The 1st Deadly Sin

4

His bedside alarm went off at 8:00 a.m. He slapped it silent, swung his legs out from under the blankets, donned his glasses, consulted a slip of paper he had left under the phone. He called Thomas Handry at home. The phone rang eight times. He was about to give up when Handry answered.

“Hello?” he asked sleepily.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Did I wake you up?”

“Why no,” Handry yawned. “I’ve been up for hours. Jogged around the reservoir, wrote two deathless sonnets, and seduced my landlady. All right, what do you want, Captain?”

“Got a pencil handy?”

“A minute…okay, what is it?”

“I want you to check a man in your morgue file.”

“Who is he?”

“Blank, Daniel G. That last name is Blank, B-l-a-n-k.”

“Why should he be in our morgue?”

“I don’t know why. It’s just a chance.”

“Well, what has he done? I mean, has he been in the news for any reason?”

“Not to my knowledge.”

“Then why the hell should we have him in the morgue?”

“I told you,” Delaney said patiently, “it’s just a chance. But I’ve got to cover every possibility.”

“Oh Jesus. All right. I’ll try. I’ll call you around ten, either way.”

“No, don’t do that,” the Captain said quickly. “I may be out. I’ll call you at the paper around ten.”

Handry grunted and hung up.

After breakfast he went into the study. He wanted to check the dates of the four murders and the intervals between them. Lombard to Gilbert: 22 days. Gilbert to Kope: 17 days. Kope to Feinberg: 11 days. By projection, the next murder should occur during the week between after Christmas and New Year’s Day, and probably a few days after Christmas. He sat suddenly upright. Christmas! Oh God.

He called Barbara immediately. She reported she was feeling well, had had a good night’s sleep, and ate ail her breakfast. She always said that.

“Listen,” he said breathlessly, “it’s about Christmas…I’m sorry, dear. I forgot all about gifts and cards. What are we to do?”

She laughed. “I knew you were too busy. I’ve mailed things to the children. I saw ads in the newspapers and ordered by phone. Liza and John are getting a nice crystal ice bucket from Tiffany’s, and I sent Eddie a terribly expensive sweater from Saks. How does that sound?”

“You’re a wonder,” he told her.

“So you keep saying,” she teased, “but do you really mean it? Give Mary some money, as usual, and maybe you can get her something personal, just some little thing, like a scarf or handkerchief or something like that. And put the check in the package.”

“All right. What about the cards?”

“Well, we have some left over from last year-about twenty, I think-and they’re in the bottom drawer of the secretary in the living room. Now if you buy another three boxes, I’m sure it’ll be enough. Are you coming over today?”

“Yes. Definitely. At noon.”

“Well, bring the cards and the list. You know where the list is, don’t you?”

“Bottom drawer of the secretary in the living room.”

“Detective!” she giggled. “Yes, that’s where it is. Bring the list and cards over at noon. I feel very good today. I’ll start writing them. I won’t try to do them all today, but I should have them finished up in two or three days, and they’ll get there in time.”

“Stamps?”

“Yes, I’ll need stamps. Get a roll of a hundred. A roll is easier to handle. I make such a mess of a sheet. Oh Edward, I’m sorry…I forgot to ask. Did you find anything in the old files?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you at noon.”

“Does it look good?”

“Well…maybe.”

She was silent, then sighed. “I hope so,” she said. “Oh, how I hope so.”

“I do, too. Listen dear…what would you like for Christmas?”

“Do I have a choice?” she laughed. “I know what I’m going to get-perfume from any drugstore you find that’s open on Christmas Eve.”

He laughed too. She was right.

He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was a little past 9:00 a.m., later than he wanted it to be. He dug hurriedly through his pack of business cards and found the one he was looking for: Arthur K. Ames. Automobile Insurance.

Blank’s apartment house occupied an entire block on East 83rd Street. Delaney was familiar with the building and, standing across the street, looking up, thought again of how institutional it looked. All steel and glass. A hospital or a research center, not a place to live in. But people did, and he could imagine what the rents must be.

As he had hoped, men and women were still leaving for work. Two doormen were constantly running down the driveway to flag cabs and, even as he watched, a garage attendant brought a Lincoln Continental to the entrance, hopped out and ran back to the underground garage to drive up another tenant’s car.

Delaney walked resolutely up the driveway, turned right and walked down a short flight of steps to the underground garage. A light blue Jaguar came roaring by him, the garage man at the wheel. Delaney waited patiently at the entrance until the black attendant came trotting back.

“Good morning,” he said proffering his business card. “My name is Ames, of Cross-Country Insurance.”

The attendant glanced at the card. “You picked a bad time to sell insurance, man.”

“No, no,” Delaney said quickly, smiling. “I’m not selling anything. One of the cars we cover was involved in an accident with a nineteen-seventy-one Chevy Corvette. The Corvette took off. The car we cover was trashed. The driver’s in the hospital. Happened over on Third Avenue. We think the Corvette might be from the neighborhood, so I’m checking all the garages around here. Just routine.”

“A nineteen-seventy-one Corvette?”

“Yes.”

“What color?”

“Probably dark blue or black.”

“When did this happen?”

“Couple of days ago.”

“We got one Corvette. Mr. Blank. But it couldn’t be him. He hasn’t had his car out in weeks.”

“The police found glass at the scene and pieces of fiberglass from the left front fender.”

“I’m telling you it couldn’t be Mr. Blank’s Corvette. There’s not a scratch on it.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Help yourself,” the man shrugged. “It’s back there in the far corner, behind the white Caddy.”

“Thank you.”

The man took a phone call, hopped into a Ford station wagon, began to back out into the center of the garage so he could turn around. He was busy, which was why Delaney had picked this time. He walked slowly over to the black Corvette. The license number was Blank’s.

The door was unlocked. He opened it and looked in, sniffing. A musty, closed-window smell. There was an ice-scraper for the windshield, a can of defogger, a dusty rag, a pair of worn driving gloves. Between the two seats was tucked a gasoline station map that had been handled, unfolded and refolded several times. Delaney opened it far enough to look. New York State. With a route marked on it in heavy black pencil: from East 83rd Street, across town, up the West Side Highway to the George Washington Bridge, across to New Jersey, up through Mahwah into New York again, then north to the Catskill Mountains, ending at a town named Chilton. He reshuffled the map, put it back where he found it.

He closed the car door gently and started out. He met the attendant coming back.

“It sure wasn’t that car,” he smiled.

“I told you that, man.”

Delaney wondered if the attendant would mention the incident to Blank. He thought it likely, and he tried to guess what Blank’s reaction would be. It wouldn’t spook him but, if he was guilty, it might start him thinking. There was an idea there, Delaney acknowledged, but it wasn’t time for it…yet.

Back in his study, he looked up Chilton in his world atlas. All it said was “Chilton, N.Y. Pop.: 3,146.” He made a note about Chilton and added it to the Daniel Blank file. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t quite ten, but close enough. He called Handry at his office.

“Captain? Sorry. No soap.”

“Well…it was a long shot. Thank you very much for-”

“Hey, wait a minute. You give up too easily. We got other files of people. For instance, the sports desk keeps a file of living personalities and so does the theatre and arts section. Could your boy be in either?”

“Maybe in the sports file, but I doubt it.”

“Well, can you tell me anything about him?”

“Not much. He lives in an expensive apartment house and drives an expensive car, so he must be loaded.”

“Thanks a lot,” Handry sighed. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. If I have something, I’ll call you. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I didn’t turn up a thing. Okay?”

“Yes. Sure. Fine,” Delaney said heavily, feeling this was just a polite kiss-off.

