The 1st Deadly Sin

Part V
1

Three times a week a commercial messenger arrived at Captain Delaney’s home with copies of the most recent Operation Lombard reports. Delaney noted they were becoming fewer and shorter, and Chief Pauley was sending his detectives back to recheck matters already covered: Lombard’s private life and political career; possible links with organized crime; any similar assaults or homicides in the 251st Precinct, neighboring precincts, and eventually all of Manhattan, then all of New York; and then queries to the FBI and the police departments of large cities asking for reports of homicides of a similar nature.

Delaney admired Chief Pauley’s professional competence. The Chief had assembled a force of almost 500 detectives brought in from all over the city. Many of these men Delaney knew personally or by reputation, and they included assault specialists, weapons technicians, men familiar with the political jungle, and detectives whose success was based on their interrogative techniques.

The result was nil: no angle, no handle, no apparent motive. Chief Pauley, in a confidential memo to Deputy Commissioner Broughton, had even suggested a possibility that Delaney himself had considered: the snuff had been committed by a policeman angered by Lombard’s public attacks on the efficiency of the Department. Pauley didn’t believe it.

Captain Delaney didn’t either. A policeman would probably kill with a gun. But most career cops, who had seen mayors, commissioners, and politicians of all ranks come and go, would shrug off Lombard’s criticism as just some more publicity bullshit, and go about their jobs.

The more Delaney pondered the killing, the more Operation Lombard reports he studied, the more firmly he became convinced that it was a motiveless crime. Not motiveless to the killer, of course, but motiveless to any rational man. Lombard had been a chance victim.

Delaney tried to fill up his hours. He visited his wife in the hospital twice a day, at noon and in the early evening. He did some brief interrogations of his own, visiting Frank Lombard’s partner, his mother, and a few of his political associates. For these interviews Delaney wore his uniform and badge, risking Broughton’s wrath if he should somehow discover what Delaney was up to. But it was all a waste of time; he learned nothing of value.

One evening, despairing of his failure to make any meaningful progress, he took a long pad of legal notepaper, yellow and ruled, and headed it “The Suspect.” He then drew a line down the center of the page. The lefthand column he headed “Physical,” the righthand column “Psychological.” He resolved to write down everything he knew or suspected about the killer. Under “Physical” he listed:

“Probably male, white.”

“Tall, probably over six feet.”

“Strong and young. Under 35?”

“Of average or good appearance. Possibly well-dressed.”

“Very quick with good muscular coordination. An athlete?” Under “Psychological” he listed:

“Cool, determined.”

“Driven by unknown motive.”

“Psychopath? Unruh type?”

At the bottom of the page he made a general heading he called “Additional Notes.” Under this he listed:

“Third person involved? Because of stolen license as ‘proof of homicide.’”

“Resident of 251st Precinct?”

Then he reread his list. It was, he admitted, distressingly skimpy. But just the act of writing down what he knew-or guessed, rather; he knew nothing-made him feel better. It was all smoke and shadows. But he began to feel someone was there. Someone dimly glimpsed…

He read the list again, and again, and again. He kept coming back to the notation “Driven by unknown motive.”

In all his personal experiences with and research on psychopathic killers he had never come across or read of a killer totally without motive. Certainly the motive might be irrational, senseless, but in every case, particularly those involving multiple murders, the killer had a “motive.” It might be as obvious as financial gain; it might be an incredible philosophical structure as creepy and cheap as an Eiffel Tower built of glued toothpicks.

But however mad the assassin, he had his reasons: the slights of society, the whispers of God, the evil of man, the demands of political faith, the fire of ego, the scorn of women, the terrors of loneliness…whatever. But he had his reasons. Nowhere, in Delaney’s experience or in his readings, existed the truly motiveless killer, the quintessentially evil man who slew as naturally and casually as another man lighted a cigarette or picked his nose.

There was no completely good man alive upon this earth and, Delaney believed-hoped! — there was no completely evil man. It was not a moral problem; it was just that no man was complete, in any way. So the killer of Frank Lombard had crushed his skull for a reason, a reason beyond logic and sense, but for a purpose that had meaning to him, twisted and contorted though it might be.

Sitting there in the gloom of his study, reading and rereading his sad little “Portrait of a Killer,” Edward Delaney thought of this man existing, quite possibly not too far from where he now sat. He wondered what this man might be thinking and dreaming, might be hoping and planning.

In the morning he made his own breakfast, since it had been arranged that their day-only maid, Mary, would go directly from her home to the hospital, bringing Barbara fresh nightgowns and an address book she had requested. Delaney drank a glass of tomato juice, doggedly ate his way through two slices of unbuttered whole wheat toast, and drank two cups of black coffee. He scanned the morning paper as he ate. The Lombard story had fallen back to page 14. It said, in essence, there was nothing to say.

Wearing his winter overcoat, for the November day was chill, and the air smelled of snow, Delaney left the house before ten a.m. and walked over to Second Avenue, to a phone booth in a candy store. He dialed Deputy Inspector Thorsen’s answering service, left his phone booth number, hung up, waited patiently. Thorsen was back to him within five minutes. “I have nothing to report,” Delaney said flatly. “Nothing.” Thorsen must have caught something in his tone, for he attempted to soothe.

“Take it easy, Edward. Broughton doesn’t have anything either.”

“I know.”

“But I have some good news for you.”

“What’s that?”

“We were able to get your Lieutenant Dorfman a temporary appointment as Acting Commander of the Two-five-one Precinct.”

“That’s fine. Thank you.”

“But it’s only for six months. After that, either you’ll be back on the job or we’ll have to put in a captain or deputy inspector.”

“I understand. Good enough. It’ll help with the problem of Lombard’s driver’s license.”

“What’s the problem?”

“I’m on leave of absence, but I’m still on the Department list. I’ve got to report the license is missing.”

“Edward, you worry too much.”

“Yes. I do. But I’ve got to report it.”

“That means Broughton will learn about it.”

“Possibly. But if there is another killing, and I think there will be, and Chief Pauley’s boys find the victim’s license is missing-or anything like it-they’ll check back with Lombard’s widow down in Florida. She’ll tell them I asked about the license and she couldn’t find it. Then my ass will be in a sling. Broughton will have me up for withholding evidence.”

“How do you want to handle it?”

“I’ve got to check the book, but as I recall, precinct reports of lost or stolen drivers’ licenses are sent to Traffic Department personnel who then forward the report to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles. I’ll tell Dorfman about it and ask him to file the usual form. But Broughton might learn about it from Traffic. If they get a report that Frank Lombard’s license is missing, someone will start screaming.”

“Not to worry. We have a friend in Traffic.”

“I thought you might have.”

