seconds. A half-inch to the right or left and the man might have lived for hours or weeks.”

“It was that close?”

“I told you the human skull and brain are much tougher than most people realize. Do you know how many ex-soldiers are walking around today with hunks of shrapnel in their brains? They live normally, except for occasional crushing headaches, but we can’t operate. And they’ll live out their normal lives and die from smoking too many cigarettes or eating too much cheese.”

The mutton chop, broiled kidney, and salads were served. Ferguson got his home-fries, a big plate with plenty of onions. After consultation with the head waiter, who was 343 years old, they ordered a bottle of heavy burgundy.

“To get back to Lombard,” Delaney said, digging into his broiled kidney, “was it really a circular wound?”

“Oh you’re so smart,” Ferguson said without rancor. “You’re so fucking smart. My report stated it appeared to be a circular penetration. But I had the impression it could have been triangular. Or even square. Look, Edward, you’ve never probed a brain penetration. You think it’s like pounding a spike into modeling clay, and then you pull out the spike and you’ve got a nice, clean perfect cavity? It’s nothing like that. The wound fills up. Brain matter presses in. There is blood. Bits of bone. Hair. All kinds of crap. And you expect me to-How’s the kidney?”

“Delicious,” Delaney said. “I’ve been here before, but I forgot how much bacon they give you.”

“The mutton chop is fine,” Ferguson said, dipping into his little dish of applesauce. “I’m really enjoying this. But about that Lombard wound…In addition to the impression I had that the opening was not necessarily circular in shape, I also had the feeling that the penetration curved downward.”

“Curved?”

“Yes. Like a limp cone. The tip of the weapon lower than the shaft. A curve. Like a hard-on just beginning to go soft. You understand?”

“Yes. But why are you so uncertain about the shape of the wound and the shape of the penetration? I know what you wrote, but what do you guess?”

“I think, I guess that Lombard fell forward with such force that it wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand. And that the killer then bent forward and twisted his tool or weapon to remove it from Lombard’s skull. If the spike was triangular or square, the twisting would result in a roughly circular shape.”

“And it would mean the weapon was valuable to the killer,” Delaney said. “He took the time to recover it. It was valuable intrinsically, or valuable because it might be traced to the killer. Murderers who use a hammer or pipe or rock usually wear gloves and leave the weapon behind.”

“Beautiful,” Dr. Ferguson said, draining his wine. “I love to listen to you think.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t a hammer,” Delaney said. “I never really believed it was.”

“Why not?”

“I’ve handled three hammer cases. In two of them the handle broke. In the third, the head snapped off.”

“So you knew how tough the human skull is? But you let me talk.”

“That’s the name of the game. Anything else?”

“What else? Nothing else. It’s all smoke. On the evidence, the penetration was circular, but it might have been triangular. It might have been square. It hit the one spot that killed the man instantly. Do I think the killer has surgical knowledge? No. It was a lucky hit.”

“Dessert?” Delaney asked.

“Just coffee for me, thanks.”

“Two coffees, please,” Delaney ordered. “Any ideas, any guesses, any wild suggestions at all as to what the weapon might have been?”

“None whatsoever.”

“Was there anything inside the wound you didn’t expect to find? Anything that wasn’t in your report?”

Ferguson looked at him sternly a moment, then relaxed and laughed. “You never give up, do you? There were traces of oil.”

“Oil? What kind of oil?”

“Not enough for analysis. But undoubtedly hair oil. The rest of his hair was heavily oiled, so I assume the oil in the wound came from the hair driven into it.”

“Anything else?”

“Yes. Since you’re paying, I’ll have a brandy.”

After Ferguson took a cab back to his office, Delaney walked slowly toward Sixth Avenue. He realized he was only a few blocks from the flower market and sauntered down there. He was in no hurry. He knew from experience that each investigation had a pace of its own. Some shouted of a quick solution and were wrapped-up in hours. Others had the feel of slow growth and the need for time. The Lombard homicide was one of those. He consoled himself that Broughton, who was in a hurry, was getting nowhere. But was he doing any better? As Dr. Ferguson had said, it was all smoke.