He got over to the hospital as Barbara’s noon meal was being served and he watched, beaming, as she ate almost all of it, feeding herself. She really was getting better, he told himself happily. Then he showed her the Christmas cards he had purchased, in three different price ranges; the most expensive for their “important” friends and acquaintances, the least expensive for-well, for people. And the twenty cards left over from last year, the list, the stamps.

Then he told her about Daniel Blank, stalking about the room, making wide gestures. He told her the man’s history, what he had been able to dig up, what he suspected.

“What do you think?” he asked finally, eager for her opinion.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe. But you’ve really got nothing, Edward. You know that.”

“Of course.”

“Nothing definite. But certainly worth following up. I’d feel a lot better if you could tie him up with an ice ax purchase.”

“I would too. But right now he’s all I’ve got.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Where? Checking out everything. Charles Lipsky. The Parrot, where he had that fight. Trying to find out who he is and what he is. Listen, dear, I won’t be over this evening. Too much to do. All right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Are you sticking to your diet?”

“Sure,” he said, patting his stomach. “I’m up only three pounds this week.”

They laughed, and he kissed her on the lips before he left. Then they kissed again. Soft, clinging, wanting kisses.

He clumped down to the lobby, dug out his pocket notebook, looked up the number. Then he called Calvin Case from the lobby booth.

“How you coming?”

“All right,” Case said. “I’m still working on the general mountaineering equipment sales checks, pulling those in the Two-five-one Precinct.”

Delaney was amused at Case’s “Two-five-one Precinct.” His amateur was talking officialese.

“Am I doing any good?” Case wanted to know.

“You are,” Delaney assured him. “I’ve got a lead. Name is Daniel Blank. Know him?”

“What’s it?”

“Blank. B-l-a-n-k. Daniel G. Ever hear of him?”

“Is he a climber?”

“I don’t know. Could be.”

“Hey, Captain, there’re two hundred thousand climbers in the country and more every year. No, I don’t know any Daniel G. Blank. What does the G. stand for?”

“Gideon. All right, let me try this one on you: Ever hear of Chilton? It’s a town in New York.”

“I know. Up in the Catskills. Sleepy little place.”

“Would a mountain climber go there?”

“Sure. Not Chilton itself, but about two miles out of town is a state park. A small one, but nice. Benches, tables, barbecues-crap like that.”

“What about climbing?”

“Mostly for hiking. There are some nice outcrops. There’s one good climb, a monolith. Devil’s Needle. It’s a chimney climb. As a matter of fact, I left two pitons up there to help whoever came after me to crawl out onto the top. I used to go up there to work out.”

“Is it an easy climb?”

“Easy? Well., it’s not for beginners. I’d say an intermediate climb. If you know what you’re doing, it’s easy. Does that help?”

“At this point everything helps.”

Back home, he added the information Calvin Case had given him about Chilton and the Devil’s Needle to the Daniel Blank file. Then he checked the address of The Parrot in Blankenship’s report. He went through his pack of business cards, found one that read: “Ward M. Miller. Private Investigations. Discreet-Reliable-Satisfaction Guaranteed.” He began to plan his cover story.

He was still thinking it out an hour later, so deeply engrossed with the deception he was plotting that the phone must have rung several times without his being aware of it. Then Mary, who had picked up the hall extension, came in to tell him Mr. Handry was on the phone.

“Got him,” Handry said.

“What?”

“I found him. Your Daniel G. Blank.”

“Jesus Christ!” Delaney said excitedly. “Where?”

Handry laughed. “Our business-finance keeps a personality file, mostly on executives. They get tons of press releases and public relations reports every year. You know, Joe Blow has been promoted from vice president to executive vice president, or Harry Hardass has been hired as sales manager at Wee Tots Bootery, or some such shit. Usually it’s a one-page release with a small photo, a head-and-shoulders shot. You know what the business desk calls that stuff?”

“What?”

“The ‘Fink File.’ And if you got a look at those photos, you’d understand why. You wouldn’t believe! They print about one out of every ten releases they get, depending on the importance of the company. Anyway, that’s where I found your pigeon. He got a promotion a couple of years ago, and there’s a photo of him and a few paragraphs of slush.”

“Where does he work?”

“Ohhh no,” Handry said. “You haven’t a bloody chance. I’ll have a Xerox made of the release and a copy of the photo. I’ll bring them up to your place tonight if you’ll tell me why you’re so interested in Mr. Blank. It’s the Lombard thing, isn’t it?”

Delaney hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Blank a suspect?”

“Maybe.”

“If I bring the release and photo tonight, will you tell me about it?”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Is it a deal?”

“All right. About eight or nine.”

“I’ll be there.”

Delaney hung up, exultant. Information and a photo! He knew from experience the usual sequence of a difficult case.

The beginning was long, slow, muddled. The middle began to pick up momentum, pieces coming together, fragments fitting. The end was usually short, fast, frequently violent. He judged he was in the middle of the middle now, the pace quickening, parts clicking into place. It was all luck. It was all fucking luck.

The Parrot was no worse and no better than any other ancient Third Avenue bar that served food (steak sandwich, veal cutlet, beef stew; spaghetti, home fries, peas-and-carrots; apple pie, tapioca pudding, chocolate cake). With the growth of high-rise apartment houses, there were fewer such places every year.

As he had hoped, the tavern was almost empty. There were two men wearing yellow hardhats drinking beer at the bar and matching coins. There was a young couple at a back table, holding hands, dawdling over a bottle of cheap wine. One waiter at this hour. One bartender.

Delaney sat at the bar, near the door, his back to the plate glass window. He ordered a rye and water. When the bartender poured it, the Captain put a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

The man looked at him. “For what?”

“I need some information.”

“Who are you?”

Delaney slid the “Ward M. Miller-Private Investigations” business card across the bar. The man picked it up and read it, his lips moving. He returned the card.

“I don’t know nothing,” he said.

“Sure you do,” the Captain smiled genially. He placed the card atop the ten-dollar bill. “It’s a matter of public record. Last year there was a fight in here. A guy kicked the shit out of a faggot. Were you on duty that night?”

“I’m on duty every night. I own the joint. Part of it anyways.”

“Remember the fight?”

“I remember. How come you know about it?”

“I got a friend in the Department. He told me about it.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Nothing. I don’t even know your name, and I don’t want to know it. I’m interested in the guy who broke the other guy’s jaw.”

“That sonofabitch!” the bartender burst out. “That guy should have been put away and throw away the key. A maniac!”

“He kicked the faggot when he was down?”

“That’s right. In the balls. He was a wild man. It took three of us to pull him away. He would have killed him. I came close to sapping him. I keep a sawed-off pool cue behind the bar. He was a raving nut. How come you’re interested in him?”

“Just checking up. His name is Daniel Blank. He’s about thirty-six, thirty-seven-around there. He’s divorced. Now he’s got the hots for this young chick. She’s nineteen, in college. This Blank wants to marry her, and she’s all for it. Her old man is loaded. He thinks this Blank smells. The old man wants me to check him out, see what I can dig up.”

“The old man better kick his kid’s tail or get her out of the country before he lets her marry Blank. That guy’s bad news.”

“I’m beginning to think so,” Delaney agreed.

“Bet your sweet ass,” the bartender nodded. He was interested now, leaned across the bar, his arms folded. “He’s a wrongo. Listen, I got a young daughter myself. If this Blank ever came near her, I’d break his arms and legs. He was in trouble with the cops before, you know.”

Delaney took back his business card, moved the ten-dollar bill closer to the man’s elbow.

“What happened?” he asked.

“He got in trouble with some guy who lives in his apartment house. Something about the guy’s dog. Anyway, this guy got a busted arm, and this Blank was hauled in on an assault rap. But they fixed it up somehow and settled out of court.”