“Tell Dorfman to make out the usual form, but to call me before he sends it in. I’ll tell him the man to send it to in Traffic. It will get to the State, but no one will tip Broughton. Does that satisfy you?”

“Yes.”

“You’re playing this very cautiously, Edward.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes, I guess we are. Edward, tell me…”

“What?”

“Are you making any progress at all? Even if it’s something you don’t want to talk about yet?”

“Yes,” Delaney lied, “I’m making progress.”

He walked back to his home, head bent, hands deep in overcoat pockets, trundling through the damp, gloomy day. His lie to Thorsen depressed him. It always depressed him when it was necessary to manipulate people. He would do it, but he would not enjoy it.

Why was it necessary to keep Thorsen’s morale high? Because…because, Delaney decided, the Lombard homicide was more than just an intramural feud between the Broughton forces and the Thorsen-Johnson forces. In fact, he acknowledged, he had accepted their offer, not because he instinctively disliked Broughton and wanted him put down, or had any interest in Departmental politics, but because…because…because…

He groaned aloud, knowing he was once again at the bone, gnawing. Was it the intellectual challenge? The atavistic excitement of the chase? The belief he was God’s surrogate on earth? Why did he do it! For that universe of harmony and rhythm he had described so glowingly to Thomas Handry? Oh shit! He only knew, mournfully, that the time, mental effort and creative energy spent exploring his own labyrinthine motives might better be spent finding the man who sent a spike smashing into the skull of Frank Lombard.

He came up to his own stoop, and there was Lieutenant Dorfman ringing his bell. The lieutenant turned as he approached, saw Delaney, grinned, came bouncing down the steps. He caught up Delaney’s hand, shook it enthusiastically.

“I got it, Captain!” he cried. “Acting Commander for six months. I thank you!”

“Good, good,” Delaney smiled, gripping Dorfman’s shoulder. “Come in and have a coffee and tell me about it.”

They sat in the kitchen, and Delaney was amused to note that Dorfman was already assuming the prerogatives of his new rank; he unbuttoned his uniform blouse and sat sprawled, his long, skinny legs thrust out. He would never have sat in such a position in the Captain’s office, but Delaney could understand, and even approve.

He read the teletype Dorfman had brought over and smiled again.

“All I can tell you is what I said before: I’m here and I’ll be happy to help you any way I can. Don’t be shy of asking. There’s a lot to learn.”

“I know that, Captain, and I appreciate anything you can do. You’ve already done plenty recommending me.”

Delaney looked at him closely. Here it was again: using people. He forced ahead.

“I was glad to do it,” he said. “In return, there is something you can do for me.”

“Anything, Captain.”

“Right now, I am going to ask you for two favors. In the future, I will probably ask for more. I swear to you I will not ask you to do anything that will jeopardize your record or your career. If you decide my word is not sufficient-and believe me, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought that-then I won’t insist. All right?”

Dorfman straightened in his chair, his expression puzzled at first, then serious. He stared at Delaney a long moment, their eyes locked.

“Captain, we’ve worked together a long time.”

“Yes. We have.”

“I can’t believe you’d ask me to do anything I shouldn’t do.”

“Thank you.”

“What is it you want?”

“First, I want you to file a report with the Traffic Department of a missing driver’s license. I want it clearly stated on the report that I was the one who brought this matter to your attention. Before the report is sent in, I ask you to call Deputy Inspector Thorsen. He will give you the name of the man in the Traffic Department to send the report to. Thorsen has assured me the report will be forwarded to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles in the usual manner.” Dorfman was bewildered.

“That’s not much of a favor, Captain. That’s just routine. Is it your license?”

“No. It’s Frank Lombard’s.”

Dorfman stared at him again, then slowly began to button up his uniform jacket.

“Lombard’s?”

“Yes. Lieutenant, if you want to ask questions, I’ll try to answer them. But please don’t be insulted if I say that in this matter, the less you know, the better.”

The tall, red-headed man stood, began to pace about the kitchen, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, He counted the walls, didn’t look at Delaney.

“I’ve been hearing things,” he said. “Rumors.”

“I imagine you have,” Delaney nodded, knowing there was scarcely a man in the Department, down to the lowliest probationary patrolman, who wasn’t dimly aware of the feuds and schisms amongst high-level commanders. “You don’t want to get involved in it, do you?”

Dorfman stopped and gripped the top rail of a kitchen chair with reddish hands, knuckles bulging. Now he looked directly at Delaney.

“No, Captain, I don’t want to get involved at all.”

“What I’ve asked so far is pure routine, is it not? I’m asking you to report a missing driver’s license. That’s all.”

“All right. I’ll call Thorsen, get the name of the man at the Traffic Department, and file a report. Do you know the license number?”

“No.”

“What is the second favor you want, Captain?”

There was something in his voice, something sad. The Captain knew Dorfman would do as he, Delaney, requested. But somehow, subtly, their relationship had changed. Dorfman would pay his debt as long as he was not compromised. But once he paid what he felt was enough, they would no longer be mentor and student, captain and lieutenant. They would no longer be friends. They would be professional associates, cautious, pleasant but reserved, watchful. They would be rivals.

Delaney had, he acknowledged, already destroyed a cordial relationship. In some small way he had corrupted faith and trust. Now, to Dorfman, he was just another guy who wanted a favor. But there was no help for it, no turning back.

“The second favor,” Delaney said, accenting the word “favor” somewhat ironically, “is that I would appreciate it, lieutenant-” and again he deliberately accented the word “lieutenant”-“if you would keep me personally informed of any assaults or homicides in the Two-five-one Precinct in which the circumstances and particularly the wound are similar to the Lombard homicide.”

“That’s all?” Dorfman asked, and now the irony was his.

“Yes.”

“All right, Captain,” Dorfman nodded. He hooked his collar, tugged his jacket straight. The stains and crumbs were missing now. He was Acting Commander of the 251st Precinct.

He strode to the door without another word. Then, hand on the knob, he paused, turned to face Delaney, and seemed to soften.

“Captain,” he said, “in case you’re interested, I already have orders to report any assault or homicide like that to Chief Pauley.”

“Of course,” Delaney nodded. “He couldn’t do anything else. Report to him first.”

“Then to you?”

“Then to me. Please.”

Dorfman nodded, and was gone.

Delaney sat without moving. Then he held out his right hand. It was trembling, a bit. It had not gone as well as he had hoped or as badly as he had feared. But, he assured himself again, it had to be done-and perhaps it would have happened in the ordinary course of events. Dorfman was a natural worshipper, almost a hanger-on, and if he was to make anything of himself, eventually he would have to be cast adrift, sink or swim. And Delaney laughed ruefully at his own rationalizing. There was, he admitted disgustedly, too goddamn much Hamlet in him.