He found what he was looking for in the third flower shop he visited: violets, out of season. They were the flowers with which he had courted Barbara. They were sold by street vendors in those days, old ladies with baskets next to old men selling chestnuts. He would buy a bunch for Barbara and ask, “Fresh roasted violets, lady?” She was always kind enough to laugh. Now he bought the last two bunches the store had and took a cab to the hospital.

But when he tiptoed into her room she was sleeping peacefully and he didn’t have the heart to awaken her. He unwrapped the violets and looked around the room for something to put them in, but there was nothing. Finally he sat in the straight chair, his uniformed bulk overflowing it. He grasped the tender violets in his big fist and waited quietly, watching his wife sleep. He glanced once at the dusty windows. The sharp November sunlight was diluted and softened.

Perhaps, the sad, hunkering man wondered, a marriage was like one of those stained glass windows he had seen in a modest village church in France. From the outside, the windows were almost opaque with the dirt and grime of centuries. But when you went inside, and saw the sunlight leaping through, diffused by the dust, the colors struck into your eye and heart with their boldness and purity, their youth and liveliness.

His marriage to Barbara, he supposed, must seem dull and dusty to an outsider. But seen from within, as father of a family, it was all bright and beguiling, touching and, finally, holy and mysterious. He watched his wife sleep and willed his strength to her, making her whole and laughing again. Then, unable to endure his thoughts, he stood and placed the violets on her bedside table with a scribbled note: “Fresh roasted violets, lady?”

When he got back to his office, Dorfman was waiting for him with a sheet of paper torn from the Telex.

“Captain,” he said in a choked voice, and Delaney was afraid he might weep, “is this-”

“Yes, lieutenant, it’s correct. As of now, I’m on leave of absence. Come on in and let’s talk about it.”

Dorfman followed him inside and took the scarred chair next to Delaney’s desk.

“Captain, I had no idea your wife was so ill.”

“Well, as far as I can guess, it’s going to be a long haul, and I wanted to spend as much time with her as possible.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“Thank you, no. Well, perhaps there is something. You might call her. I have a feeling she’d like to see you. Whenever you can spare the time.”

“I’ll call her right away,” Dorfman cried.

“Wait a few hours. I’ve just come from there, and she’s sleeping.”

“I’ll call just before my watch ends. Then if she wants to see me, I can go right over. What can I bring-flowers, candy, what?”

“Oh nothing, thanks. She has everything she needs.”

“Maybe a cake?” Dorfman said. “A nice cake. She can share it with the nurses. Nurses love cake.”

“Fine,” Delaney smiled. “I think she’d like a cake from you.”

“Captain,” Dorfman mourned, his long horse-face sagging again, “I suppose this means we’ll be getting an Acting Captain?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any idea who it will be, sir?”

Delaney debated a moment, briefly ashamed of manipulating a man so honest and sincere. But it was the sensible thing to do, to cement Dorfman’s trust and affection.

“I recommended you for the job, lieutenant,” he said quietly.

Dorfman’s pale blue eyes widened in shock.

“Me?” he gasped. Then, “Me?” he repeated with real pleasure.

“Wait a minute,” Delaney held up his hand. “I recommended you, but I don’t think you’ll get it. Not because your file isn’t good enough or you couldn’t handle the job, but your rank is against you. This precinct calls for a captain or deputy inspector. You understand that?”

“Oh sure, Captain. But I certainly do appreciate your recommending me.”

“Well, as I said, I don’t think you’re going to get it. So if I were you, I wouldn’t mention it to a soul. Particularly your wife. Then, if they turn you down, it’ll just be your disappointment, and no one will think they considered you and passed you over, for one reason or another.”

“I won’t mention it, sir.”

Delaney considered whether or not to hint to Dorfman the services as a contact he might be asked to provide in the Captain’s investigation of the Lombard homicide. Then he decided against it. This wasn’t the right time, and he had given the man enough to think about.

“In any event,” Delaney said, “if you get the job or don’t get it, remember I’m still living next door and if there is ever anything I can help you with, don’t hesitate to give me a call or ring my bell. I mean that. Don’t get the idea you’ll be bothering me or annoying me. You won’t. As a matter of fact, I’d appreciate knowing what’s going on over here. This is my precinct and, with luck, I hope to be back in command some day.”