“No kidding?” the Captain said. “First I heard about it. When did this happen?”

“About six months before he had the fight in here. The guy’s a trouble-maker.”

“Sure sounds like it. How did you find out about it-the assault charge I mean?”

“My brother-in-law told me. His name’s Lipsky. He’s a doorman in the apartment house where this Blank lives.”

“That’s interesting. You think your brother-in-law would talk to me?”

The bartender looked down at the ten-dollar bill, slid it under his elbow. The two construction workers down at the other end of the bar called for more beer; he went down there to serve them. Then he came back.

“Sure,” he said. “Why not? He thinks this Blank stinks on ice.

“How can I get in touch with him?”

“You can call him on the lobby phone. You know where this Blank lives?”

“Oh sure. That’s a good idea. I’ll call Lipsky there. Maybe this Blank is shacking up or something and is playing my client’s daughter along for kicks or maybe he smells money.”

“Could be. Another drink?”

“Not right now. Listen, have you seen Blank since he got in that fight in here?”

“Sure. The bastard was in a few nights ago. He thought I didn’t recognize him, the shit, but I never forget a face.”

“Did he behave himself?”

“Oh sure. He was quiet. I didn’t say word one to him. Just served him his drink and left him alone. He had some Christmas packages with him so I guess he had been out shopping.” Christmas packages. It could be the night Albert Feinberg was killed. But Delaney didn’t dare press it.

“Thanks very much,” he said, sliding off the stool. He started toward the door, then stopped and came back. The ten-dollar bill had disappeared.

“Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers, “two more things…Could you call your brother-in-law and tell him I’m going to call him? I mean, it would help if I didn’t just call him cold. You can tell him what it’s all about, and there’ll be a couple of bucks in it for him.”

“Sure,” the bartender nodded, “I can do that. I talk to him almost every day anyway. When he’s on days, he usually stops by for a brew when he gets off. But he’s on nights this week. You won’t get him before eight tonight. But I’ll call him at home.”

“Many thanks. I appreciate that. The other thing is this: if Blank should stop in for a drink, tell him I was around asking questions about him. You don’t have to give him my name; just tell him a private investigator was in asking questions. You can describe me.” He grinned at the bartender. “Might put the fear of God in him. Know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” the man grinned back, “I know what you mean.”

He returned home to find a packet of Operation Lombard reports Mary had signed for. He left them on the hallway table, went directly to the kitchen, still wearing his stiff Homburg and heavy, shapeless overcoat. He was so hungry he was almost sick, and realized he had eaten nothing since breakfast. Mary had left a pot of lamb stew on the range. It was still vaguely warm, not hot, but he didn’t care. He stood there in Homburg and overcoat, and forked out pieces of lamb, a potato, onions, carrots. He got a can of beer from the refrigerator and drank, deeply from that, not bothering with a glass. He gulped everything, belching once or twice. After awhile he began to feel a little better; his knees stopped trembling.

He took off hat and coat, opened another can of beer, brought that and the Operation Lombard reports into the study. He donned his glasses, sat at his desk. He began writing an account of his interview with the bartender at The Parrot.

He filed away his account, then opened the package of Operation Lombard reports dealing with the murder of the fourth victim, Albert Feinberg. There were sketchy preliminary statements from the first uniformed patrolmen on the scene, lengthier reports from detectives, temporary opinion of the Medical Examiner (Dr. Sanford Ferguson again), an inventory of the victim’s effects, the first interview with the victim’s widow, photos of the corpse and murder scene, etc., etc.

As Lt. Dorfman had said, there were “extras” that were not present in the three previous homicides. Captain Delaney made a careful list of them:

1. Signs of a struggle. Victim’s jacket lapel torn, necktie awry, shirt pulled from belt. Scuff marks of heels (rubber) and soles (leather) on the sidewalk.

2. Three Christmas packages nearby. One, which contained a black lace negligee, bore the victim’s fingerprints. The other two were empty-dummy packages-and bore no prints at all, neither on the outside wrapping paper nor the inside boxes.

3. Drops of blood on the sidewalk a few feet from where the victim’s battered skull rested. Careful scrapings and analysis proved these several drops were not the victim’s blood type and were presumed to be the killer’s. (Delaney made a note to call Ferguson and find out exactly what blood types were involved.)

4. The victim’s wallet and credit card case appeared to be intact in his pockets. His wife stated that, to her knowledge, no identification was missing. However, pinned behind the left lapel of the victim’s overcoat and poking through the buttonhole, examiners had found a short green stem. The forensic men had identified it as genus Rosa, family Rosaceae, order Rosales. Investigation was continuing to determine, if possible, exactly what type of rose the victim had been sporting on his overcoat lapel.

He was going over the reports once again when the outside door bell rang. Before he answered it, he slid the Operation Lombard material and his own notes into his top desk drawer and closed it tightly. Then he went to the door, brought Thomas Handry back into the study, took his coat and hat. He poured a Scotch on the rocks for Handry, drained the warm dregs of his own beer, then mixed himself a rye and water, sat down heavily behind the desk. Handry slumped in the leather club chair, crossed his knees.

“Well…” Delaney said briskly. “What have you got?”

“What have you got, Captain? Remember our deal?” Delaney stared at the neatly dressed young man a moment. Handry seemed tired; his forehead was seamed, diagonal lines that hadn’t been there before now ran from the corners of his nose down to the sides of his mouth. He bit continually at the hard skin around his thumbnails.

“Been working hard?” Delaney asked quietly.

“Handry shrugged. “The usual. I’m thinking of quitting.”

“Oh?”

“I’m not getting any younger, and I’m not doing what I want to do.”

“How’s the writing coming?”

“It’s not. I get home at night and all I want to do is take off my shoes, mix a drink, and watch the boob tube.” Delaney nodded. “You’re not married, are you?”

“No.”

“Got a woman?”

“Yes.”

“What does she think about your quitting?”

“She’s all for it. She’s got a good job. Makes more than I do. She says she’ll support us until I can get published or get a job I can live with.”

“You don’t like newspaper work?”

“Not anymore.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t know there was so much shit in the world. I can’t take much more of it. But I didn’t come here to talk about my problems.”

“Problems?” the Captain said, surprised. “That’s what it’s all about. Some you have to handle. Some there’s nothing you can do about. Some go away by themselves if you wait long enough. What were you worrying about five years ago?”

“Who the hell knows.”

“Well…there you are. All right, here’s what I’ve got…” Handry knew about the Captain’s amateurs, of the checkings of mailing lists and sales slips, of the setting up of Monica Gilbert’s master file of names, the investigation of their criminal records.

Now the Captain brought him up-to-date on Daniel Blank, how he, Delaney, had found the year-old beef sheets in the Precinct house basement, the search of Blank’s car, the interview with the bartender at The Parrot.

“…and that’s all I’ve got,” he concluded. “So far.” Handry shook his head. “Pretty thin.”

“I know.”

“You’re not even sure if this guy is a mountain climber.”

“That’s true. But he was on the Outside Life mailing list, and that map in his car could be marked to a place where he climbs in this area.”

“Want to go to the D.A. with that?”

“Don’t be silly.”

“You don’t even know if he owns an ice ax.”

“That’s true; I don’t.”

“Well, what I’ve got isn’t going to help you much more.” He drew an envelope from his breast pocket, leaned forward, scaled it onto Delaney’s desk. The envelope was unsealed. The Captain drew out a 4x5 glossy photo and a single Xerox sheet that he unfolded and smoothed out on his desk blotter. He tilted his desk lamp to cast a stronger beam, took up the photo. He stared at it a long time. There. You. Are.