It was almost time to leave for the hospital. He consulted his little pocket notebook and checked off the items Mary had taken care of. He had already donned his overcoat and hard Homburg, his hand reaching for the outside doorknob, when the phone rang. He picked up the extension in the hall and said, “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Captain, this is Christopher Langley.”

“Mr. Langley. Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”

“Very well, and you?”

“Fine. I’ve been intending to call, but I didn’t want you to feel I was pressuring you. So I thought it best to say nothing. You understand?”

There was silence for a moment, then Langley said, “I think I do understand. Gee, this is great! But it’s been over a week since we met. Could we have lunch today, Captain? There’s something I’d like your advice on.”

“Oh?” Delaney said. “I’m afraid I can’t make lunch. My wife is in the hospital, and I’m just leaving to visit her.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. Nothing serious, I hope?”

“Well…we don’t know. But it will take time. Listen, Mr. Langley, what you wanted to talk to me about-is it important?”

“It might be, Captain,” the thin, flutey voice came back, excited now. “It’s not anything final, but it’s a beginning. That’s why-”

“Yes, yes,” Delaney interrupted. “Mr. Langley, would it be possible for you to meet me at the hospital? I do want to see you. Unfortunately, I can’t have lunch with you, but we’ll have a chance to talk and discuss your problem.”

“Excellent!” Christopher Langley chortled, and Delaney knew he was enjoying this cloak-and-dagger conversation. “I’ll be glad to meet you there. I hope you may be able to help me. At least it will give me an opportunity to meet your wife.” Delaney gave him the address and room number, and then rang off. The Captain stood a moment, his hand still on the dead phone, and hoped, not for the first time, that he had acted correctly in entrusting the important job of weapon identification to this elderly dandy. He started to analyze his motives for enlisting Langley’s aid: the man’s expertise; the need to recruit a staff, however amateur; Langley’s plea for “important” work; Delaney’s need-

He snorted with disgust at his own maunderings. He wanted to move on the Lombard homicide, and it seemed to him he had spent an unconscionable amount of time interrogating himself, probing his own motives, as if he might be guilty of-of what? Dereliction of duty? He resolved to be done, for this day at least, with such futile searchings. What was necessary was to do.

Barbara was seated in a wheelchair at the window, and she turned her head to give him a dazzling smile when he entered. But he had come to dread that appearance of roseate good health-the bright eyes and flushed cheeks-knowing what it masked. He crossed the room swiftly, smiling, kissed her cheek, and presented her with what might have been the biggest, reddest Delicious apple ever grown.

“An apple for the teacher,” he said.

“What did I ever teach you?” she laughed, touching his lips. “I’d tell you, but I don’t want to get you unnecessarily excited.”

She laughed again and turned the enormous apple in her slim fingers, stroking it. “It’s beautiful.”

“But probably mealy as hell. The big ones usually are.”

“Maybe I won’t eat it,” she said faintly. “Maybe I’ll just keep it next to my bed and look at it.”

He was concerned. “Well…yes,” he said finally. “Why not? Listen, how are you? I know you must be bored with me asking that, but you know I must ask it.”

“Of course.” She reached out to put a hand on his. “They started the new injections this morning. Two days before they know.” She was comforting him.

He nodded miserably. “Is everything all right?” he asked anxiously. “I mean the food? The nurses?”

“Everything is fine.”

“I asked for Temples at that stand on First Avenue. They expect them next week. I’ll bring them over then.”

“It’s not important.”

“It is important,” he said fiercely. “You like Temples, you’ll get Temples.”

“All right, Edward,” she smiled, patting his hand. “It’s important, and I’ll get Temples.”

Then she was gone. It had happened several times recently, and it frightened him. Her body seemed to stiffen, her eyes took on an unfocused stare. She ceased speaking but her lips moved, pouting and drawing apart, kissing, over and over, like a babe suckling, and with the same soft, smacking sound. “Listen,” he said hurriedly, “when Eddie was here last week, I thought he looked thin. Didn’t you think he looked thin?”

“Honey Bunch,” she said.

“What?” he asked, not understanding and wanting to weep. “My Honey Bunch books,” she repeated patiently, still looking somewhere. “What happened to them?”

“Oh,” he said. “Your Honey Bunch books. Don’t you remember? When Liza told us she was pregnant, we packed up all the children’s books and sent them off to her.”

“Maybe she’ll send them back,” she murmured, turning her head to look at him with blind eyes. “My Honey Bunch books.”

“I’ll get some for you.”

“I don’t want new ones. I want the old ones.”

“I know, I know,” he said desperately. “The old ones with the red covers and the drawings. I’ll get them for you, Barbara. Barbara? Barbara?”

Slowly the focus of her eyes shortened. She came back. He saw it happen. Then she was looking at him.

“Edward?”

“Yes,” he said, “I’m here.”

She smiled, gripped his hand. “Edward,” she repeated.

“Listen, Barbara, there is someone coming here to meet me. Christopher Langley. He’s an ex-curator of the Metropolitan. I told you about him.”

“Oh, yes,” she nodded. “You told me. He’s trying to identify the weapon in the Lombard case.”

“Exactly!” he cried delightedly, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

“What was that for?” she laughed.

“For being you.”

“Edward, when Eddie was here last week, didn’t you think he looked a little thin?”

“Yes,” he nodded. “I thought he looked a little thin.”

He lurched his chair closer, clasping her hands, and they talked of little things: the drapes in the study, whether or not to draw out accumulated dividends on his insurance policy to help pay hospital costs, what he had for breakfast, a rude attendant in the X-ray lab, a nurse who had unaccountably broken into tears while taking Barbara’s temperature. He told her about Dorfman’s promotion. She told him about a pigeon that came to her windowsill every morning at the same time.

They spoke in low, droning voices, not really hearing each other, but gripping hands and singing a lovely duet.

They came out of it, interrupted by a timid but persistent rapping on the hospital room door. Delaney turned from the waist. “Come in,” he called.

And into the room came dashing the dapper Christopher Langley, beaming. And behind him, like a battle-ship plowing into the wake of a saucy corvette, came the massive Widow Zimmerman, also beaming. Both visitors carried parcels: brown paper bags of curious shape.

Delaney sprang to his feet. He shook Langley’s little hand and bowed to the Widow. He introduced his wife to both. Barbara brightened immediately. She liked people, and she particularly liked people who knew what they were and could live with it.

