The 1st Deadly Sin

6

He shaved with an old-fashioned straight razor, one of a matched pair his father had used. They were handsome implements of Swedish steel with bone handles. Each morning, alternating, he took a razor from the worn, velvet-lined case and honed it lightly on a leather strop that hung from the inside knob of the bathroom door.

Barbara could never conceal her dislike of the naked steel. She had bought him an electric shaver one Christmas and, to please her, he had used it a few times at home. Then he had taken it to his office in the precinct house where, he assured her, he frequently used it for a “touch-up” when he had a meeting late in the afternoon or evening. She nodded, accepting his lie. Perhaps she sensed that the reason he used the straight razors was because they had belonged to his father, a man he worshipped.

Now, this morning, drawing the fine steel slowly and carefully down his lathered jaw, he listened to a news broadcast from the little transistor radio in the bedroom and learned, from a brief announcement, that Bernard Gilbert, victim of a midnight street attack, had died without regaining consciousness. Delaney’s hand did not falter, and he finished his shave steadily, wiped off excess lather, splashed lotion, powdered lightly, dressed in his usual dark suit, white shirt, striped tie, and went down to the kitchen for breakfast, bolstered and carried along by habit. He stopped in the study just long enough to jot a little note to himself to write a letter of condolence to Monica Gilbert.

He greeted Mary, accepted orange juice, one poached egg on unbuttered toast, and black coffee. They chatted about the weather, about Mrs. Delaney’s condition, and he approved of Mary’s plan to strip the furniture in Barbara’s sewing room of chintz slipcovers and send them all to the dry cleaner.

Later, in the study, he wrote a pencilled rough of his letter of condolence to Mrs. Gilbert. When he had it the way he wanted-admitting it was stilted, but there was no way of getting around that-he copied it in ink, addressed and stamped the envelope and put it aside, intending to mail it when he left the house.

It was then almost 9:30, and he called the Medical Examiner’s office. Ferguson wasn’t in yet but was expected momentarily. Delaney waited patiently for fifteen minutes, making circular doodles on a scratch pad, a thin line that went around and around in a narrowing spiral. Then he called again and was put through to Ferguson.

“I know,” the doctor said, “he’s dead. I heard when I got in.”

“Did you get it?”

“Yes. The lump is on the way down now. The big problem in my life, Edward, is whether to do a cut-’em-up before lunch or after. I finally decided before is better. So I’ll probably get to him about eleven or eleven-thirty.”

“I’d like to see you before you start.”

“I can’t get out, Edward. No way. I’m tied up here with other things.”

“I’ll come down. Could you give me about fifteen minutes at eleven o’clock?”

“Important?”

“I think so.”

“You can’t tell me on the phone?”

“No. It’s something I’ve got to show you, to give you.”

“All right, Edward. Fifteen minutes at eleven.”

“Thank you, doctor.”

First he went into the kitchen. He tore a square of paper towel off the roller, then a square of wax paper from the package, then a square of aluminum foil. Back in the study he took from the file drawer the can of light machine oil and the ice ax Christopher Langley had purchased at Outside Life.

He removed the cap from the oil can and impregnated the paper towel with oil. He folded it carefully into wax paper, then wrapped the whole thing in aluminum foil, pressing down hard on the folds so the oil wouldn’t seep out. He put the package in a heavy manila envelope.

Then he sharpened a pencil, using his penknife to scrape the graphite to a long point. He placed the ice ax head on a sheet of good rag stationery and carefully traced a profile with his sharpened pencil, going very slowly, taking particular care to include the four little saw teeth on the underside of the point.

Then he took out his desk ruler and measured the size of the spike where it left the head, as a square. Each of the four sides, as closely as he could determine, was 15/ 16th of an inch. He then drew a square to those dimensions on the same sheet of paper with the silhouette of the pick. He folded the sheet, tucked it into his breast pocket. He took the envelope with the oil-impregnated paper towel and started out. He pulled on his overcoat and hat, shouted upstairs to Mary to tell her he was leaving, and heard her answering shout. At the last minute, halfway out the door, he remembered his letter of condolence to Monica Gilbert and went back into the study to pick it up. He dropped it in the first mailbox he passed.

“Better make this quick, Edward,” Dr. Ferguson said. “Broughton is sending one of his boys down to witness the autopsy. He wants a preliminary verbal report before he gets the official form.”

“I’ll make it fast. Did the doctors at Mother of Mercy tell you anything?”

“Not much. As I told you, Gilbert was struck from the front, the wound about two inches above the normal hair line. The blow apparently knocked him backward, and the weapon was pulled free before he fell. As a result, the penetration is reasonably clean and neat, so I should be able to get a better profile of the wound than on the Lombard snuff.”

“Good.” Delaney unfolded his paper. “Doctor, this is what I think the penetration profile will look like. It’s hard to tell from this, but the spike starts out as a square. Here, in this little drawing, are the dimensions, about an inch on each side. If I’m right, that should be the size of the outside wound, at scalp and skull. Then the square changes to a triangular pick, and tapers, and curves downward, coming to a sharp point,”

“Is this your imagination, or was it traced from an actual weapon?”

“It was traced.”

“All right. I don’t want to know anything more. What are these?”

“Four little saw teeth on the underside of the point. You may find some rough abrasions on the lower surface of the wound.”