It was a close-up. Daniel Blank was staring directly at the lens. His shoulders were straight and wide. There was a faint smile on his lips, but not in his eyes.

He seemed remarkably youthful. His face was smooth, unlined. Small ears set close to the skull. A strong jaw. Prominent cheek bones. Large eyes, widely spaced, with an expression at once impassive and brooding. Straight hair, parted on the left, but combed flatly back. Heavy brows. Sculpted and unexpectedly tender lips, softly curved.

“Looks a little like an Indian,” Delaney said.

“No,” Handry said. “More Slavic. Almost Mongol. Look like a killer to you?”

“Everyone looks like a killer to me,” Delaney said, not smiling. He turned his attention to the copy of the press release.

It was dated almost two years previously. It was brief, only two paragraphs, and said merely that Daniel G. Blank had been appointed Circulation Director of all Javis-Bircham Publications and would assume his new duties immediately. He was planning to computerize the Circulation Department of Javis-Bircham and would be in charge of the installation of AMROK II, a new computer that had been leased and would occupy almost an entire floor of the Javis-Bircham Building on West 46th Street.

Delaney read through the release again, then pushed it away from him. He took off his heavy glasses, placed them on top of the release. Then he leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling.

“I told you it wouldn’t be much help,” Handry said.

“Oh…I don’t know,” Delaney murmured dreamily. “There are some things…Fix yourself a fresh drink.”

“Thanks. You want some more rye?”

“All right. A little.”

He waited until Handry was settled back in the club chair again. Then the Captain sat up straight, put on his glasses, read the release again. He moved his glasses down on his nose, stared at Handry over the rims.

“How much do you think the Circulation Director of Javis-Bircham earns?”

“Oh, I’d guess a minimum of thirty thousand. And if it ran to fifty, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

“That much?”

“Javis-Bircham is a big outfit. I looked it up. It’s in the top five hundred of all the corporations in the country.”

“Fifty thousand? Pretty good for a young man.”

“How old is he?” Handry asked.

“I don’t know exactly. Around thirty-five I’d guess.”

“Jesus. What does he do with his money?”

“Pays a heavy rent. Keeps an expensive car. Pays alimony. Travels, I suppose. Invests. Maybe he owns a summer home; I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know about him.”

He got up to add more ice to his drink. Then he began to wander about the room, carrying the highball.

“The computer,” he said. “What was it-AMROK II?” Handry, puzzled, said nothing.

“Want to hear something funny?” Delaney asked.

“Sure. I could use a good laugh.”

“This isn’t funny-haha; this is funny strange. I was a detective for almost twenty years before I transferred to the Patrol Division. In those twenty years I had my share of cases involving sexual aberrations, either as a primary or secondary motive. And you know, a lot of those cases-many more than could be accounted for by statistical averages-involved electronic experts, electricians, mechanics, computer programmers, bookkeepers and accountants. Men who worked with things, with machinery, with numbers. These men were rapists or Peeping Toms or flashers or child molesters or sadists or exhibitionists. This is my own experience, you understand. I have never seen any study that breaks down sex offenders according to occupation. I think I’ll suggest an analysis like that to Inspector Johnson. It might prove valuable.”

“How do you figure it?”

“I can’t. It might just be my own experience with sex offenders, too limited to be significant. But it does seem to me that men whose jobs are-are mechanized or automated, whose daily relations with people are limited, are more prone to sex aberrations than men who have frequent and varied human contacts during their working hours. Whether the sex offense is due to the nature of the man’s work, or whether the man unconsciously sought that type of work because he was already a potential sex offender and feared human contact, I can’t say. How would you like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office?” Handry was startled. His drink slopped over the rim of the glass.

“What?” he asked incredulously. “What did you say?” Delaney started to repeat his question, but the phone on his desk shrilled loudly.

“Delaney here.”

“Edward? Thorsen. Can you talk?”

“Not very well.”

“Can you listen a moment?”

“Yes.”

“Good news. We think Broughton’s on the way out. This fourth killing did it. The Mayor and Commissioner and their top aides are meeting tonight on it.”

“I see.”

“If I hear anything more tonight, I’ll let you know.”

“Thank you.”

“How are you coming?”

“So-so.”

“Got a name?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Hang in there. Things are beginning to break.”

“All right. Thank you for calling.”

He hung up, turned back to Handry. “I asked how you’d like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office.”

“Oh sure,” Handry nodded. “Just waltz in and say, ‘Mr. Blank, Captain Edward X. Delaney of the New York Police Department thinks you axed four men to death on the east side. Would you care to make a statement?’”

“No, not like that,” Delaney said seriously. “Javis-Bircham will have a publicity or public relations department, won’t they?”

“Bound to.”

“I’d do this myself, but you have a press card and identifications man. Identify yourself. Make an appointment. The top man. When you go see him, flash your buzzer. Say that your paper is planning a series of personality profiles on young, up-and-coming executives, the-”

“Hey, wait a minute!”

“The new breed of young executives who are familiar with computers, market sampling, demographic percentages and all that shit. Ask the public relations man to suggest four or five young, progressive Javis-Bircham executives who might fit the type your paper is looking for.”

“Now see here-”

“Don’t-repeat, do not-ask for Blank by name. Just come down hard on the fact that you’re looking for a young executive familiar with the current use and future value of computers in business operations. Blank is certain to be one of the four or five men he suggests to you. Ask a few questions about each man he suggests. Then you pick Blank. See how easy it is?”

“Easy?” Handry' shook his head. “Madness! And what if the Javis-Bircham PR man checks back with the finance editor of my paper and finds out no such series of articles is planned?”

“Chances are he won’t. He’ll be happy to get the publicity for Javis-Bircham, won’t he?”

“But what if he does check? Then I’ll be out on my ass.”

“So what? You’re thinking of quitting anyway, aren’t you? So one of your problems is solved right there.”

Handry stared at him, shaking his head. “You really are a special kind of bastard,” he said in wonderment.

“Or,” Delaney went on imperturbably, “if you like, you can give the finance editor on your paper a cover story. Tell him it’s a police case-which it is-and if he asks questions, tell him it involves a big embezzlement or fraud or something like that. Don’t mention the Lombard case. He’d probably cover for you if the Javis-Bircham PR man called and say, yes, the paper was planning a series of articles on young, progressive executives. He’d do that for you, wouldn’t he?”

“Maybe.”

“So you’ll do it?”

“Just one question: why the fuck should I?”

“Two answers to that. One, if Blank turns out to be the killer, you’ll be the only reporter in the world who had a personal interview with him. That’s worth something, isn’t it? Two, you want to be a poet, don’t you? Or some kind of writer other than a reporter or a rewrite man. How can you expect to be a good writer if you don’t understand people, if you don’t know what makes them tick? You’ve got to learn to get inside people, to penetrate their minds, their hearts, their souls. What an opportunity this is-to meet and talk to a man who might have slaughtered four human beings!”

Handry drained his drink in a gulp. He rose, poured himself another, stood with his back to Delaney.

“You really know how to go for the jugular, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you ever ashamed of the way you manipulate people?”

“I don’t manipulate people. Sometimes I give them the chance to do what they want to do and never had the opportunity. Will you do it, Handry?”

There was silence. The reporter took a deep breath, then blew it out. He turned to face Delaney.

“All right,” he said.

“Good,” the Captain nodded. “Set up the appointment with Blank the way I’ve outlined it. Use your brains. I know you’ve got a good brain. The day before your interview is scheduled, give me a call. We’ll have a meet and I’ll tell you what questions to ask him. Then we’ll have a rehearsal.”

“A rehearsal?”