There was talk, laughter, confusion. Barbara insisted on being moved back to the bed, knowing Edward would want to talk to Langley privately. The Widow Zimmerman planted her monumental butt in a chair alongside the bed and opened her brown paper bag. Gefilte fish! And homemade at that. The two men stood by, nodding and smiling, as the Widow expounded on the nutritive and therapeutic qualities of gefilte fish.

Within moments the good Widow had leaned forward over the bed, grasped one of Barbara’s hands in her own meaty fists, and the two women were deep in a whispered discussion of such physical intimacy that the men hastily withdrew to a corner of the hospital room, pulled up chairs, leaned to each other.

“First of all, Captain,” the little man said, “let me tell you immediately that I have not identified the weapon that killed Frank Lombard. I went through my books, I visited museums, and I saw several weapons-antique weapons-that could have made that skull puncture. But I agree with you: it was a modern weapon or tool. Gosh, I thought about it! Then, last week, I was walking down my street, and a Con Edison crew was tearing up the pavement. To lay a new cable, I suppose. They do it all the time. Anyway, they had a trench dug. There was a man in the trench, a huge black, and even in this weather he was stripped to the waist. A magnificent torso. Heroic. But Captain. An ordinary pick. A wooden handle as long as a woodsman’s ax, and then a steel head with a pick on each side, tapering to a point. Much too large to be the Lombard weapon, of course. And I remembered you felt the killer carried it concealed. Extremely difficult to carry a concealed pick.”

“Yes,” Delaney nodded, “it would be. But the pick idea is interesting.”

“The shape!” Langley said, hunching forward. “That’s what caught my eye. A square spike tapering to a sharp point. More than that, each spike of the pick curved downward, just as your surgeon described the wound. So I began wondering if that pick, customarily used in excavation and construction work, might have a smaller counterpart-a one-handed pick with a handle no longer than that of a hatchet.”

Delaney brooded a moment. “I can’t recall ever seeing a tool like that.”

“I don’t think there is one,” Langley agreed. “At least, I visited six hardware stores and none of them had anything like what I described. But at the seventh hardware store I found this. It was displayed in their window.”

He opened his brown paper bag and withdrew a tool: magician and rabbit. He handed it to Delaney. The Captain took it in his blunt fingers, stared, turned it over and over, hefted it, gripped it, swung it by the handle, peered at the head. He sniffed at the wood handle.

“What the hell is it?” he asked finally.

“It’s a bricklayer’s hammer,” Langley said rapidly. “Handle of seasoned hickory. Head of forged steel. Notice the squared hammer on one side of the head? That’s for tapping bricks into place in the mortar. Now look at the spike. The top surface curves downward, but the bottom side is horizontal. The spike itself doesn’t curve downward. In addition, the spike ends in a sharp, chisel point, used to split bricks. I knew at once it wasn’t the weapon we seek. But it’s a start, don’t you think?”

“Of course it is,” Delaney said promptly. He swung the hammer in short, violent strokes. “My God, I never knew such a tool existed. You could easily split a man’s skull with this.”

“But it isn’t what we want, is it?”

“No,” Delaney acknowledged, “it isn’t. The spike doesn’t curve downward, and the end comes to a chisel edge about-oh, I’d guess an inch across. Mr. Langley, there’s something else I should have mentioned to you. This has a wooden handle. I admit Lombard might well have been killed with a wood-handle weapon, but my experience has been that with wood-handled implements, particularly old ones, the handle breaks. Usually at the point where it’s been compressed into the steel head. I’d feel a lot better if we could find a tool or weapon that was made totally of steel. This is just a feeling I have, and I don’t want to inhibit your investigation, sir.”

“Oh, it won’t, it won’t!” the little man cried, bouncing up and down on his chair in his excitement. “I agree, I agree! Steel would be better. But I haven’t told you everything that happened. In the store where I found this bricklayer’s hammer, I asked the proprietor why he stocked them and how many he sold. After all, Captain, how many bricklayers are there in this world? And how many hammers would they need? Look at that tool. Wouldn’t you judge that an apprentice bricklayer, buying a tool as sturdy as that, would use it for the rest of his professional career?”

Delaney hefted the hammer again, swinging it experimentally.

“Yes,” he nodded, “I think you’re right. The handle might possibly break, but this thing could last fifty, a hundred years.”

“Exactly. Well, the hardware store owner said-and it’s amazing how willing and eager men are to talk about their jobs and specialties-”

“I know,” Delaney smiled.

“Well, he said he stocked those hammers because he sold twenty or thirty a year. And not only to bricklayers! He sold them, he said, to ‘rock hounds’-a term, as he explained it, that applies to the people who search for precious and semiprecious stones-gemmologists and others of their ilk. In addition, he sold a few hammers to amateur archeologists. I then asked if he knew of a similar hammer on which the spike, instead of ending in a wide chisel edge, came to a sharp, tapered point. He said he had heard of such a hammer but had never seen it-a hammer made especially for rock hounds, prospectors, and archeologists. And this hammer had a spike, a pick, that tapered to a sharp point. I asked him where it might be available, but he couldn’t say, except that I might try hobby and outdoor stores. What do you think, Captain?”

Delaney looked at him. “First of all,” he said, “I think you have done remarkably well. Much better than I could have done.” He was rewarded by Langley’s beam of pleasure. “And I hope you will be willing to track this thing down, to try to find the rock hound’s hammer with a spike that curves downward and tapers to a point.”

“Willing?” Christopher Langley shouted delightedly. “Willing?” And the two women at the bed, still speaking softly, broke off their conversation and looked over inquiringly.

“Willing?” Langley asked in a quieter voice. “Captain, I cannot stop now. I never knew detective work could be so fascinating.”

“Oh yes,” Delaney nodded solemnly, “fascinating.”

“Well, I haven’t had so much fun in my life. After we leave here, Myra and I-”

“Myra?” Delaney interrupted.

“The Widow Zimmerman,” the old dandy said, casting his eyes downward and blushing. “She has several admirable qualities.”

“I’m sure.”

“Well, I made a list of hobby shops from the Yellow Pages. We’re going to have lunch in the Times Square area, and then we’re going around to all the addresses I have and try to locate a rock hound’s hammer. Is that the right way, Captain?”

“Exactly the right way,” Delaney assured him. “It’s just what I’d do. Don’t be discouraged if you don’t find it in the first four or five or dozen or fifty places you visit. Stick to it.”

“Oh, I intend to,” Langley said stoutly, straightening up. “This is important, isn’t it, Captain?”

Delaney looked at him strangely. “Yes,” he nodded, “it is important. Mr. Langley, I have a feeling about you and what you’re doing. I think it’s very important.”

“Well,” Christopher Langley said, “then I better get to it.”

“May I keep this hammer?”

“Of course, of course. I have no use for it. I’ll keep you informed as to our progress.”