“I may, eh? The brain isn’t hard cheddar, you know. You want me to work with this paper open on the table alongside the corpse?”

“Not if Broughton’s man is there.”

“I didn’t think so.”

“Couldn’t you just take a look at it, doctor? Just in case?”

“Sure,” Ferguson said, folding up the paper and sliding it into his hip pocket. “What else have you got?”

“In this envelope is a folded packet of aluminum foil, and inside that is an envelope of wax paper, and inside that is a paper towel soaked in oil. Light machine oil.”

“So?”

“You mentioned there were traces of oil in the Lombard wound. You thought it was probably Lombard’s hair oil, but it was too slight for analysis.”

“But Gilbert was bald-at least where he was hit he was bald.”

“That’s the point. It couldn’t be hair oil. But I’m hoping there will be oil in the Gilbert wound. Light machine oil.” Ferguson pushed back in his swivel chair and stared at him. Then the doctor pulled his wool tie open, unbuttoned the neck of his flannel shirt.

“You’re a lovely man, Edward,” he said, “and the best detective in town, but Gilbert’s wound was X-rayed, probed and flushed at Mother of Mercy.”

“If there was any oil in it, there couldn’t be any now?”

“I didn’t say that. But it sure as hell cuts down on your chances.”

“What about the Olfactory Analysis Indicator?”

“The OAI? What about it?”

“How much do you know about it, doctor?”

“About as much as you do. You read the last bulletin, didn’t you?”

“Yes. Sort of inconclusive, wasn’t it?”

“It surely was. The idea is to develop a sniffer not much larger than a vacuum cleaner. Portable. It could be taken to the scene of a crime, inhale an air sample, and either identify the odors immediately or store the air sample so it could be taken back to the lab and analyzed by a master machine. Well, they’re a long way from that right now. It’s a monstrous big thing at this point, very crude, but I saw an impressive demonstration the other day. It correctly identified nine smokes from fifteen different brands of cigarettes. That’s not bad.”

“In other words, it’s got to have a comparison to go by? Like the memory bank in a computer?”

“That’s right. Oh-ho. I see what you’re getting at. All right, Edward. Leave me your machine oil sample. I’ll try to get a reading on tissue from Gilbert’s wound. But don’t count on it. The OAI is years away. It’s just an experiment now.”

“I realize that. But I don’t want to neglect any possibility.”

“You never did,” Dr. Ferguson said.

“Should I wait around?”

“No point in it. The OAI analysis will take three days at least. Probably a week. As far as your drawing goes, I’ll call you this afternoon or this evening. Will you be home?”

“Probably. But I may be at the hospital. You could reach me there.”

“How’s Barbara?”

“Getting along.”

Ferguson nodded, stood, took off his tweed jacket, hung it on a coat tree, began to shrug into a stained white coat. “Getting anywhere, Edward?” he asked.

“Who the hell knows?” Captain Delaney grumbled. “I just keep going.”

“Don’t we all?” the big man smiled.

Delaney called Ivar Thorsen from a lobby phone. The answering service got back to him a few minutes later and said Mr. Thorsen was not available and would he please call again at three in the afternoon.

It was the first time Thorsen had not returned his call, and it bothered Delaney. It might be, of course, that the deputy inspector was in a meeting or on his way to a precinct house, but the Captain couldn’t shake a vague feeling of unease.

He consulted his pocket notebook in which he had copied the address of Outside Life. He took a taxi to Spring Street, and when he got out of the cab, he spent a few minutes walking up and down the block, looking around. It was a section of grimy loft buildings, apparently mostly occupied by small manufacturers, printers, and wholesalers of leather findings. It seemed a strange neighborhood for Outside Life.

That occupied the second and third floors of a ten-story building. Delaney walked up the stairs to the second floor, but the sign on the solid door said “Offices and Mailing. Store on third floor.” So he climbed another flight, wanting to look about before he talked to-to-He consulted his notebook again: Sol Appel, the owner.

The “store” was actually one enormous, high-ceilinged loft with pipe racks, a few glass showcases, and with no attempts made at fashionable merchandizing. Most of the stock was piled on the floor, on unpainted wooden shelves, or hung from hooks driven into the whitewashed walls.

As Langley had said, it was a fascinating conglomeration: rucksacks, rubber dinghies, hiking boots, crampons, dehydrated food, kerosene lanterns, battery-heated socks, machetes, net hammocks, sleeping bags, outdoor cookware, hunting knives, fishing rods, reels, creels, pitons, nylon rope, boating gear-an endless profusion of items ranging from five-cent fishhooks to a magnificent red, three-room tent with a mosquito-netted, picture window, at $1,495.00.

Outside Life seemed to have its devotees, despite its out-of-the-way location; Delaney counted at least 40 customers wandering about, and the clerks were busy writing up purchases. The Captain found his way to the mountaineering department and inspected pitons, crampons, web belts and harnesses, nylon line, aluminum-framed backpacks, and a wide variety of ice axes. There were two styles of short-handled axes: the one purchased by Langley and another, somewhat similar, but with a wooden handle and no saw-tooth serrations under the spike. Delaney inspected it, and finally found “Made in U.S.A.” stamped on the handle butt.

He halted a scurrying clerk just long enough to ask for the whereabouts of Mr. Appel. “Sol’s in the office,” the departing clerk called over his shoulder. “Downstairs.”