“That’s right. I’ll play Blank, to give you an idea of how he might react to your questions and how you can follow up on things he might or might not say.”

“I’ve interviewed before,” Handry protested. “Hundreds of times.”

“None as important as this. Handry, you’re an amateur liar. I’m going to make you a professional.”

The reporter nodded grimly. “If anyone can, you can. You don’t miss a trick, do you?”

“I try not to.”

“I hope to Christ if I ever commit a crime you don’t come after me, Iron Balls.”

He sounded bitter.

After Handry left, Delaney sat at his study desk, staring again at the photo of Daniel Blank. The man was handsome, no doubt about it: dark and lean. His face seemed honed; beneath the thin flesh cover the bones of brow, cheeks and jaw were undeniably there. But the Captain could read nothing from that face: neither greed, passion, evil nor weakness. It was a closed-off mask, hiding its secrets.

On impulse, not bothering to analyze his own motive, he took out the Daniel G. Blank file, flipped through it until he found Blank’s phone number and dialed it. It rang four times, then:

“Hello?”

“Lou?” Delaney asked. “Lou Jackson?”

“No, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number,” the voice said pleasantly.

“Oh. Sorry.”

Delaney hung up. It was an agreeable voice, somewhat musical, words clearly enunciated, tone deep, a good resonance. He stared at the photo again, matching what his eyes saw to what his ears had heard. He was beginning, just beginning, to penetrate Daniel Blank.

He worked on his records and files till almost 11:00 p.m., then judged the time was right to call Charles Lipsky. He looked up the apartment house number and called from his study phone.

“Lobby,” a whiny voice answered.

“Charles Lipsky, please.”

“Yeah. Talking. Who’s this?” Delaney caught the caution, the suspicion in that thin, nasal voice. He wondered what doom the doorman expected from a phone call at this hour.

“Mr. Lipsky, my name is Miller, Ward M. Miller. Did your brother-in-law speak to you about me?”

“Oh. Yeah. He called.” Now Delaney caught a note of relief, of catastrophe averted or at least postponed.

“I was hoping we might get together, Mr. Lipsky. Just for a short talk.”

“Yeah. Well, listen…” Now the voice became low, conspiratorial. “You know I ain’t supposed to talk to anyone about the tenants. We got a very strict rule against that.”

Delaney recognized this virtuous reminder for what it was: a ploy to drive the price up.

“I realize that, Mr. Lipsky, and believe me, you don’t have to tell me a thing you feel you shouldn’t. But a short talk would be to our mutual advantage. You understand?”

“Well…yeah.”

“I have an expense account.”

“Oh, well, okay then.”

“And your name will be kept out of it.”

“You’re sure?”

“Absolutely. When and where?”

“Well, how soon do you want to make it?”

“As soon as possible. Wherever you say.”

“Well, I get off tomorrow morning at four. I usually stop by this luncheonette on Second and Eighty-fifth for coffee before I go home. It’s open twenty-four hours a day, but it’s usually empty at that hour except for some hackies and hookers.”

Delaney knew the place Lipsky referred to, but didn’t mention he knew it.

“Second Avenue and Eighty-fifth,” he repeated. “About four-fifteen, four-thirty tomorrow morning?”

“Yeah. Around there.”

“Fine. I’ll be wearing a black Homburg and a double-breasted black overcoat.”

“Yeah. All right.”

“See you then.”

Delaney hung up, satisfied. Lipsky sounded like a grifter, and penny ante at that. He jotted a note to have Thorsen check Department records to see if there was a sheet on Charles Lipsky. Delaney would almost bet there was.

He went immediately to bed, setting his alarm for 3:30 a.m. Thankfully, he fell asleep within half an hour, even as he was rehearsing in his mind how to handle Lipsky and what questions to ask.

The luncheonette had all the charm and ambience of a subway station. The walls and counter were white linoleum tiles, dulled with grease. Counter and table tops were plastic, scarred with cigarette burns. Chairs and counter stools were molded plastic, unpadded to reduce the possibility of vandalism. Rancid grease hung in the air like a wet sheet, and signs taped to the walls would have delighted a linguist: “Turky and all the tremens: $2.25.”

“Fryed Shrims-$1.85 with French pots and cold slaw.”

“Our eggs are strickly fresh.”

Down at the end of the counter, two hookers, one white, one black, both in orange wigs, were working on plates of steak and eggs, conversing in low voices as fast as they were eating. Closer to the door, three cabbies were drinking coffee, trading wisecracks with the counterman and the black short order cook who was scraping thick rolls of grease off the wide griddle.

Delaney was early, a few minutes after four. When he entered, talk ceased, heads swivelled to inspect him. Apparently he didn’t look like a holdup man; when he ordered black coffee and two sugared doughnuts, the other customers went back to their food and talk.

The Captain carried his coffee and doughnuts to a rear table for two. He sat where he could watch the door and the plate glass window. He didn’t remove his hat but he unbuttoned his overcoat. He sat patiently, sipping the bitter coffee that had a film of oil glinting on the surface. He ate half a doughnut, then gave up.

His man came in about ten minutes later. Short, almost stunted, but heavy through the waist and hips, like an old jockey gone to seed. His eyes drifted, seemed to float around the room. The other customers glanced at him, but didn’t stop eating or talking. The newcorner ordered a cup of light coffee, a piece of apple pie, and brought them over to Delaney’s table.

“Miller?”

Delaney nodded. “Mr. Lipsky?”

“Yeah.”

The doorman sat down opposite the Captain. He was still wearing his doorman’s overcoat and uniform but, incongruously, he was wearing a beaked cap, a horseman’s cap, in an horrendous plaid. He looked at Delaney briefly, but then his yellowish eyes floated off, to his food, the floor, the walls, the ceiling.

A grifter. Delaney was sure of it now. And seedy. Always with the shorts. On the take. A sheet that might include gambling arrests, maybe some boosting, receiving stolen property, bad debts, perhaps even an attempted shakedown. Cheap, dirty stuff.

“I ain’t got much time,” Lipsky said in his low, whiny voice. “I start on days again at noon.” He shoveled pie into his surprisingly prim little mouth. “So I got to get home and catch a few hours of shuteye. Then back on the door again at twelve.”

“Rough,” Delaney said sympathetically. “Did your brother-in-law tell you what this is all about?”

“Yeah,” Lipsky nodded, gulping his hot coffee. “This Blank is after some young cunt and her father wants to break it up. Right?”

“That’s about it. What can you tell me about Blank?”

Lipsky scraped pie crust crumbs together on his plate with his fingers, picked them up, tossed them down his throat like a man downing a shot of liquor neat.

“Thought you was on an expense account.”

Delaney glanced at the other customers. No one was observing them. He took his wallet from his hip pocket, held it on the far side of the table where only Lipsky could see it. He opened it wide,/ watched Lipsky’s hungry eyes slide over and estimate the total. The Captain took out a ten, proferred it under the table edge. It was gone.

“Can’t you do better than that?” Lipsky whined. “I’m taking an awful chance.”

“Depends,” Delaney said. “How long has Blank been living there?”

“I don’t know exactly. I been working there four years, and he was living there when I started.”

“He was married then?”

“Yeah. A big zoftig blonde. A real piece of push. Then he got divorced.”

“Know where his ex-wife is living?”

“No.”

“Does he have any woman now? Anyone regular who visits him?”

“Yeah. What does this young cunt look like? The one her father doesn’t want her to see Blank?”

“About eighteen,” Delaney said smoothly. “Long blonde hair. About five-four or five. Maybe one-twenty. Blue eyes. Peaches-and-cream complexion. Big jugs.”

“Yum-yum,” the doorman said, licking his lips. “I ain’t seen anyone like that around.”