“Our?”

“Well…you know. I must take the Widow Zimmerman to lunch. She has been very kind to me.”

“Of course.”

“But I’ve told her nothing, Captain. Nothing. I swear. She thinks I’m looking for a rock hammer for my nephew.”

“Good. Keep it that way. And I must apologize for my phone conversation this morning. I’m probably being overcautious. I doubt very much if my phone is being tapped, but there’s no point in taking chances. When you want to reach me from now on, just dial my home phone and say something innocuous. I’ll get back to you within ten or fifteen minutes from an outside phone. Will that be satisfactory?”

Then the ex-curator did something exceedingly curious. He made an antique gesture Delaney had read about in Dickens’ novels but had never seen. Langley laid a forefinger alongside his nose and nodded wisely. Captain Delaney was delighted. “Exactly,” he nodded.

Then they were gone, waving goodby to Barbara and promising to visit her again. When the door closed behind them, Barbara and Edward looked at each other, then simultaneously broke into laughter.

“I like her,” Barbara told him. “She asked very personal questions on short acquaintance, but I think it was from genuine interest, not just idle curiosity. A very warm, out-going, good-hearted woman.”

“I think she’s after Langley.”

“So?” she challenged. “What’s wrong with that? She told me she’s been very lonely since her husband died, and he’s all alone, too. It’s not good to be alone when you get old.”

“Look at this,” he said, changing the subject hastily. “It’s a bricklayer’s hammer. This is what Langley’s come up with so far.”

“Is that what killed Lombard?”

“Oh no. But it’s close. It’s an ugly thing, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Evil-looking. Put it away, please, dear.”

He put it back in the brown paper sack and placed it atop his folded overcoat, so he wouldn’t forget it when he left. Then he drew up a chair alongside her bed.

“What are you going to do with the gefilte fish?” he smiled. “I may try a little. Unless you’d like it, Edward?”

“No, thank you!”

“Well, it was nice of her to bring it. She’s one of those women who think food solves all problems and you can’t be miserable on a full stomach. Sometimes they’re right.”

“Yes.”

“You’re discouraged, aren’t you, Edward?”

He rose and began to stalk up and down at the foot of her bed, hands shoved into his hip pockets.

“Nothing is happening!” he said disgustedly. “I’m not doing anything.”

“You’re convinced the killer is crazy?”

“It’s just an idea,” he sighed, “but the only theory that makes any sense at all. But if I’m right, it means we have to wait for another killing before we learn anything more. That’s what’s so infuriating.”

“Isn’t that hammer Langley brought a lead?”

“Maybe. Maybe not. But even if Lombard had been murdered with a hammer exactly like that. I’d be no closer to finding the killer. There must be hundreds-thousands! — of hammers exactly like that in existence, and more sold every day. So where does that leave me?”

“Come over here and sit down.” She motioned toward the chair at the bedside. He slumped into it, took her proffered hand. She lifted his knuckles to her face, rubbed them softly on her cheek, kissed them. “Edward,” she said. “Poor Edward.”

“I’m a lousy cop,” he grumbled.

“No,” she soothed. “You’re a good cop. I can’t think of anything you could have done that you haven’t done.”

“Operation Lombard did it all,” he said dispiritedly.

“You discovered his driver’s license was missing.”

“Oh sure. Whatever the hell that means.”

After 30 years of living with this man, she was almost as familiar with police procedure as he. “Did they check license — numbers of parked cars?” she asked.

“Of course. Chief Pauley saw to that. The license number of every parked car in a five-block area was taken down on three successive nights. Then the owners were looked up and asked if they saw anything on the night of the murder. What a job that must have been! But Broughton has the manpower to do it, and it had to be done. They got nothing. Just like the questioning of residents in the neighborhood. Zero.”

“Occam’s Razor,” she said, and he smiled, knowing what she meant.

Several years ago he had come across the unfamiliar phrase “Occam’s Razor” in a criminologist’s report dealing with percentages and probabilities in homicide cases in the Boston area. Delaney trusted the findings since the percentages quoted were very close to those then current in New York: the great majority of homicides were committed by relatives or “friends” of the victim-mothers, fathers, children, husbands, wives, uncles, aunts, neighbors…In other words, most killings involved people who knew each other.

In light of these findings, the Boston criminologist had stated, it was always wise for investigating officers to be guided by the principle of “Occam’s Razor.”

Intrigued by the phrase, Delaney had spent an afternoon in the reading room of the 42nd Street library, tracking down Occam and his “Razor.” Later he told Barbara what he had discovered.

“Occam was a fourteenth century philosopher,” he reported. “His philosophy was ‘nominalism,’ which I don’t understand except that I think he meant there are no universal truths. Anyway, he was famous for his hard-headed approach to problem solving. He believed in shaving away all extraneous details. That’s why they call his axiom ‘Occam’s Razor.’ He said that when there are several possible solutions, the right one is probably the most obvious. In other words, you should eliminate all the unnecessary facts.”

“But you’ve been doing that all your life, Edward.”

“I guess so,” he laughed, “but I call it ‘Cut out the crap.’ Anyway, it’s nice to know a fourteenth century philosopher agrees with me. I wish I knew more about philosophy and could understand it.”

“Does it really bother you that you can’t?”

“Nooo…it doesn’t bother me, but it makes me realize the limitations of my intelligence. I just can’t think in abstractions. You know I tried to learn to play chess three times and finally gave up.”

“Edward, you’re more interested in people than things, or ideas. You have a very good intelligence for people.”

Now, in the hospital room, when Barbara mentioned Occam’s Razor, he knew what she meant and smiled ruefully.

“Well,” he said, rubbing his forehead, “I wonder if old Occam ever tried solving an irrational problem by rational means. I wonder if he wouldn’t begin to doubt the value of logic and deductive reasoning when you’re dealing with-” But then the door to the hospital room swung open, and Dr. Louis Bernardi glided in, olive skin gleaming, his little eyes glittering. A stethoscope was draped about his neck.

He offered Delaney a limp hand, and with the forefinger of his left hand lovingly caressed his ridiculous stripe of a mustache.

“Captain,” he murmured. “And you, dear lady,” he inquired in a louder voice, “how are we feeling today?”

Barbara began to explain that her feet continued to be swollen uncomfortably, how the rash had reappeared on the insides of her thighs, that the attack of nausea had seemed to worsen with the first injection of the antibiotic.

To each complaint Bernardi smiled, said, “Yes, yes,” or “That doesn’t bother me.”

Why should it bother you, Delaney thought angrily. It’s not happening to you, you little prick.

Meanwhile the doctor was taking her pulse, listening to her heart, gently pushing up eyelids to peer into her staring eyes.