Delaney pushed open the heavy door on the second floor and found himself in a tiny reception room, walled with unfinished plywood panels. There was a door of clear glass leading to the open space beyond, apparently a combination warehouse and mailing room. In one corner of the reception room was a telephone operator wearing a wired headset and sitting before a push-pull switchboard that Delaney knew had been phased out of production years and years ago. Outside Life seemed to be a busy, thriving enterprise, but it was also obvious the profits weren’t going into fancy offices and smart decoration.

He waited patiently until the operator had plugged and unplugged half-a-dozen calls. Finally, desperately, he said, “Mr. Appel, please. My name is-”

She stuck her head through the opening into the big room beyond and screamed, “Sol! Guy to see you!”

Delaney sat on the single couch, a rickety thing covered with slashed plastic. He was amused to note an overflowing ashtray on the floor. The single decoration in the room was a plaque on the plywood wall attesting to Mr. Solomon Appel’s efforts on behalf of the United Jewish Appeal.

The glass door crashed back, and a heavy, sweating man rushed in. Delaney caught a confused impression of a round, plump face (the man in the moon), a well-chewed, unlit cigar, a raveled, sleeveless sweater of hellish hue, unexpectedly “mod” jeans of dark blue with white stitching and a darker stain down one leg, and Indian moccasins decorated with beads.

“You from Benson amp; Hurst?” the man demanded, talking rapidly around his cigar. “I’m Sol Appel. Where the hell are those tents? You promised-”

“Wait, wait,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m not from Benson amp; Hurst. I’m-”

“Gatters,” the man said positively. “The fiberglass rods. You guys are sure giving me the rod-you know where. You said-”

“Will you wait a minute,” Delaney said again, sighing. “I’m not from Gatters either. My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney. New York Police Department. Here’s my identification.”

Sol Appel didn’t even glance at it. He raised his hands above his head, palms outward, in mock surrender?

“I give up,” he said. “Whatever it was, I did it. Take me away. Now. Please get me out of this nuthouse. Do me a favor. Jail will be a pleasure.”

“No, no,” Delaney laughed. “Nothing like that. Mr. Appel, I wanted-”

“You’re putting on a dance? A dinner? You want a few bucks? Of course. Why not? Always. Any time. So tell me-how much?”

He was already reaching for his wallet when Delaney held out a restraining hand and sighed again.

“Please, Mr. Appel, it’s nothing like that. I’m not collecting for anything. All I want is a few minutes of your time.”

“A few minutes? Now you’re really asking for something valuable. A few minutes!” He turned back to the opened glass door. “Sam!” he screamed. “You, Sam! Get the cash. No check. The cash! You understand?”

“Is there any place we can talk?” the Captain asked.

“We’re talking, aren’t we?”

“All right,” Delaney said doubtfully, glancing at the switchboard operator. But she was busy with her cords and plugs. “Mr. Appel, your name was given to me by Calvin Case, and I-”

“Cal!” Appel cried. He stepped close and grabbed Delaney’s overcoat by the lapels. “That dear, sweet boy. How is he? Will you tell me?”

“Well…he’s-”

“Don’t tell me. He’s on the booze. I know. I heard. I wanted him back. ‘So you can’t walk,’ I told him. ‘Big deal. You can think. No? You can work. No?’ That’s the big thing-right, Captain-uh, Captain-”

“Delaney.”

“Captain Delaney. That’s Irish, no?”

“Yes.”

“Sure. I knew. The important thing is to work. Am I right?”

“You’re right.”

“Of course I’m right,” Sol Appel said angrily. “So any time he wants a job, he’s got it. Right here. We can use him. Tell him that. Will you tell him that?” Suddenly Appel struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I should have been to see him,” he groaned. “What kind of schmuck am I? I’m really ashamed. I’ll go to see him. Tell him that, Chief Delaney.”

“Captain.”

“Captain. Will you tell him that?”

“Yes, certainly, if I speak to him again. But that isn’t the-”

“You’re taking up a collection for him? You’re making a benefit, Captain? It will be my pleasure to take a table for eight, and I’ll-”

Delaney finally got him calmed down, a little, and seated on the plastic couch. He explained he was involved in an investigation, and the cigar-chomping Sol Appel asked no questions. Within five minutes Delaney had discovered that Outside Life had a mailing list of approximately 30,000 customers who were sent Summer and Winter catalogues. The mailings were done with metal addressing plates and printed labels. There was also a typed master list, and Sol Appel would be happy to provide a copy for Captain Delaney whenever he asked.

“I assure you, it’ll be held in complete confidence,” the Captain said earnestly.

“Who cares?” Appel shouted. “My competitors: can meet my prices? Hah!”

Delaney also learned that Outside Life kept sales checks for seven years. They were stored in cardboard cartons in the basement of the loft building, filed by month and year.

“Why seven years?” he asked.

“Who the hell knows?” Appel shrugged. “My father-God rest his soul-he only died last year-I should live so long-Mike Appel-a mensch. You know what a mensch is, Captain?”

“Yes. I know. My father was an Irish mensch”

“Good. So he told me, ‘Sol,’ he said a hundred times, ‘always keep the copies of the sales checks for seven years.’ Who the hell knows why? That’s the way he did it, that’s the way I do it. Taxes or something; I don’t know. Anyway, I keep them seven years. I add this year’s, I throw the oldest year’s away.”