“Anyone else? Any woman?”

“Yeah. A rich bitch. Mink coat down to her feet. About thirty, thirty-five. No tits. Black hair. White face. No makeup. A weirdo.”

“Know her name?”

“No. She comes and she goes by cab.”

“Sleep over?”

“Sure. Sometimes. What do you think?”

“That’s interesting.”

“Yeah? How interesting?”

“You’re getting there,” Delaney said coldly. “Don’t get greedy. Anyone else?”

“No women. A boy.”

“A boy?”

“Yeah. About eleven, twelve. Around there. Pretty enough to be a girl. I heard Blank call him Tony.”

“What’s going on there?”

“What the hell do you think?”

“This Tony ever sleep over?”

“I never seen it. One of the other doors tells me yes. Once or twice.”

“This Blank got any close friends? In the building, I mean?”

“The Mortons.”

“A family?”

“Married couple. No children. You want a lot for your sawbuck, don’t you?”

Sighing, Delaney reached for his wallet again. But he looked up, saw a squad car roll to a stop just outside the luncheonette, and he paused. A uniformed cop got out of the car and came inside. The cabbies had gone, but the two hookers were picking their teeth, finishing their coffee. The cop glanced at them, then his eyes slid over Delaney’s table.

He recognized the Captain, and Delaney recognized him. Handrette. A good man. Maybe a little too fast with his stick, but a good, brave cop. And smart enough not to greet a plain-clothesman or superior officer out of uniform in public unless spoken to first. His eyes moved away from Delaney. He ordered two hamburgers with everything, two coffees, and two Danish to go. Delaney gave Charles Lipsky another ten. “Who are the Mortons?” he asked. “Blank’s friends.”

“Loaded. Top floor penthouse. They own a store on Madison Avenue that sells sex stuff.”

“Sex stuff?”

“Yeah,” Lipsky said with his wet leer. “You know, candles shaped like pricks. Stuff like that.”

Delaney nodded. Probably the Erotica. When he had commanded the 251st, he had made inquiries about the possibility of closing the place down and making it stick. The legal department told him to forget it; it would never hold up in court.

“Blank got any hobbies?” he asked Lipsky casually. “Is he a baseball or football nut? Anything like that?”

“Mountain climbing,” Lipsky said. “He likes to climb mountains.”

“Climb mountains?” Delaney said, with no change of expression. “He must be crazy.”

“Yeah. He’s always going away on weekends in the Spring and Fall. He takes all this crap with him in his car.”

“Crap? What kind of crap?”

“You know-a knapsack, a sleeping bag, a rope, things you tie on your shoes so you don’t slip.”

“Oh yes,” Delaney said. “Now I know what you mean. And an ax for chipping away ice and rocks. Does he take an ax with him on these trips?”

“Never seen it. What’s this got to do with cutting him loose from the young cunt?”

“Nothing,” Delaney shrugged. “Just trying to get a line on him. Listen, to get back to this woman of his. The skinny one with black hair. You know her name?”

“No.”

“She come around very often?”

“She’ll be there like three nights in a row. Then I won’t see her for a week or so. No regular schedule, if that’s what you’re hoping.” He grinned shrewdly at Delaney. Two of his front teeth were missing, two were chipped; the Captain wondered what kind of bet he had welshed on.

“Comes and goes by cab?”

“That’s right. Or they walk out together.”

“The next time you’re on duty, if she comes or goes by cab, get the license number of the hack, the date, and the time. That’s all I need-the date, the time, the license number of the cab. There’s another tenner in it for you.”

“And then all you got to do is check the trip sheets. Right?”

“Right,” Delaney said, smiling bleakly. “You’re way ahead of me.”

“I could have been a private eye,” Lipsky bragged. “I’d make a hell of a dick. Listen, I got to go now.”

“Wait. Wait just a minute,” Delaney said, making up his mind that moment. He watched the cop pay for the hamburgers, coffee, Danish and carry the bag out to his partner in the parked squad. He wondered idly if the cop insisted on paying because he, the Captain, was there.

“In your apartment house,” Delaney said slowly, “you keep master keys? Or dupes to all the door locks on tenants’ doors, locks they put on themselves?”

“Sure we got dupes,” Lipsky frowned. “What do you think? I mean, in case of fire or an emergency, we got to get in-right?”

“And where are all these keys kept?”

“Right outside the assistant manager’s office we got-” Lipsky stopped suddenly. His lips drew back from his chipped teeth. “If you’re thinking what I think you’re thinking,” he said, “forget it. Not a chance. No way.”

“Look, Mr. Lipsky,” Delaney said earnestly, sincerely, hunching forward on the table. “It’s not like I want to loot the place. I wouldn’t take a cigarette butt out of there. All I want to do is look around.”

“Yeah? For what?”

“This woman he’s been sleeping with. Maybe a photo of them together. Maybe a letter from her to him. Maybe she’s keeping some clothes up there in his closet. Anything that’ll help my client convince his daughter that Blank has been cheating on her all along.”

“But if you don’t take anything, how…”

“You tell me,” Delaney said. “You claim you could have been a private eye. How would you handle it?”

Lipsky stared at him, puzzled. Then his eyes widened. “Camera!” he gasped. “A miniature camera. You take pictures!”

Delaney slapped the table top with his palm. “Mr. Lipsky, you’re all right,” he chuckled. “You’d make a hell of a detective. I take a miniature camera. I shoot letters, photos, clothes, any evidence at all that Blank has been shacking up with this black-haired twist or even this kid Tony. I put everything back exactly where it was. Believe me, I know how to do it. He’ll never know anyone’s been in there. He leaves for work around nine and comes back around six. Something like that-correct?”

“Yeah.”

“So the apartment’s empty all day?”

“Yeah.”

“Cleaning woman?”

“Two days a week. But she comes early and she’s out by noon.”

“So…what’s the problem? It’ll take me an hour. No more, I swear. Would anyone miss the keys?”

“Nah. That board’s got a zillion keys.”

“So there you are. I come into the lobby. You’ve already got the keys off the board. You slip them to me. I’m up and down in an hour. Probably less. I pass the keys back to you. You replace them. You’re going on duty days starting today-right? So we make it about two or three in the afternoon. Right?”

“How much?” Lipsky said hoarsely.

Got him, Delaney thought.

“Twenty bucks,” the Captain said.

“Twenty?” Lipsky cried, horrified. “I wouldn’t do it for less than a C. If I’m caught, it’s my ass.”

Five minutes later they had agreed on fifty dollars, twenty immediately, thirty when Delaney returned the keys, and an extra twenty if Lipsky could get the license number of the cab used by Blank’s skinny girl friend.

“If I get it,” Lipsky said, “should I call your office?”

“I’m not in very much,” Delaney said casually. “In this business you’ve got to keep moving around. I’ll call you every day on the lobby phone. If you go back on nights, leave a message with your brother-in-law. I’ll find out from him when to call. Okay?”

“I guess,” Lipsky said doubtfully. “Jesus, if I didn’t need the dough so bad, I’d tell you to go suck.”

“Sharks?” the Captain asked.

“Yeah,” Lipsky said wonderingly. “How did you know?”

“A guess,” Delaney shrugged. He passed twenty under the table to the doorman. “I’ll see you at two-thirty this afternoon. What’s the apartment number?”

“Twenty-one H. It’s on a tag attached to the keys.”

“Good. Don’t worry. It’ll go like silk.”

“Jesus, I hope so.”

The Captain looked at him narrowly. “You don’t like this guy much, do you?”

Lipsky began to curse, ripe obscenities spluttering from his lips. Delaney listened awhile, serious and unsmiling, then held up a hand to cut off the flow of invective.