“You’re making a fine recovery from surgery,” he assured her. “And they tell me your appetite is improving. I am so very happy, dear lady.”

“When do you think-” Delaney began, but the doctor held up a soft hand.

“Patience,” he said. “You must have patience. And I must have patients. He!”

Delaney turned away in disgust, not understanding how Barbara could trust this simpering popinjay.

Bernardi murmured a few more words, patted Barbara’s hand, smiling his oleaginous smile, then turned to go. He was almost at the door when Delaney saw he was leaving.

“Doctor,” he called, “I want to talk to you a minute.” He said to Barbara, “Be right back, dear.”

In the hall, the door of the room closed, he faced Bernardi and looked at him stonily. “Well?” he demanded.

The doctor spread his hands in that familiar bland gesture that said nothing. “What can I tell you? You can see for yourself. The infection still persists. That damned Proteus. We are working our way through the full spectrum of antibiotics. It takes time.”

“There’s something else.”

“Oh? What is that?”

“Recently my wife has been exhibiting signs of-well, signs of irrationality. She gets a curious stare, she seems suddenly withdrawn, and she says things that don’t make too much sense.”

“What kind of things?”

“Well, a little while ago she wanted some children's hooks. I mean books she owned and read when she was a child. She’s not under sedation, is she?”

“Not now, ho.”

“Pain-killers? Sleeping pills?”

“No. We are trying to avoid any possibility of masking or affecting the strength of the antibiotics. Captain, this does not worry me. Your wife has undergone major surgery. She is under medication. The fever is, admittedly, weakening her. It is understandable that she might have brief periods of-oh, call it wool-gathering. He! I suggest you humor her insofar as that is possible. Her pulse is steady and her heart is strong.”

“As strong as it was?”

Bernardi looked at him without expression. “Captain,” he said softly-and Delaney knew exactly what was coming-“your wife is doing as well as can be expected.”

He nodded, turned, glided away, graceful as a ballet dancer. Delaney was left standing alone, impotent fury hot in his throat, convinced the man knew something, or suspected something, and would not put it into words. He seemed blocked and thwarted on all sides: in his work, in his personal life. What was it he had said to Thomas Handry about a divine order in the universe? Now order seemed slipping away, slyly, and he was defeated by a maniacal killer and unseen beasts feeding on his wife’s flesh.

From the man on the beat to the police commissioner-all cops knew what to expect when the moon was full: sleepwalkers, women who heard voices, men claiming they were being bombarded by electronic beams from a neighbor’s apartment, end-of-the-world nuts, people stumbling naked down the midnight streets, urinating as they ran.

Now Delaney, brooding on war, crime, senseless violence, cruel sickness, brutality, terror, and the slick, honeyed words of a self-satisfied physician, wondered if this was not The Age of the Full Moon, with order gone from the world and irrationality triumphant.

He straightened, set his features into a smile, reentered his wife’s hospital room.

“I suddenly realized why solving the Lombard killing is so important to me,” he told her. “It happened in the Two-five-one Precinct. That’s my world.”

“Occam’s Razor,” she nodded.

Later, he returned home and Mary fixed him a baked ham sandwich and brought that and a bottle of cold beer into his study. He propped the telephone book open on his desk, and as he ate he called second-hand bookstores, asking for original editions of the Honey Bunch books, the illustrated ones.

Everyone he called seemed to know immediately what he wanted: the Grossett amp; Dunlap editions published in the early 1920s. The author was Helen Louise Thomdyke. But no one had any copies. One bookseller took his name and address and promised to try to locate them. Another suggested he try the chic “antique boutiques” on upper Second and Third Avenues, shops that specialized in nostalgic Americana,

Curiously, this ridiculous task seemed to calm him, and by the time he had finished his calls and his lunch, he was determined to get back to work, to work steadily and unquestioningly, just doing.

He went to his book shelves and took down every volume he owned dealing, even in peripheral fashion, with the histories, analyses and detection of mass murderers. The stack he put on the table alongside his club chair was not high; literature on the subject was not extensive. He sat down heavily, put on his thick, horn-rimmed reading glasses, and began to plow through the books, skipping and skimming as much as he could of material that had no application to the Lombard case.

He read about Gille de Raix, Verdoux, Jack the Ripper and in more recent times, Whitman, Speck, Unruh, the Boston strangler, Panzram, Manson, the boy in Chicago who wrote with the victim’s lipstick on her bathroom mirror, “Stop me before I kill more.” It was a sad, sad chronicle of human aberration, and the saddest thing of all was the feeling he got of killer as victim, dupe of his own agonizing lust or chaotic dreams.

But there was no pattern-at least none he could discern. Each mass killer, of tens, hundreds, reputedly thousands, was an individual and had apparently acted from unique motives. If there was any pattern it existed solely in each man: the modus operandi remained identical, the weapon the same. And in almost every case, the period between killings became progressively shorter. The killer was caught up in a crescendo: more! more! faster! faster!

One other odd fact: the mass killer was invariably male.

There were a few isolated cases of women who had killed several times; the Ohio Pig Woman was one, the Beck-Fernandez case involved another. But the few female mass murderers seemed motivated by desire for financial gain. The males were driven by wild longings, insane furies, mad passions.

The light faded; he switched on the reading lamp. Mary stopped by to say good-night, and he followed her into the hall to double-lock and chain the front door behind her. He returned to his reading, still trying to find a pattern, a repeated cause-effect, searching for the percentages.

It was almost five in the evening when the front doorbell chimed. He put aside the article he was reading-a fascinating analysis of Hitler as a criminal rather than a political leader-and went out into the hallway again. He switched on the stoop light, peered out the etched glass panel alongside the door. Christopher Langley was standing there, a neat white shopping bag in one hand. Delaney unlocked the door.

“Captain!” Langley cried anxiously. “I hope I’m not disturbing you? But I didn’t want to call, and since it was on my way home, I thought I’d take the chance and-”

“You’re not disturbing me. Come in, come in.”

“Gee, what a marvelous house!”

“Old, but comfortable.”

They went into the lighted study.

“Captain, I’ve got-”

“Wait, just a minute. Please, let me get you a drink. Anything?”

“Sherry?”

“At the moment, I’m sorry to say, no. But I have some dry vermouth. Will that do?”

“Oh, that’s jim-dandy. No ice. Just a small glass, please.” Delaney went over to his modest liquor cabinet, poured Langley a glass of vermouth, took a rye for himself. He handed Langley his wine, got him settled in the leather club chair. He retreated a few steps out of the circle of light cast by the reading lamp and stood in the gloom.

“Your health, sir.”

“And yours. And your wife’s.”

“Thank you.”