“I hope so too, Captain,” Dorfman said fervently. “I really do hope so.” He rose and stuck out a hand. “Best of luck, sir, and I hope Mrs. Delaney is feeling better real soon.”

“Thank you, lieutenant.”

After Dorfman left, Delaney sat swinging back and forth slowly in his swivel chair. Was a man as gentle and sensitive as the lieutenant capable of administering a busy precinct in the New York Police Department? It was a job that occasionally demanded ruthlessness, a certain amount of Broughton-type insensibility. But then, Delaney reflected, ruthlessness could be an acquired trait. Even an assumed trait. He certainly hoped he had not been born with it. Dorfman could learn to be ruthless when necessary, just as he, Delaney, had learned. He did it, but he didn’t enjoy it. Perhaps that was the essential difference between Broughton and him: he didn’t enjoy it.

Then he slammed his swivel chair level and reached into his bottom desk drawer to haul out a long card file. The grey metal box was dented and battered. Delaney opened it and began searching for what he wanted. The cards were filed by subject matter.

Soon after Patrolman Edward X. Delaney was promoted to detective third grade-more years ago than he cared to remember-he became aware that despite the enormous resources of the New York Police Department, he frequently came up against problems that could only be solved, or moved toward solution, by civilian experts.

There was, for instance, a retired detective, delighted to cooperate with his former colleagues, who had established and maintained what was probably the world’s largest collection of laundry marks. There was an 84-year-old spinster who still operated a shop on Madison Avenue. She could glance at an unusual button you showed her, and name the material, age, and source. There was a Columbia University professor whose specialty was crickets and grasshoppers. There was an amateur archeologist, all of whose “digs” had been made within city limits. He could examine rocks and soil and place them within a few blocks of their origin. A Bronx recluse was one of the world’s foremost authorities on ancient writing, and could read hieroglyphics as quickly as Delaney read English.

All these experts were willing-nay, eager to cooperate with police investigations. It was a welcome interruption of their routine, gave them a chance to exhibit their expertise in a good cause. The only problem was shutting them up; they all did seem to talk excessively, like anyone whose hobby is his vocation. But eventually they divulged the information required.

Delaney had them all in his card file, carefully added to and maintained for almost twenty years. Now he flipped through the cards until he found the one he was looking for. It was headed: “Weapons, antique and unusual.” The man’s name was Christopher Langley, an assistant curator of the Arms and Armor Collection of the Metropolitan Museum of Art. (The card following his was “Weapons, modern,” and that man was a retired colonel of Marines.)

Delaney called the Metropolitan (the number on the card), asked for the Arms and Armor Section, and then asked for Christopher Langley.

“I’m sorry, sir,” a young, feminine voice replied. “Mr. Langley is no longer with us. He retired about three years ago.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. Do you happen to know if he’s living in New York?”

“Yes sir, I believe he is.”

“Then he’ll be in the phone book?”

There was a moment’s silence.

“Well…no sir. I believe Mr. Langley has an unlisted number.”

“Could you tell me what it is? I’m a personal friend.”

“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot reveal that information.”

He was tempted to say, “This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department, and this is official business.” Or, he could easily get the number from the phone company, as an official police inquiry. But then he thought better of it. The fewer people who knew of his activities, the better.

“My name is Edward Delaney,” he said. “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to call Mr. Langley at the number you have, tell him I called, and if he wishes to contact me, he can reach me at this number.” He then gave her the phone number of the 251st Precinct.

“Yes sir,” she said. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

He hung up, wondering what percentage of his waking hours was spent on the telephone, trying to complete a call, or waiting for a call. He sat patiently, hoping Langley was in. He was: Delaney’s desk phone rang within five minutes.

“Delaney!” Christopher Langley cried in his remarkably boyish voice (the man was pushing 70). “Gosh, I asked for Lieutenant Delaney and your operator said it was Captain Delaney now. Congratulations! When did that happen?”

“Oh, a few years ago. How are you, sir?”

“Physically I’m fine but, gee, I’m bored.”

“I heard you had retired.”