“One more thing,” he said to Lipsky. “In a few days, or a week from now, you might mention casually to Blank that I was around asking questions about him. You can describe me, but don’t tell him my name. You forgot it. Just say I was asking personal questions, but you wouldn’t tell me a goddamned thing. Got that?”

“Well…sure,” Lipsky said, puzzled. “But what for?”

“I don’t know,” Captain Delaney said. “I’m not sure. Just to give him something to think about, I guess. Will you do it?”

“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”

They left the luncheonette together. There were early workers on the streets now. The air was cold, sharp. The sky was lightening in the east; it promised to be a clear day. Captain Delaney walked home slowly, leaning against the December wind. By the time he unlocked his door he could hardly smell the rancid grease.

The projected break-in had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. He hadn’t planned that, hadn’t even considered it. But Lipsky had tied Daniel Blank to mountain climbing: the first time that was definitely established. And that led to the ice ax. That damned ax! Nothing so far had tied Blank to the purchase or possession of an ice ax. Delaney wanted things tidy. Possession would be tidy enough; purchase could be traced later.

He wasn’t lying when he told Lipsky he’d be in and out of Blank’s apartment in an hour. My God, he could find an ice ax in Grand Central Station in that time. And why should Blank hide it? As far as he knew, he wasn’t suspected. He owned rucksack, pitons, crampons, ice ax. What could be more natural? He was a mountaineer. All Delaney wanted from that break-in was the ice ax. Anything else would be gravy on the roast.

He wrote up his reports and noted, gratified, how fat the Daniel G. Blank file was growing. More important, how he was beginning to penetrate his man. Tony, a twelve-year-old boy pretty enough to be a girl. A thin, black-haired woman with no tits. Friends who owned a sex boutique. Much, much there. But if the ice ax didn’t exist in Blank’s apartment, it was all smoke. What would he do then? Start in again-someone else, another angle, a different approach. He was prepared for it.

He worked on his reports until Mary arrived. She fixed him coffee, dry toast, a soft-boiled egg. No grease. After breakfast, he went into the living room, pulled the shades, took off his shoes and jacket, unbuttoned his vest. He lay down on the couch, intending to nap for only an hour. But when he awoke, it was almost 11:30, and he was angry at himself for time wasted.

He went into the downstairs lavatory to rub his face with cold water and comb his hair. In the mirror he saw how he looked, but he had already felt it: blueish bags swelling down beneath his eyes, the greyish unhealthy complexion, lines deeper, wrinkled forehead, bloodless lips pressed tighter, everything old and troubled. When all this was over, and Barbara was well again, they’d go somewhere, groan in the sun, stuff until their skins were tight, eyes clear, memories washed, blood pure and pumping. And they’d make love. That’s what he told himself.

He called Monica Gilbert.

“Monica, I’m going over to visit my wife. I was wondering if-if you’re not busy-if you’d like to meet her.”

“Oh yes. I would. When?”

“Fifteen minutes or so. Too soon? Would you like lunch first?”

“Thank you, but I’ve had a salad. That’s all I’m eating these days.”

“A diet?” he laughed. “You don’t need that.”

“I do. I’ve been eating so much since-since Bernie died. Just nerves, I guess. Edward…”

“What?”

“You said you’d call me about Daniel Blank, but you didn’t. Was it anything?”

“I think so. But I’d like my wife to hear it, too. I trust her judgment. She’s very good on people. I’ll tell you both at the same time. All right?”

“Of course.”

“Be over in fifteen minutes.”

Then he called Barbara and told her he was bringing Monica Gilbert to meet her, the widow of the second victim. Barbara said of course. She was happy to talk to him and told him to hurry.

He had thought about it a long time-whether or not to bring the two women together. He recognized the dangers and the advantages. He didn’t want Barbara to think, even to suspect, that he was having a relationship-even an innocent relationship-with another woman while she, Barbara, was ill, confined to a hospital room, despite what she had said about his marrying again if anything happened to her. That was just talk, he decided firmly: an emotional outburst from a woman disturbed by her own pain and fears of the future. But Barbara would enjoy company-that he knew. She really did like people, much more than he did. He could tell her of a man arrested for molesting women-there was one crazy case: this nut would sneak into bedrooms out in Queens, always coming through unlocked windows, and he would kiss sleeping women and then run away. He never put his hands on them or injured them physically. He just kissed them. When he told Barbara about it, she gave a troubled sigh and said, “Poor fellow. How lonely he must have been.”-and her sympathies were frequently with the suspect, unless violence was involved.

Monica Gilbert needed a confidante as well. Her job was finished, her file complete. He wanted to continue giving her a feeling of involvement. So, finally, he had decided to bring them together.

It wasn’t a disaster, as he had feared, but it didn’t go marvelously well, as he had hoped. Both women were cordial, but nervous, guarded, reserved. Monica had brought Barbara a little African violet, not from a florist's shop but one she had nurtured herself. That helped. Barbara expressed her condolences in low tones on the death of Monica’s husband. Delaney stayed out of it, standing away from Barbara’s bed, listening and watching anxiously.

Then they began speaking about their children, exchanging photographs and smiling. Their talk became louder than sickroom tones; they laughed more frequently; Barbara touched Monica’s arm. Then he knew it was going to be all right. He relaxed, sat in a chair away from them, listening to their chatter, comparing them: Barbara so thin and fine, wasted and elegant, a silver sword of a woman. And Monica with her heavy peasant’s body, sturdy and hard, bursting with juice. At that moment he loved them both.

For awhile they leaned close, conversing in whispers. He wondered if they might be talking about women’s ailments, women’s plumbing-a complete mystery to him-or perhaps, from occasional glances they threw in his direction, he wondered if they might be discussing him, although what there was about him to talk about he couldn’t imagine.

It was almost an hour before Barbara held out a hand to him. He came over to her bedside, smiling at both of them.

“Daniel Blank?” Barbara asked.

He told them about the interviews with the bartender, with Handry, with Lipsky. He told them everything except his plan to be inside Blank’s apartment within two hours.

“Edward, it’s beginning to take form,” Barbara nodded approvingly. As usual, she went to the nub. “At least now you know he’s a mountain climber. I suppose the next step is to find out if he owns an ice ax?”

Delaney nodded. She would never even consider asking him how he might do this.

“Can’t you arrest him now?” Monica Gilbert demanded, “On suspicion or something?”

The Captain shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said patiently. “No evidence at all. Not a shred. He’d be out before the cell door was slammed behind him, and the city would be liable for false arrest. That would be the end of that.”

“Well, what can you do then? Wait until he kills someone else?”

“Oh…” he said vaguely, “there are things. Establish his guilt without a doubt. He’s just a suspect now, you know. The only one I’ve got. But still just a suspect. Then, when I’m sure of him, I’ll-well, at this moment I’m not sure what I’ll do. Something.”

“I’m sure you will,” Barbara smiled, taking Monica’s hand. “My husband is a very stubborn man. And he’s neat. He doesn’t like loose ends.”

They all laughed. Delaney glanced at his watch, saw he had to leave. He offered to take Monica Gilbert home, but she wanted to stay awhile and said she’d leave when it was time to pick up her girls at school. Delaney glanced at Barbara, realized she wanted Monica’s company a while longer. He kissed Barbara’s cheek, nodded brightly at both, lumbered from the room. Outside in the hall, adjusting his Homburg squarely atop his head, he heard a sudden burst of laughter from inside the room, quickly suppressed. He wondered if they could be laughing at him, something he had done or said. But he was used to people finding him amusing; it didn’t bother him.