They both sipped.

“Well,” Delaney said, “how did you make out?”

“Oh, Captain, I was a fool, such a fool! I didn’t do the obvious thing, the thing I should have done in the first place.”

“I know,” Delaney smiled, thinking of Occam’s Razor again. “I’ve done that many times. What happened?”

“Well, as I told you at the hospital, I had gone through the Yellow Pages and made a list of hobby shops in the midtown area, places that might sell a rock hound’s hammer with a tapered pick. The Widow Zimmerman and I had lunch-I had stuffed sole: marvelous-and then we started walking around. We covered six different stores, and none of them carried rock hammers. Some of them didn’t even know what I was talking about. I could tell Myra was getting tired, so I put her in a cab and sent her home. She is preparing dinner for me tonight. By the by, she’s an awful cook. I thought I’d try a few more stores before calling it a day. The next one on my list was Abercrombie amp; Fitch. And of course they carried a rock hound’s hammer. It was so obvious! It’s the largest store of its kind in the city, and I should have tried them first. That’s why I say I was a fool. Anyway, here it is.”

He leaned over, pulled the tool from his white shopping bag, handed it to Captain Delaney.

The hammer was still in its vacuum-packed plastic coating, and the cardboard backing stated it was a “prospector’s ax recommended for rock collectors and archeologists.” Like the bricklayers’ hammer, it had a wood handle and steel head. One side of the head was a square hammer. The other side was a pick, about four inches long. It started out as a square, then tapered to a sharp point. The tool came complete with a leather holster, enabling it to be worn on a belt. The whole thing was about as long as a hatchet: a one-handed implement.

“Notice the taper of the pick,” Langley pointed out. “It comes to a sharp point, but still the pick itself does not curve downward. The upper surface curves, but the lower surface is almost horizontal, at right angles to the handle. And, of course, it has a wooden handle. But still, it’s closer to what we’re looking for-don’t you think?”

“No doubt about it,” Delaney said definitely. “If that pick had a downward curve, I’d say this is it. May I take off the plastic covering?”

“Of course.”

“You’re spending a lot of money.”

“Nonsense.”

Delaney stripped off the clear plastic covering and hefted the ax in his hand.

“This is almost it,” he nodded. “A tapered spike coming to a sharp point. About an inch across at the base of the pick. And with enough weight to crush a man’s skull. Easily. Maybe this really is it. I’d like to show it to the police surgeon who did the Lombard autopsy.”

“No, no,” Christopher Langley protested. “I haven't told you the whole story. That’s why I stopped by tonight. I bought this in the camping department, and I was on my way out to the elevators. I passed through a section where they sell skiing and mountain climbing gear. You know, rucksacks and crampons and pitons and things like that. And there, hanging on the wall, was something very interesting. It was an implement I’ve never seen before. It was about three feet long, a two-handed tool. I ruled it out immediately as our weapon: too cumbersome to conceal. And the handle was wood. At the butt end was a sharp steel spike, about three inches long, fitted into the handle. But it was the head that interested me. It was apparently chrome-plated steel. On one side was a kind of miniature mattock coming to a sharp cutting edge, a chisel edge. And the other side was exactly what we’re looking for! It was a spike, a pick, about four or five inches long. It started out from the head as a square, about an inch on each side. Then it was formed into a triangle with a sharp edge on top and the base an inch across. Then the whole thing tapered, and as it thinned, it curved downward. Captain, the whole pick curved downward, top and bottom! It came to a sharp point, so sharp in fact that the tip was covered with a little rubber sleeve to prevent damage when the implement wasn’t being used. I removed the rubber protector, and the underside of the tip had four little saw teeth. It’s serrated, for cutting. I finally got a clerk and asked him what this amazing tool was called. He said it’s an ice ax, I asked him what it was used for, and he-”

“What?” Delaney cried. “What did you say?”

“I asked the clerk what it was used-”

“No, no,” the Captain said impatiently. “What did the clerk say it was called?”

“It’s an ice ax.”

“Jesus Christ,” Delaney breathed. “Leon Trotsky. Mexico City. Nineteen-forty.”

“What? Captain, I don’t understand.”

“Leon Trotsky. He was a refuge from Stalin’s Russia-or perhaps he escaped or was deported; I don’t remember exactly; I’ll have to look it up. Trotsky and Lenin and Stalin were equals at one time. Then Lenin died. Then Stalin wanted to be Numero Uno. So Trotsky got out of Russia, somehow, and made his way to Mexico City. They caught up with him in nineteen-forty. At least it was said the assassin was an agent of the Russian Secret Police. I don’t recall the details. But he killed Trotsky with an ice ax.”

“Surely you don’t think there’s any connection between that and Frank Lombard’s death?”

“Oh no. I doubt that very much. I’ll look into it, of course, but I don’t think there’s anything there.”

“But you think Lombard may have been killed with an ice ax?”

“Let me freshen your drink,” Delaney said. He went over to the liquor cabinet, came back with new drinks for both of them. “Mr. Langley, I don’t know whether being a detective is a job, a career, a profession, a talent or an art. There are some things I do know. One, you can’t teach a man to be a good detective, anymore than you can teach him to be an Olympic miler or a great artist. And two, no matter how much talent and drive a man starts out with, he can never become a good detective without experience. The more years, the better. After you’ve been at it awhile, you begin to see the patterns. People repeat, in motives, weapons, methods of entrance and escape, alibis. You keep finding the same things happening over and over again; forced windows, kitchen knives, slashed screens, tire irons, jammed locks, rat poison-the lot. It all becomes familiar. Well, what bugged me about the Lombard killing, nothing familiar in it. Nothing! The first reaction, of course, going by percentages, was that it had been committed by a relative or acquaintance, someone known to Lombard. Negative. The next possibility was that it was an attempted robbery, a felony-homicide. Negative. His money hadn’t even been touched. And worst of all, we couldn’t even identify the weapon. But now you walk in here and say, ‘Ice ax.’ Magic words! Click! Trotsky was killed with an ice ax. Suddenly I’ve got something familiar. A murder weapon that’s been used before. It’s hard to explain, I know, Mr. Langley, but I feel better about this than I’ve felt since it started. I think we’re moving now. Thanks to you.”

The man glowed.

“But I’m sorry,” Delaney said. “I interrupted you. You were telling me what the clerk at Abercrombie amp; Fitch said when you asked him what the ice ax was used for. What did he say?”