“Would you let me go through them?”

“Go through them? Captain, there’s got to be like a hundred thousand checks there.”

“If I have to, can I go through them?”

“Be my guest. Sarah!” Sol Appel suddenly screamed. “You, Sarah!”

An elderly Jewish lady thrust her head through the switchboard operator’s window.

“You called, Sol?” she asked.

“Tell him ‘No’!” Appel screamed, and the lady nodded and withdrew.

Now that Delaney wanted to leave, Appel wouldn’t let him depart. He shook his hand endlessly and talked a blue streak…

“Go up to the store. Pick out anything you like. Have them call me before you pay. You’ll get a nice discount, believe me. You know, you Irish and us Jews are much alike. We’re both poets-am I right? And who can talk these days? The Irish and the Jews only. You need a cop, you find an Irishman. You need a lawyer, you find a Jew. This stuff I sell, you think I understand it? Hah! For me, I go camping on Miami Beach or Nassau. You float on the pool there in this- plastic couch with a nice, tall drink and all around these girlies in their little bitty bikinis. That, to me, is outside life. Captain, I like you. Delaney-right? You in the book? Sure, you’re in the book. Next month, a Bar-Mitzvah for my nephew. I’ll call you. Bring nothing, you understand? Nothing! I’ll go see Calvin Case. I swear I’ll go. You’ve got to work. Sarah! Sarah!”

Delaney finally got out of there, laughing aloud and shaking his head, so that people he passed on the stairway looked at him strangely. He didn’t think Appel would remember to invite him to the Bar-Mitzvah. But if he did, Delaney decided he would go. How often do you meet a live man?

Well, he had found out what he wanted to know-and, as usual, it wasn’t as bad as he had feared or as good as he had hoped. He walked west on Spring Street and, suddenly, pierced by the odor of frying sausage and peppers, he joined a throng of Puerto Ricans and blacks at an open luncheonette counter and had a slice of sausage pizza and a glass of sweet cola, resolutely forgetting about his diet. Sometimes…

He took two subways and a bus back to his home. Mary was having coffee in the kitchen, and he joined her for a cup, telling her he had already eaten lunch, but not saying what it was.

“Whatever it was, it had garlic in it,” she sniffed, and he laughed.

He worked in his study until 3:00 p.m., bringing his reports up to date. The file of his own investigation was becoming pleasingly plump. It was nowhere near as extensive as the Operation Lombard reports, of course, but still, it had width to it now, it had width.

At 3:00 p.m., he called Deputy Inspector Thorsen. This time the answering service operator asked him to hold while she checked. She was back on again in a few minutes and told him Thorsen asked him to call again at seven in the evening. Delaney hung up, now convinced that something was happening, something was awry.

He put the worry away from him and went back to his notes and reports. If “The Suspect” was indeed a mountain climber-and Delaney believed he was-weren’t there other possible leads to his identity other than the mailing list of Outside Life? For instance, was there a local or national club or association of mountain climbers whose membership list could be culled for residents of the 251st Precinct? Was there a newsletter or magazine devoted to mountaineering with a subscription list that could be used for the same purpose? What about books on mountain climbing? Should Delaney inquire at the library that served the 251st Precinct and try to determine who had withdrawn books on the subject?

He jotted down notes on these questions as fast as they occurred to him. Mountain climbing was, after all, a minor sport. But could you call it a sport? It really didn’t seem to be a pastime or diversion. It seemed more of a-of a-well, the only word that came to his mind was “challenge.” He also thought, for some reason, of “crusade,” but that didn’t make too much sense, and he resolved to talk to Calvin Case about it, and carefully made a note to himself to that effect.

Finally, almost as a casual afterthought, he came back to the problem that had been nagging him for the past few days, and he resolved to turn over everything he had to Broughton and Chief Pauley. They could follow through much faster than he could, and their investigation might, just might, prevent another death. He would have liked to stick to it on his own, but that was egotism, just egotism.

He was writing out a detailed report of his meeting with Sol Appel when the desk phone rang. He lifted the receiver and said absently, “Hello.”

“‘Hello’?” Dr. Sanford Ferguson laughed. “What the hell kind of a greeting is that-‘Hello?’ Whatever happened to ‘Captain Edward X. Delaney here’?”

“All right. Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Are you bombed?”

“On my way, m’lad. Congratulations.”

“You mean the drawing was accurate?”

“Right on. The outside wound-I’m talking about the skull now-was a rough square, about an inch on each side. For the probe I used glass fiber. You know what that is?”

“A slender bundle of glass threads, flexible and transmitting light from a battery-powered source.”

“You know everything, don’t you, Edward? Yes, that’s what I used. Tapering, curving downward to a sharp point, and I even found some evidence of heavier abrasions on the lower surface, a tearing. That could be accounted for by those little saw teeth. Not definite enough to put in my official report, but a possible, Captain, a possible.”

“Thank you, doctor. And the oil?”

“No obvious sign of it. But I sent your rag and a specimen of tissue to the lab. I told you, it’ll take time.”

“They won’t talk?”

“The lab boys? Only to merit’s just a job. They know from nothing. Happy, Edward?”

“Yes. Very. Why are you getting drunk?”

“He was so small. So small, so frail, so wasted and his heart wasn’t worth a damn and he had a prick about the size of a thimble. So I’m getting drunk. Any objections?”