“Had to do it, you know. Give the young men a chance-eh? The first year I dabbled around with silly things. I’ve become a marvelous gourmet cook. But my gosh, how many Caneton a l'Orange can you make? Now I’m bored, bored, bored. That’s why I was so delighted to hear from you.”

“Well, I need your help, sir, and was wondering if you could spare me a few hours?”

“As long as you like, dear boy, as long as you like. Is it a big caper?”

Delaney laughed, knowing Langley’s fondness for detective fiction.

“Yes sir. A very big caper. The biggest. Murder most foul.”

“Oh gosh,” Langley gasped. “That’s marvelous! Captain, can you join me for dinner tonight? Then afterwards we can have brandy and talk and you can tell me all about it and how I can help.”

“Oh I couldn’t put you to that-”

“No trouble at all!” Langley cried. “Gee, it’ll be wonderful seeing you again, and I can demonstrate my culinary skills for you.”

“Well…” Delaney said, thinking of his evening visit to Barbara, “it will have to be a little later. Is nine o’clock too late?”

“Not at all, not at all! I much prefer dining at a late hour. As soon as I hang up, I’ll dash out and do some shopping.” He gave Delaney his home address.

“Fine,” the Captain said. “See you at nine, sir.”

“Gosh, this is keen!” Langley said. “We’ll have frogs’ legs sauteed in butter and garlic, petite pois with just a hint of bacon and onion, and gratin de pommes de terre aux anchois. And for dessert, perhaps a creme plombieres pralinee. How does that sound to you?”

“Fine,” Delaney repeated faintly. “Just fine.”

He hung up. Oh God, he thought, there goes my diet, and wondered what happened when sauteed frogs’ legs met broiled kidney.

A young woman was walking toward Central Park, between Madison and Fifth Avenues, pushing a baby carriage. Suddenly a wooden rod, about nine inches long, was projecting from her breast. She slumped to her knees, falling forward, and only the fast scramble of a passerby prevented the baby carriage from bouncing into Fifth Avenue traffic.

Delaney, who was then a detective lieutenant working out of Homicide East (as it was then called) arrived on the scene shortly after the woman died. He joined the circle of patrolmen and ambulance attendants staring down incredulously at the woman with the wooden spike driven through her breast, like some modern vampire.

Within an hour they had the missile identified as a quarrel from a crossbow. Delaney went up to the Arms and Armor Department of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, seeking to learn more about crossbows, their operation, range, and velocity of the bolts. That was how he met Christopher Langley.

From the information supplied by the assistant curator, Delaney was able to solve the case, to his satisfaction at least, but it was never prosecuted. The boy responsible, who had shot the bolt at a stranger from a townhouse window across the street, was the son of a wealthy family. They got him out of the country and into a school in Switzerland. He had never returned to the United States. The District Attorney did not feel Delaney’s circumstantial evidence was sufficiently strong to warrant extradition proceedings. The case was still carried as open.

But Delaney had never forgotten Christopher Langley’s enthusiastic cooperation, and his name was added to the detective’s “expert file.” Delaney frequently recalled a special memory of the skinny little man. Langley was showing him through a Museum gallery, deserted except for a grinning guard who evidently knew what to expect.

Suddenly the assistant curator plucked a two-handed sword from the wall, a XVI Century German sword as long as he was tall, and fell into a fighting stance. The blade whirled about his head in circles of flashing steel. He chopped, slashed, parried, thrust.

“That’s how they did it,” he said calmly, and handed the long sword to Delaney.

The detective took it, and it almost clattered to the floor. Delaney estimated its weight as thirty pounds. The wiry Christopher Langley had spun it like a feather.

When he opened the door to his apartment on the fifth floor of a converted brownstone on East 89th Street, he was exactly as Delaney remembered him. In another age he would have been called a fop or dandy. Now he was a well-preserved, alert, exquisitely dressed 70-year-old bachelor with the complexion of a maiden and a small yellow daisy in the lapel of his grey flannel Norfolk jacket.

“Captain!” he said with pleasure, holding out both hands. “Gosh, this is nice!”

It was a small, comfortable apartment the ex-curator had retired to. He occupied the entire top floor: living room, bedroom, bath, and a remarkably large kitchen. There was a glass skylight over the living room which, Delaney was glad to see, had been fitted with a guard of iron bars.