“What?” Langley asked again, somewhat dazed. “Oh. Well, he said it was used in mountain climbing. You could use it like a cane, leaning on the head. The spike on the butt of the handle bites into crusty snow or ice, if you’re hiking across a glacier, for instance. He said you could get this ice ax with different ends on the butt-a spike, the way I saw it, or with a little wheel, like a ski pole, for soft snow, and so forth. So then I asked him if there was a shorter ice ax available, a one-handed tool, but with the head shaped the same way. He was very vague; he wasn’t sure. But he thought there was such an implement, and he thought the whole thing might be made of steel. Think of that, Captain! A one-handed tool, all steel, with a spike that curves downward and tapers to a sharp point as it curves. How does that strike you?”

“Excellent!” Captain Delaney crowed. “Just excellent! It’s now a familiar weapon, used in a previous homicide, and I feel very good about it. Mr. Langley, you’ve done wonders.”

“Oh,” the old man smiled, “it was mostly luck. Really.”

“You make your own luck,” Delaney assured him. “And my luck. Our luck. You followed through. Did the clerk tell you where you can buy a one-handed ice ax?”

“Well…no. But he did say there were several stores in New York that specialized in camping and mountain climbing equipment-axes, hatchets, crampons, special rucksacks, nylon rope and things of that sort. The stores must be listed somewhere. Probably in the Yellow Pages. Captain, can I stick with this?”

Delaney took two quick steps forward, clapped the little man on both arms.

“Can you?” he declaimed. “Can you? I should think you can! You’re doing just fine. You try to pin down that one-handed, all-steel ice ax, who sells them, who buys them. Meanwhile, I want to dig into the Trotsky murder, maybe get a photo of the weapon. And I want to get more information on mountain climbers. Mr. Langley, we’re moving. We’re really doing now! I’ll call you or you call me. The hell with security.

I just feel-I know-we’re heading in the right direction! Instinct? Maybe. Logic has nothing to do with it. It just feels right.”

He got Langley out of there, finally, bubbling with enthusiasm and plans of how he intended to trace the ice ax. Delaney nodded, smiled, agreeing to everything Langley said until he could, with decency, usher him out, lock the front door, and come back into the study. He paced up and down in front of his desk, hands shoved into hip pockets, chin on chest.

Then he grabbed up the telephone directory, looked up the number, and dialed Thomas Handry’s newspaper. The switchboard operator gave him the City Room where they told him Handry had left for the day. He asked for Handry’s home phone number, but they wouldn’t give it to him.

“Is it an unlisted number?” he asked.

“Yes, it is.”

“This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department,” the Captain said in his most pontifical tones. “I’m calling on official business. I can get Handry’s phone number from the telephone company, if you insist. It would save time if you gave it to me. If you want to check on me, call your man at Centre Street. Who is he-Slawson?”

“Slawson died last year.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good reporter.”

“Yes. Just a minute, Captain.”

The man came back and read off Handry’s home phone number. Delaney thanked him, hung up, waited a few seconds, then lifted the receiver again and dialed. No answer. He waited ten minutes and called again. Still no answer.

There wasn’t much in the refrigerator: half of that same baked ham he had had for lunch and some salad stuff. He sliced two thick slices of ham, then sliced a tomato and cucumber. He smeared mustard on the ham, and salad dressing on the rest. He ate it quickly, crunching on a hard roll. He glanced several times at his watch as he ate, anxious to get back to the hospital.

He slid plate and cutlery into the sink, rinsed his hands, and went back into his study to call Handry again. This time he got through.

“Hello?”

“Thomas Handry?”

“Yes.”

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Oh. Hello, Captain. How are you?”

“Well, thank you. And you?”

“Fine. I heard you’re on leave of absence.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“I understand your wife is ill. Sorry to hear that. I hope she’s feeling better.”

“Yes. Thank you. Handry, I want a favor from you.”

“What is it, Captain?”

“First of all, I want some information on the murder of Leon Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty. I thought you might be able to get it from your morgue.”

“Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty? Jesus, Captain, that was before I was born.”

“I know.”

“What do you want?”

“Nothing heavy. Just what the newspapers of the time reported. How he was killed, who killed him, the weapon used. If there was a photograph of the weapon published, and you could get a photostat, that would help.”

“What’s this all about?”

“The second thing,” Delaney went on, ignoring the question, “is that I’d like the name and address of the best mountain climber in New York-the top man, or most experienced, or most skillful. I thought you might be able to get it from your Sports Desk.”

“Probably. Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”

“Can you have a drink with me tomorrow? Say about five o’clock?”

“Well…sure. I guess so.”

“Can you have the information by then?”

“I’ll try.”

“Fine. I’ll tell you about it then.” Delaney gave him the address of the chop house where he had lunched with Dr. Ferguson. “Is that all right, Handry?”

“Sure. I’ll see what I can do. Trotsky and the mountain climber. Right?”

“Right. See you tomorrow.”

Delaney hurried out and got a cab on Second Avenue. He was at the hospital within fifteen minutes. When he gently opened the door of his wife’s room, he saw at once she was sleeping. He tiptoed over to the plastic armchair, switched off the floor lamp, then took off his overcoat. He sat down as quietly as he could.

He sat there for two hours, hardly moving' He may have dozed off a few minutes, but mostly he stared at his wife. She was sleeping calmly and deeply. No one came into the room. He heard the corridor sounds dimly. Still he sat, his mind not so much blank as whirring, leaping, jumping about without order or connection: their children, Handry, Langley, Broughton, the Widow Zimmerman, the ice ax, Thorsen and Johnson, a driver’s license-a smear of thoughts, quick frames of a short movie, almost blending, looming, fading…

At the end of the two hours he scrawled a message in his notebook, tore the page out, propped it on her bedside table. “I was here. Where were you? Love and violets. Ted.” He tiptoed from the room.

He walked back to their home, certain he would be mugged, but he wasn’t. He went back into his study and resumed his readings of the histories, motives and methods of mass murderers. There was no one pattern.

He put the books aside, turned off the study lights shortly after midnight. He toured the basement and street floor, checking windows and locks. Then he trudged upstairs to undress, take a warm shower, and shave. He pulled on fresh pajamas. The image of his naked body in the bathroom mirror was not encouraging. Everything-face, neck, breasts, abdomen, ass, thighs-seemed to be sinking.

He got into bed, switched off the bedside lamp, and lay awake for almost an hour, turning from side to side, his mind churning. Finally he turned on the lamp, shoved his feet into wool slippers, went padding down to the study again. He dug out his list, the one beaded “The Suspect.” Under the “Physical” column he had jotted “An athlete?” He crossed this out and inserted “A mountain climber?” At the bottom, under “Additional Notes,” he wrote “Possesses an ice ax?”

It wasn’t much, he admitted. In fact, it was ridiculous. But when he turned out the study lights, climbed once more to the empty bedroom, and slid into bed, he fell asleep almost instantly.