“No. None.”

“Get the bastard, Edward.”

“I will.”

“Promise?”

“I promise,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said.

He got to the hospital shortly after 5:30, but the visit was a disaster. Barbara immediately started talking of a cousin of hers who had died twenty years ago, and then began speaking of “this terrible war.” He thought she was talking about Vietnam, but then she spoke of Tom Hendricks, a lieutenant of Marines, and he realized she was talking about the Korean War, in which Tom Hendricks had been killed. Then she sang a verse of “Black is the color of my true love’s hair,” and he didn’t know what to do.

He sat beside her, tried to soothe her. But she would not be still. She gabbled of Mary, of the drapes in the third-floor bedrooms, Thorsen, violets, a dead dog-and who had taken her children away? He was frightened and close to weeping. He pushed the bell for the nurse, but when no one came, he rushed into the corridor and almost dragged in the first nurse he saw.

Barbara was still babbling, eyes closed, an almost-smile on her lips, and he waited anxiously, alone, while the nurse left for a moment to consult her medication chart. He listened to a never-ending stream of meaningless chatter: Lombard and Honey Bunch and suddenly, “I need a hundred dollars,” and Eddie and Liza, and then she was at the carousel in the park, describing it and laughing, and the painted horses went round and round, and then the nurse came back with a covered tray, removed a hypodermic, gave Barbara a shot in the arm, near the wrist. In a few moments she was calm, then sleeping.

“Jesus Christ,” Delaney breathed, “what happened to her? What was that?”

“Just upset,” the nurse smiled mechanically. “She’s all right now. She’s sleeping peaceably.”

“Peacefully,” the Captain said.

“Peacefully,” the nurse repeated obediently. “If you have any questions, please contact your doctor in the morning.” She marched out. Delaney stared after her, wondering if there was any end to the madness in the world. He turned back to the bed. Barbara was, apparently, sleeping peacefully. He felt so goddamned frightened, helpless, furious.

It wasn’t 7:00 p.m., so he couldn’t call Thorsen. He walked home, hoping, just hoping, he might be attacked. He was not armed, but he didn’t care. He would kick them in the balls, bite their throats-he was in that mood. He looked around at the shadowed streets. “Try me,” he wanted to shout. “Come on! I’m here.”

He got inside, took off his hat and coat, treated himself to two straight whiskies. He calmed down, gradually. What a thing that had been. He was home now, unhurt, thinking clearly. But Barbara…

He sat stolidly sipping his whiskey until 7:00 p.m. Then he called Thorsen’s number, not really caring. Thorsen called him back almost immediately.

“Edward?”

“Yes.”

“Something important?”

“I think so. Can you get Johnson?”

“He’s here now.”

Then Delaney became aware of the tone of the man’s voice, the tightness, urgency.

“I’ve got to see you,” the Captain said. “The sooner the better.”

“Yes,” Thorsen agreed. “Can you come over now?”

“Your office or home?”

“Home.”

“I’ll take a cab,” Captain Delaney told him. “About twenty minutes, at the most.”

He hung up, then said, “Fuck ’em all,” in a loud voice. But he went into the kitchen, found a paper shopping bag in the cabinet under the sink, brought it back to the study. In it he placed the three hammers and the can of machine oil-all his “physical evidence.” Then he set out.

Mrs. Thorsen met him at the door, took his coat and hat and hung them away. She was a tall silver-blonde almost gaunt, but with good bones and the most beautiful violet eyes Delaney had ever seen. They chatted a few moments, and he asked about Barbara. He mumbled something.

“Have you eaten tonight, Edward?” she asked suddenly. He tried to think, not remembering, then shook his head. “I’m making some sandwiches. Ham-and-cheese all right? Or roast beef?”

“Either or both will be fine, Karen.”

“And I have some salad things. In about an hour or so. The others are in the living room-you know where.”

There were three men in the room, all seated. Thorsen and Inspector Johnson rose and came forward to shake his hand. The third man remained seated; no one offered to introduce him.

This man was short, chunky, swarthy, with a tremendous mustache. His hands lay flat on his knees, and his composure was monumental. Only his dark eyes moved, darting, filled with curiosity and a lively intelligence.

It was only after he was seated that Delaney made him: Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski. He was a secretive, publicity-shy politico, reputed to be the mayor’s trouble-shooter and one of his closest confidants. In a short biographical sketch in the Times, the writer, speculating on Alinski’s duties, had come to the conclusion that, “Apparently, what he does most frequently is listen, and everyone who knows him agrees that he does that very well indeed.”

“Drink, Edward?” Thorsen asked. “Rye highball?” Delaney looked around. Thorsen and Johnson had glasses. Alinski did not.

“Not right now, thank you. Maybe later.”

“All right. Karen is making up some sandwiches for us. Edward, you said you had something important for us. You can talk freely.”

Again Delaney became conscious of the tension in Thorsen’s voice, and when he looked at Inspector Johnson, the big black seemed stiff and grim.

“All right,” Delaney said. “I’ll take it from the top.”

He started speaking, still seated, and then, in a few moments, rose to pace around the room, or pause with his elbow on the mantel. He thought and spoke better, he knew, on his feet, and could gesture freely. None of the three men interrupted, but their heads or eyes followed him wherever he strode.