Langley took his hat and overcoat and hung them away.

“Not in uniform tonight, Captain?”

“No. As a matter of fact, I am not on active duty. I’m on leave of absence.”

“Oh?” Langley asked curiously. “For long?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well…do sit down. There-that’s a comfortable chair. Now what can I bring you? Cocktail? Highball?”

“Oh, I don’t-”

“I have a new Italian aperitif I’m trying for the first time. It’s quite dry. Very good on the rocks with a twist of lemon.”

“Sounds fine. Are you having one?”

“Of course. Just take me a minute.”

Langley bustled into the kitchen, and the Captain looked around. The walls of the living room were almost solid bookcases with deep, high shelves to accommodate volumes on antique weaponry, most of them out-size “art books” illustrated with color plates.

Only two actual weapons were on display: an Italian arquebus of the 17th century with exquisitely detailed silver-chasing, and an African warclub. The head was intricately carved stone. Delaney rose to his feet and went over to inspect it. He was turning it in his hands when Langley came back with their drinks.

“Mongo tribe,” he said. “The Congo. A ceremonial ax never used in combat. The balance is bad but I like the carving.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Isn’t it? Dinner in about ten minutes. Meanwhile, let’s relax. Would you like a cigarette?”

“No, thank you.”

“Good. Smoking dulls the palate. Do you know what the secret of good French cooking is?”

“What?”

“A clear palate and butter. Not oil, but butter. The richest, creamiest butter you can find.”

Delaney’s heart sank. The old man caught his look of dismay and laughed.

“Don’t worry, Captain. I’ve never believed you had to eat a lot of one dish to enjoy it. Small portions and several dishes-that’s best.”

He was as good as his word; the portions were small. But Delaney decided it was one of the best dinners he had ever eaten and told the host so. Langley beamed with pleasure.

“A little more dessert? There is more, you know.”

“Not for me. But I’ll have another cup of coffee, if you have it.”

“Of course.”

They had dined at a plain oak table covered with a black burlap cloth, a table, Delaney was sure, doubled as Langley’s desk. Now they both pushed back far enough to cross their legs, have a cigarette, drink coffee, sip the strong Portuguese brandy Langley had served.

“About this-” Delaney had started, but just then the apartment doorbell rang, in the familiar “shave and a haircut, two bits” rhythm, and the Captain was surprised to see Langley’s face go white.

“Oh gracious,” the old man whispered. “It’s her again. The Widow Zimmerman! She lives right below me.”

He bounced to his feet, trotted across the room, looked through the peephole, then unlocked and opened the door.

“Ahh,” he said. “Good evening, Mrs. Zimmerman.”

Delaney had a clear view of her from where he sat. She was perhaps 60, taller than Langley by about six inches, certainly heavier than he by fifty pounds. She balanced a beehive of teased brassy hair above her plump face, and her bare arms looked like something you might see on a butcher’s block. She was so heavily girdled that her body seemed hewn from a single chunk of wood; when she walked, her legs appeared to move only from the knees down.

“Oh, I do hope I’m not disturbing you,” she simpered, looking at the Captain boldly over Langley’s shoulder. “I know you’ve got company. I heard you go out to shop and then come back. I heard your bell ring and your guest arrive. One of your fantastic foreign dinners, I’m sure. Now I just happened to bake a fresh prune strudel today, and I thought you and your guest might enjoy a nice piece for dessert, and here it is.”

She held out the napkin-covered dish to Langley; he took it with the tips of his fingers.

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Zimmerman. Won’t you come-”

“Oh, I won’t interrupt. I wouldn’t think of it.”

She waited expectantly, but Langley did not repeat his invitation.

“I’ll just run along,” the Widow Zimmerman said, pouting at Delaney.

“Thank you for the strudel.”

“My pleasure. Enjoy.”

She gave him a little-girl smile. He closed the door firmly behind her, bolted and chained it, then put his ear to the panel and listened as her steps receded down the stairs. He came back to the table and whispered to Delaney…

“A dreadful woman! Continually bringing me food. I’ve asked her not to, but she does. I’m perfectly capable of cooking for myself. Been doing it for fifty years. And the food she brings! Strudel and chopped liver and stuffed derma and pickled herring. Gracious! I can’t throw it away because she might see it in the garbage cans and be insulted. So I have to wrap it like a gift package and carry it three or four blocks away and dump it into a litter basket. She’s such a problem.”

“I think she’s after you,” Delaney said solemnly.

“Oh my!” Christopher Langley said, blushing. “Her husband-her late husband-was such a nice, quiet man. A retired furrier. Well, let me put this in the kitchen, and then please go on with what you were saying.”

“Did you read in the papers about the murder of Frank Lombard?” the Captain asked when Langley had rejoined him.

“Goodness, I certainly did. Everything I could find. A fascinating case. You know, whenever I read about a real-life murder or assault, I always look for a description of the weapon. After all, that was my life for so many years, and I’m still interested. But in all the accounts of the Lombard killing, the description of the weapon was very vague. Hasn’t it been identified yet?”

“No. It hasn’t. That’s why I’m here. To ask your help.”

“And as you know, I’ll be delighted to give you every assistance I can, dear boy.”

Delaney held up his hand like a traffic cop.

“Just a minute, sir. I want to be honest with you. As I told you, I am not on active duty. I am on leave of absence. I am not part of the official investigation into the death of Frank Lombard.”

Christopher Langley looked at him narrowly a moment, then sat back and began to drum his dainty fingers against the table top.

“Then what is your interest in the Lombard case?”

“I am conducting a-a private investigation into the homicide.”

“I see. Can you tell me more?”

“I would prefer not to.”

“May I ask the purpose of this-ah-private investigation?”

“The main purpose is to find the killer of Frank Lombard as quickly as possible.”

Langley stared at him a long, additional moment, then let off his finger drumming and slapped the table top with an open palm.

“All right,” he said briskly. “Was it a striking weapon or a swinging weapon? That is: do you visualize it as a knife, a dagger, a dirk, a poniard-something of that sort-or was it a sword, pole, battleax, club, mace-something of that sort?”

“I’d say the percentages would be in favor of the swinging weapon.”

“The percentages!” Langley laughed. “I had forgotten you and your percentages. This is a business to you, isn’t it?”

“Yes. It’s a business. And sometimes the only things you have to work with are the percentages. But what you said about a striking weapon-a knife or dagger-surely a blade couldn’t penetrate a man’s skull?”

“It could. And has. If blade and handle are heavy enough. The Marines’ combat knife in World War Two could split a man’s skull. But most blades would glance off, causing only superficial wounds. Besides, Lombard was struck on the head from behind, was he not?”

“That’s correct.”

“Then that would probably rule out a striking weapon. An assailant using a blade and coming from behind would almost certainly go in between the shoulder blades, into the ribs, sever the spine, or try for the kidneys.”

Delaney nodded, marveling at the gusto with which this impish man ticked off these points on his fingers, an enthusiasm made all the more incredible by his age, diminutive physique, elegant appearance.

“All right,” Langley went on, “let’s assume a swinging weapon. One-hand or two-hand?”

“I’d guess one-hand. I think the killer approached Lombard from the front. Then, as he passed, he turned and struck him down. During the approach the weapon could have been concealed beneath a coat on the killer’s arm or in a newspaper folded under his arm.”

“Yes, that certainly rules out a halberd! You’re talking about something about the size of a hatchet?”

“About that.”

“Captain, do you believe it was an antique weapon?”

“I doubt that very much. Once again, the percentages are against it. In my lifetime I’ve investigated only two homicides in which antique weapons were used. One was the crossbow case in which you were involved. The other was a death caused by a ball fired from an antique duelling pistol.”

“Then we’ll assume a modern weapon?”

“Yes.”

“Or a modern tool. You must realize that many modern tools have evolved from antique weapons. The reverse is also true, of course. During hand-to-hand combat in Korea and Vietnam, there were several cases of American soldiers using their Entrenching tool, shovel, or Entrenching tool, pickmattock, as a weapon both for offense and defense. Now let’s get to the wound itself. Was it a crushing, cutting, or piercing blow?”