He began with Lombard’s death. The position of the body. His reasons for thinking the killer had approached from the front, then whirled to strike Lombard down from behind. The shape and nature of the wound. Oil in the wound. The missing driver’s license. His belief that it was taken as evidence of the kill. Then Langley, his expertise, and the discovery of the bricklayers’ hammer which led to the rock hounds’ hammer which led to the ice ax.

At this point he unpacked his shopping bag and handed around the tools. The three men examined them closely, their faces expressionless as they tested edges with thumbs, hefted the weight and balance of the tools.

Delaney went on: the Bernard Gilbert attack. The missing ID card. His belief that the assailant was psychopathic. A resident of the 251st Precinct. And would kill again. The information supplied by Handry: the Trotsky assassination and the name of Calvin Case. Then the interview with Case. The oil on the ice ax heads. He handed around the can of oil.

He had them now, and the three were leaning forward intently, Thorsen and Johnson neglecting their drinks, the Deputy Mayor’s sharp eyes darting and glittering. There wasn’t a sound from them.

Delaney told them about the interview with Sol Appel at Outside Life. The mailing list and itemized sales checks. Then he related how he had traced a profile of the ice ax head. How he had given that and a sample of machine oil to the surgeon who did the autopsy on Gilbert. How the profile on the wound checked out. How the oil would be analyzed on the OAI.

“Who did the post?” Inspector Johnson asked.

Alinski’s head swivelled sharply, and he spoke for the first time. “Post?” he asked. “What’s post?”

“Post-mortem,” Delaney explained. “I promised to keep the surgeon’s name out of it.”

“We could find out,” Alinski said mildly.

“Of course,” the Captain said, just as mildly. “But not from me.”

That seemed to satisfy Alinski. Thorsen asked how much Delaney had told the surgeon, had told Langley, Handry, Case, Mrs. Gilbert, Sol Appel.

Only as much as they needed to know, Delaney assured him. They knew only that he was engaged in a private investigation of the deaths of Lombard and Gilbert, and they were willing to help.

“Why?” Alinski asked.

Delaney shrugged. “For reasons of their own.” There was silence for a few minutes, then Alinski spoke softly:

“You have no proof, do you, Captain?”

Delaney looked at him in astonishment.

“Of course not. It’s all smoke, all theory. I haven’t told you or shown you a single thing that could be taken into court at this time.”

“But you believe in it?”

“I believe in it. For one reason only-there’s nothing else to believe in. Does Operation Lombard have anything better?”

The three men turned heads to stare wordlessly at each other. Delaney could tell nothing from their expressions.

“That’s really why I’m here,” he said, addressing Thorsen. “I want to turn-”

But at that moment there was a kicking at the door; not a knocking, but three sharp kicks. Thorsen sprang up, stalked over, opened the door and relieved his wife of a big tray of food.

“Thank you dear,” he smiled.

“There’s plenty more of everything,” she called to the other men. “So don’t be polite if you’re hungry; just ask.”

Thorsen put the loaded tray on a low cocktail table, and they clustered around. There were ham-and-cheese sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, chunks of tomato, radishes, dill pickles, slices of Spanish onions, a jar of hot mustard, olives, potato chips, scallions.

They helped themselves, all standing, and Thorsen mixed fresh drinks. This time Delaney had a rye and water, and Deputy Mayor Alinski took a double Scotch.

Unwilling to sacrifice the momentum of what he had been saying, and the impression he had obviously made on them, Delaney began talking again, speaking between bites of his sandwich and pieces of scallion. This time he looked at Alinski as he spoke.

“I want to turn over everything I’ve got to Chief Pauley. I admit it’s smoke, but it’s a lead. I’ve got three or four inexperienced people who can check sources of the ax and the Outside Life mailing list and sales checks. But Pauley’s got five hundred dicks and God knows how many deskmen if he needs them. It’s a question of time. I think Pauley should take this over; he can do it a lot faster than I can. It might prevent another kill, and I’m convinced there will be another, and another, and another, until we catch up with this nut.”

The other three continued eating steadily, sipping their drinks and looking at him. Once Thorsen started to speak, but Alinski held up a hand, silencing him. Finally the Deputy Mayor finished his sandwich, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, took his drink back to his chair. He sat down, sighed, stared at Delaney.

“A moral problem for you, isn’t it, Captain?” he asked softly.

“Call it what you like,” Delaney shrugged. “I just feel what I have is strong enough to follow up on, and Chief Pauley is-”

“Impossible,” Thorsen said.

“Why impossible?” Delaney cried angrily. “If you-”

“Calm down, Edward,” Inspector Johnson said quietly. He was on his third sandwich. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you tonight. You obviously haven’t been listening to radio or TV in the last few hours. You can’t turn over what you have to Chief Pauley. Broughton canned him a few hours ago.”

“Canned him?”

“Whatever you want to call it. Relieved him of command. Kicked him off Operation Lombard.”

“Jesus Christ!” Delaney said furiously. “He can’t do that.”

“He did it,” Thorsen nodded. “And in a particularly-in a particularly brutal way. Didn’t even tell the Chief. Just called a press conference and announced he was relieving Pauley of all command responsibilities relating to Operation Lombard. He said Pauley was inefficient and getting nowhere.”

“But who the hell is-”

“And Broughton is going to take over personal supervision of all the detectives assigned to Operation Lombard.”