“Piercing. It was a penetration, about three to four inches long.”

“Oh my, that is interesting! And what was the shape of the penetration?”

“Here I’m going to get a little vague,” Delaney warned. “The official autopsy of the examining surgeon states that the outside wound was roughly circular in shape, about one inch in diameter. The penetration dwindled rapidly to a sharp point, the entire penetration being round and, as I said, about three or four inches deep.”

“Round?” Langley cried, and the Captain was surprised at the little man’s expression.

“Yes, round,” he repeated. “Why-is anything wrong?”

“Is the surgeon certain of this? The roundness, I mean?”

“No, he is not. But the wound was of such a nature that precise measurements and analysis were impossible. The surgeon had a feeling-just a guess on his part-that the spike that penetrated was triangular or square, and that the weapon became stuck in the wound, or the victim in falling forward, wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand, and that the killer then had to twist the weapon back and forth to free it. And this twisting motion, with a square or triangular spike, would result in-”

“Ah-ha!” Langley shouted, slapping his thigh. “That’s exactly what happened! And the surgeon believes the spike could have been triangular or square?”

“Believes it could have been-yes.”

“Was” Langley said definitely. “It was. Believe me, Captain. Do you know how many weapons there are with tapering round spikes that could cause the kind of wound you describe? I could name them on the fingers of one hand. You will find round spikes on the warclubs of certain Northwest Coast Indian tribes. There is a Tlingit warclub with a jade head that tapers to a point. It is not perfectly round, however. Thompson Indians used a warclub with a head of wood that was round and tapered: a perfect cone. The Tsimshian Indians used horn and bone, again round and tapered. Eskimo tribes used clubs with spikes of bone or narwhale or walrus tusks. Do you understand the significance of what I am saying, Captain?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“The materials used in weapons that had a cone spike were almost always natural materials that tapered naturally-such as teeth or tusks-or were soft materials, such as wood, that could be tapered to a cone shape easily. But now let’s move on to iron and steel. Early metal weapons were made by armorers and blacksmiths working with a hammer on a hot slug held on an anvil. It was infinitely easier and faster to fashion a flat spike, a triangular spike, or a square spike, than a perfect cone that tapered to a sharp point. I can’t recall a single halberd, partison or couteaux de breche in the Metropolitan that has a round spike. Or any war hammer or war hatchet. I seem to remember a mace in the Rotterdam museum that had a round spike, but I’d have to look it up. In any event, early weapons almost invariably were fashioned with flat sides, usually triangular or square, or even hexagonal. A perfectly proportioned round spike was simply too difficult to make. And even after dies and stamping of iron and steel came into existence, the same held true. It is cheaper, faster, and easier to make blades and spikes with flat sides than round ones that taper to a point. I think your surgeon’s ‘guesses’ are correct. Using your famous ‘percentages.’”

“Interesting,” Delaney nodded, “and exactly what I came to you for. But there’s another thing I should tell you. I don’t know what it means, if anything, but perhaps you will. The surgeon has a feeling that the sharp tip of the penetration was lower than the opening wound. You understand? It was not a straight, tapered penetration, but it curved gently downward. Maybe I should make a little drawing.”

“Oh gosh,” Langley chortled, “that’s not necessary. I know exactly what you mean.” He leaped to his feet, rushed to a bookcase, ran his fingers over the bindings, grabbed out a big book, and hustled it back to the table. He turned to the List of Illustrations, ran his finger down, found what he was looking for, and flipped pages. “There,” he said. “Take a look at that, Captain.”

Delaney stared. It was a one-handed club. The head had a hatchet blade on one side, a spike on the other. The spike was about an inch across at the head, tapered to a sharp point and, as it tapered, curved downward.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Iroquois tomahawk. Handle of ash. Those are feathers tied to the butt. The head is iron, probably cut out of a sheet of hot metal with shears or hammered out with a chisel and then filed sharp. White traders carried them and sold them for pelts.”

“Are you suggesting…?”

“Heavens, no. But note how that flat spike curves downward? I could show you that same curve in warclubs and war-axes and halberds of practically every nation, tribe, and race on earth. Very effective; very efficient. When you hack down on a man, you don’t want to hit his skull with a horizontal spike that might glance off. You want a spike that curves downward, pierces, penetrates, and kills.”