“Oh God,” Delaney groaned. “That tears it.”

“You haven’t heard the,worst,” Thorsen went on, staring at him without expression. “About an hour ago Pauley filed for retirement. After what Broughton said, Pauley knows his career is finished, and he wants out.”

Delaney sat down heavily in an armchair, looked down at his drink, swirling the ice cubes.

“Son of a bitch,” he said bitterly. “Pauley was a good man. You have no idea how good. He was right behind me. Only because I had the breaks, and he didn’t. But he would have been on to this ice ax thing in another week or so. I know he would; I could tell it by the reports. God damn it! The Department can’t afford to lose men like Pauley. Jesus! A good brain and thirty years’ experience down the drain. It just makes me sick!”

None of them said anything, giving him time to calm down. Alinski rose from his chair to go over to the food tray again, take a few radishes and olives. Then he came over to stand before Delaney’s chair, popping food.

“You know, Captain,” he said gently, “this development really doesn’t affect your moral problem, does it? I mean, you can still take what you have to Broughton.”

“I suppose so,” Delaney said morosely. “Canning Pauley, for God’s sake. Broughton’s out of his mind. He just wanted a goat to protect his own reputation.”

“That’s what we think,” Inspector Johnson said.

Delaney looked up at Deputy Mayor Alinski, still standing over him.

“What’s it all about?” he demanded. “Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”

“Do you really want to know, Captain?”

“Yeah, I want to know,” Delaney grunted. “But I don’t want you to tell me. I’ll find out for myself.”

“I think you will,” Alinski nodded. “I think you are a very smart man.”

“Smart? Shit! I can’t even find one kill-crazy psychopath in my own precinct.”

“It’s important to you, isn’t it, Captain, to find the killer? It’s the most important thing.”

“Of course it’s the most important thing. This nut is going to keep killing, over and over and over. There will be shorter intervals between murders. Maybe he’ll hit in the daytime. Who the hell knows? But I can guarantee one thing: he won’t stop now. It’s a fever in his blood. He can’t stop. Wait’ll the newspapers get hold of this. And they will. Then the shit will hit the fan.”

“Going to take what you have to Broughton?” Thorsen asked, almost idly.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do. I have to think about it.”

“That’s wise,” Alinski said unexpectedly. “Think about it. There’s nothing like thought-long, deep thought.”

“I just want all of you to know one thing,” Delaney said angrily, not understanding why he was angry. “The decision is mine. Only mine. What I decide to do, I’ll do.”

They would have offered him something, but they knew better.

Johnson came over to put a heavy hand on Delaney’s shoulder. The big black was grinning. “We know that, Edward. We knew you were a hard-nose from the start. We’re not going to lean on you.”

Delaney drained his drink, rose, put the empty glass on the cocktail table. He repacked his paper shopping bag with hammers and the can of oil.

“Thank you,” he said to Thorsen. “Thank Karen for me for the food. I can find my own way out.”

“Will you call and tell me what you’ve decided, Edward?”

“Sure. If I decide to go to Broughton, I’ll call you first.”

“Thank you.”

“Gentlemen,” Delaney nodded around, and marched out. They watched him go, all of them standing.

He had to walk five blocks and lost two dimes before he found a public phone that worked. He finally got through to Thomas Handry.

“Yes?”

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Am I interrupting you?”

“Yes.”

“Working?”

“Trying to.”

“How’s it coming?”

“It’s never as good as you want it to be.”

“That’s true,” Delaney said, without irony and without malice. “True for poets and true for cops. I was hoping you could give me some help.”

“That photo of the ice ax that killed Trotsky? I haven’t been able to find it.”

“No, this is something else.”

“You’re something else too, Captain-you know that? All for you and none for me. When are you going to open up?”

“In a day or so.”

“Promise?”

“I promise.”

“All right. What do you want?”

“What do you know about Broughton?”

“Who?”

“Broughton, Timothy A., Deputy Commissioner.”

“That prick? Did you see him on TV tonight?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“He fired Chief Pauley. For inefficiency and, he hinted, dereliction of duty. A sweet man.”

“What does he want?”

“Broughton? He wants to be commissioner, then mayor, then governor, then President of these here You-nited States. He’s got ambition and drive you wouldn’t believe.”

“I gather you don’t approve of him.”

“You gather right. I’ve had one personal interview with him. You know how most men carry pictures of their wives and children in their wallets? Broughton carries pictures of himself.”

“Nice. Does he have any clout? Political clout?”

“Very heavy indeed. Queens and Staten Island for starters. The talk is that he’s aiming for the primary next year. On a ‘law and order’ platform. You know, ‘We must clamp down on crime in the streets, no matter what it costs.”’

“You think he’ll make it?”

“He might. If he can bring off his Operation Lombard thing, it’s bound to help. And if Lombard’s killer turns out to be a black heroin addict on welfare who’s living with a white fifteen-year-old hippie with long blonde hair, there’ll be no stopping Broughton.”

“You think the mayor’s worried?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

“I guess. Thank you, Handry. You’ve made a lot of things a lot clearer.”

“Not for me. What the hell is going on?”

“Will you give me a day-or two?”

“No more. Gilbert died, didn’t he?”

“Yes. He did.”

“There’s a connection, isn’t there?”

“Yes.”