“Yes,” Delaney said. “I suppose you do.”

The two men sat in silence a few moments, staring at the color photo of the Iroquois tomahawk. How many had that killed, Delaney wondered, and then, leafing slowly through the book, was suddenly saddened by the effort, art, and genius that the human race had expended on killing tools, on powder and shot, sword and stiletto, bayonet and bludgeons, crossbow and Centurion tank, blowpipe and cannon, spear and hydrogen bomb. There was, he supposed, no end to it.

But what was the need, or lust, behind all this interest, ingenuity, and vitality in the design and manufacture of killing tools? The lad with his slingshot and the man with his gun: both showing a dark atavism. Was killing then a passion, from the primeval slime, as valid an expression of the human soul as love and sacrifice?

Suddenly depressed, Delaney rose to his feet and tried to smile at his host.

“Mr. Langley,” he said brightly, “I thank you for a pleasant evening, a wonderful dinner, and for your kind cooperation. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

Christopher Langley seemed as depressed as his guest. He looked up listlessly.

“I haven’t helped, Captain, and you know it. You’re no closer to identifying the weapon that killed Frank Lombard than you were three hours ago.”

“You have helped, sir,” Delaney insisted. “You’ve substantiated the surgeon’s impressions. You’ve given me a clearer idea of what to look for. In a case like this, every little bit helps.”

“Captain…”

“Yes, Mr. Langley?”

“In this ‘private investigation’ of yours, the weapon isn’t the only thing. I know that. You’re going to interview people and check into past records and things like that. Isn’t that true?”

“Yes.”

“Well, gosh, then you can only spend so much time trying to identify the weapon. Isn’t that so?”

“Yes.”

“Captain, let me do it. Please. Let me try.”

“Mr. Langley, I can’t-”

“I know you’re not on active duty. I know it’s a private investigation. You told me. But still…you’re trying. Let me help. Please. Look at me. I’m seventy. I’m retired. To tell you the truth, Captain, I’m sick of gourmet cooking. My whole life was…Oh God, what am I supposed to do-sit up here and wait to die? Captain, please, let me do something, something important. This man Lombard was murdered. That’s not right. Life is too precious.”

“That’s what my wife said,” Delaney said wonderingly.

“She knew,” Langley nodded, his eyes glistening now. “Let me do some work, some important work. I know weapons. You know that. I might be a help to you. Truly. Let me try.”

“I don’t have any funds,” Delaney started. “I can’t-”

“Forget it,” the old man waved him away. “This will cost nothing. I can pay for cabs and books, or whatever. But let me work. At an important job. You understand, Captain? I don’t want to just drift away.”

The Captain stared, wondering if the ex-curator was prey to his own gloomy thoughts. Langley was far from being stupid, and how did an intelligent man justify a lifetime devoted to killing tools? Perhaps it was true, as he had said, that he was simply bored with retirement and wanted to work again. But his insistence on something “important,” “important” work, an “important” job led Delaney to wonder if the old man, his life drawing to a close, was not, in a sense, seeking a kind of expiation, or at least hungering to make a sunny, affirmative gesture after a career celebrating shadows and the bog.

“Yes,” Captain Delaney said, clearing his throat. “I understand. All right. Fine. I appreciate that, sir. If I find out anything more relating to the weapon, I’ll make sure you know of it. Meanwhile, see what you can come up with.”

“Oh!” Langley cried, effervescent again. “I’ll get on it right away. There are some things I want to check in my books tonight, and tomorrow I’ll go to the museums. Maybe I’ll get some ideas there. And to hardware stores. To look at tools. Captain, am I a detective now?”

“Yes,” Delaney smiled. “You’re a detective.”

He moved toward the door, and Langley scampered to get his coat and hat from the closet. He gave his unlisted phone number to the Captain, and Delaney carefully copied it into his pocket notebook. Langley unlocked the door, then leaned close.

“Captain,” he whispered, “one final favor…When you go down the stairs, please try to tiptoe past the Widow Zimmerman’s door. I don’t want her to know I’m alone.”