“Two days,” Handry said. “No more. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll have to start guessing. In print.”

“Good enough.”

He walked home, the shopping bag bumping against his knee. Now he could understand something of what was going on-the tension of Thorsen, Johnson’s grimness, Alinski’s presence. He really didn’t want to get involved in all that political shit. He was a cop, a professional. Right now, all he wanted to do was catch a killer, but he seemed bound and strangled by this maze of other men’s ambitions, feuds, obligations.

What had happened, he realized, was that his search for the killer of Lombard and Gilbert had become a very personal thing to him, a private thing, and he resented the intrusion of other men, other circumstances, other motives. He needed help, of course-he couldn’t do everything himself-but essentially it was a duel, a two-man combat, and outside advice, pressures, influence were to be shunned. You knew what you could do, and you respected your opponent’s ability and didn’t take him lightly. Whether it was a fencing exhibition or a duel to the death, you put your cock on the line.

But all that was egotism he admitted, groaning aloud. Stupid male machismo, believing that nothing mattered unless you risked your balls. It should not, it could not affect his decision which, as Barbara and Deputy Mayor Alinski had recognized, was essentially a moral choice.

Thinking this way, brooding, his brain in a whirl, he turned into his own block, head down, schlepping along with his heavy shopping bag, when a harsh voice called, “Delaney!”

He stopped slowly. Like most detectives in New York-in the world! — he had helped send men up. To execution, or to long or short prison terms, or to mental institutions. Most of them vowed revenge-in the courtroom, in threats phoned by their friends, in letters. Very few of them, thankfully, ever carried out their threats. But there were a few…

Now, hearing his name called from a dark sedan parked on a poorly lighted street, realizing he was unarmed, he turned slowly toward the car. He let the shopping bag drop to the sidewalk. He raised his arms slightly, palms turned forward.

But then he saw the uniformed driver in the front seat. And in the back, leaning toward the cranked-down window, the bulk and angry face of Deputy Commissioner Broughton. The cigar, clenched in his teeth, was burning furiously.

“Delaney!” Broughton said again, more of a command than a greeting. The Captain stepped closer to the car. Broughton made no effort to open the door, so Delaney was forced to bow forward from the waist to speak to him. He was certain this was deliberate on Broughton’s part, to keep him in a supplicant’s position.

“Sir?” he asked.

“Just what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“I don’t understand, sir.”

“We sent a man to Florida. It turns out that Lombard’s driver’s license is missing. The widow says you spoke to her about it. You were seen entering her house. You knew the license was missing. I could rack you up for withholding evidence.”

“But I reported it, sir.”

“You reported it? To Pauley?”

“No, I didn’t think it was that important. I reported it to Dorfman, Acting Commander of the Two-five-one Precinct. I’m sure he sent a report to the Traffic Department. Check the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles, sir. I’m certain you’ll find a missing license report was filed with them.” There was silence for a moment. A cloud of rank cigar smoke came billowing out the window, into Delaney’s face. Still he stooped.

“Why did you go see Gilbert’s wife?” Broughton demanded.

“For the same reason I went to see Mrs. Lombard,” Delaney said promptly. “To present my condolences. As commander and ex-commander of the precinct in which the crimes occurred. Good public relations for the Department.”

Again there was a moment’s silence.

“You got an answer for everything, you wise bastard,” Broughton said angrily. He was in semi-darkness. Delaney, bending down, could barely make out his features. “You been seeing Thorsen? And Inspector Johnson?”

“Of course I’ve been seeing Deputy Inspector Thorsen, sir. He’s been a friend of mine for many years.”

“He’s your ‘rabbi’-right?”

“Yes. And he introduced me to Johnson. Just because I’m on leave of absence doesn’t mean I have to stop seeing old friends in the Department.”

“Delaney, I don’t trust you. I got a nose for snots like you, and I got a feeling you’re up to something. Just listen to this: you’re still on the list, and I can stomp on you any time I want to. You know that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t fuck me, Delaney. I can do more to you than you can do to me. You coppish?”

“Yes. I understand.”

So far he had held his temper under control and now, in a split-second, he made his decision. His anger wasn’t important, and neither was Broughton’s obnoxious personality. He brought the shopping bag closer to the car window.

“Sir,” he said, “I have something here I’d like to show you. I think it may possibly help-”

“Go fuck yourself,” Broughton interrupted roughly, and Delaney heard the belch. “I don’t need your help. I don’t want your help. The only way you can help me is to crawl in a hole and pull it in over your head. Is that clear?”

“Sir, I’ve been-”

“Jesus Christ, how can I get through to you? Fuck off, Delaney. That’s all I want from you. Just fuck off, you shit-head.”

“Yes, sir,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said, almost delirious with pleasure. “I heard. I understand.”

He stood and watched the black sedan pull away. See? You worry, brood, wrestle with “moral problems” and such crap and then suddenly a foul-mouthed moron solves the whole thing for you. He went into his own home happily, called Deputy Inspector Thorsen and, after reporting his meeting with Broughton, told Thorsen he wanted to continue the investigation on his own.

“Hang on a minute, Edward,” Thorsen said. Delaney guessed Inspector Johnson and Deputy Mayor Alinski were still there, and Ivar was repeating the conversation to them. Thorsen was back again in about two minutes.

“Fine,” he said. “Go ahead. Good luck.”