He had never, of course, had any intention of taking a camera to Blank’s apartment. What would a photograph of an ice ax prove? But he did take a set of locksmith’s picks, of fine Swedish steel, fitted into individual pockets in a thin chamois case. Included in the set were long, slender tweezers. The case went into his inside jacket pocket. In the lefthand pocket he clipped a two-battery penlite. Into his overcoat pocket he folded a pair of thin black silk gloves. Barbara called them his “undertaker’s gloves.”

At 2:30, Captain Delaney walked steadily up the driveway, pushed through the lobby door. Lipsky saw him almost at once. His face was pale, sheeny with sweat. His hand dipped into his lefthand jacket pocket. Brainless idiot, Delaney thought mournfully. The whole idea had been to transfer the keys during a normal handshake. Well, it couldn’t be helped now…

He advanced, smiling, holding out his right hand. Lipsky grabbed it with a damp palm and only then realized the keys were gripped in his left fist. He dropped Delaney’s hand, transferred the keys, almost losing them in the process. Delaney plucked them lightly from Lipsky’s nerveless fingers. The Captain slid them into his overcoat pocket, still smiling slightly, and said, “Any trouble, give me three fast rings on the intercom.”

Lipsky turned even paler. It was a warning Delaney had deliberately avoided giving the doorman at the luncheonette; it might have queered the whole thing right then.

He sauntered slowly toward the elevator banks, turning left to face the cars marked 15–34. Two other people were waiting: a man flipping through a magazine, a woman with an overflowing Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. A door slid open on a self-service elevator; a young couple with a small child came out. Delaney hung back a moment, then followed the other two into the elevator. The man punched 16, the woman pushed 21-Blank’s floor. Delaney pressed 24.

Both men removed their hats. They rode up in silence. The magazine reader got off at 16. The woman with the shopping bag got off at 21. Delaney rode up to 24 and stepped out. He killed a few minutes pinpointing the direction of apartment H, assuming it was in the same location on every floor.

He came back to the elevators to push the Down button. Thankfully, the elevator that stopped for him a moment later was empty. He pushed 21, suddenly became aware of the soft music. He didn’t recognize the tune. The door opened at 21. He pushed the Lobby button, then stepped out quickly before the doors closed.

The 21st Floor corridor was empty. He took off his fleece-lined leather gloves, stuffed them in an overcoat pocket, pulled on his “undertaker’s gloves.” As he walked the carpeted corridor, he scraped soles and heels heavily, hoping to remove whatever mud or dog shit or dust or dirt that had accumulated, possibly to show up in Blank’s apartment. And he noted the peephole in every door.

He rang the bell of apartment 21-H twice, heard it peal quietly inside. He waited a few moments. No answer. He went to work.

He had no trouble with two of the keys, but the third lock, the police bar, took more time. His hands were so large that he could not slip his fingers inside the partly opened door to disengage the diagonal rod. He finally took the tweezers from his pick case and, working slowly and without panic, moved the bar up out of its slot. The door swung open.

He stepped inside, closed the door gently behind him but did not lock it. He moved through the apartment swiftly, opening closet doors, glancing inside, closing them. He peeked behind the shower curtain in the bathroom, went down on his knees to peer under the bed. When he was satisfied the apartment was unoccupied, he returned to the front door, locked it, set the police bar in place.

The next step was silly, but basic. But perhaps not so silly. He remembered the case of a dick two who had spent four hours tossing the wrong apartment. Delaney went looking for subscription magazines, letters…anything. He found a shelf of books on computer technology. Each one, on the front end paper, bore an engraved bookplate neatly pasted in place. A nude youth with bow and arrow leaping through a forest glade. “Ex Libris. Daniel G. Blank.” Good enough.

He returned to the front door again, put his back against it, then began to stroll, to wander through the apartment. Just to absorb it, to try to understand what kind of a man lived here.

But did anyone live here? Actually breathe, sleep, eat, fart, belch, defecate in these sterile operating rooms? No cigarette butts, no tossed newspapers, no smells, no photos, personal mementoes, vulgar little geegaws, souvenirs, no unwashed glass or chipped paint or old burns or a cracked ceiling. It was all so antiseptic he could hardly believe it; the cold order and cleanliness were overwhelming. Furniture in black leather and chrome. Crystal ashtrays precisely arranged. An iron candelabra with each taper carefully burned down to a different length.

He thought of his own home: his, Barbara’s, their family’s.

Their home sang their history, who they were, their taste and lack of taste, worn things, used things, roots, smells of living, memories everywhere. You could write a biography of Edward X. Delaney from his home. But who was Daniel G. Blank? This decorator’s showroom, this model apartment said nothing. Unless…

That heavy beveled mirror in the foyer, handsomely framed. That long wall in the living room bearing at least 50 small mirrors of various shapes, individually framed. A full-length mirror on the bedroom door. A double medicine cabinet, both sliding doors mirrored. Did that plethora of mirrors say anything about the man who lived there?

There was another sure tip-off, to anyone’s life style: the contents of the refrigerator, kitchen cabinets, the bathroom cabinet. In the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka, three bottles of juice-orange, grapefruit, tomato. Salad fixings. Apples, tangerines, plums, peaches, dried apricots and dried prunes. In the cabinets, coffee, herbal teas, spices, health foods, organic cereals. No meats anywhere. No cheese. No coldcuts. No bread. No potatoes. But sliced celery and carrots.

In the bathroom, behind the sliding cabinet doors, he found the scented soaps, oils, perfumes, colognes, lotions, unguents, powders, deodorants, sprays. One bottle of aspirin. One bottle of pills, almost full, he recognized as Librium. One envelope of pills he could not identify. One bottle of vitamin B-12 pills. Shaving gear. He closed the doors with the tips of his gloved fingers. Was the toilet paper scented? It was. He glanced at his watch. About ten minutes so far.

Once again he returned to the entrance, trying to walk softly in case the tenant in the apartment might hear footsteps and wonder who was in Mr. Blank’s apartment at this hour.

He switched on the overhead light, opened the door of the foyer closet.

On the top shelf: six closed hatboxes and a trooper’s winter hat of black fur.

On the rod: two overcoats, three topcoats, two raincoats, a thigh-length coat of military canvas, olive-drab, fleece-lined, with an attached hood, a waist-length jacket, fur-lined, two light-weight nylon jackets.

On the floor: a sleeping bag rolled up and strapped, heavy climbing boots with ridged soles, a set of steel crampons, a rucksack, a webbed belt, a coil of nylon line, and…

One ice ax.

There it was. It was that easy. An ice ax. Delaney stared at it, feeling no elation. Perhaps satisfaction. No more than that.

He stared at it for almost a minute, not doubting his eyes but memorizing its exact position. Balanced on the handle butt. The head leaning against two walls in the corner. The leather thong loop from the end of the handle curved to the right, then doubled back upon itself.

The Captain reached in, picked it up in his gloved hand. He examined it closely. “Made in West Germany.” Similar to those sold by Outside Life. He sniffed at the head. Oiled steel. The handle darkened with sweat stains. Using one of his lock picks, he gently prized the leather covering away from the steel shaft, just slightly. No stains beneath the leather. But then, he hadn’t expected to find any.

He stood gripping the ax, loath to put it down. But it could tell him nothing more; he doubted very much if it could tell the forensic men anything either. He replaced it as carefully as he could, leaning it into the corner at the original angle, arranging the leather thong in its double-backed loop. He closed the closet door, looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes.

The living room floor was a checkerboard pattern, alternating black and white tiles, 18 inches square. Scattered about were six small rugs in bright colors and modern design. Scandinavian, he guessed. He lifted each rug, looked underneath. He didn’t expect to find anything; he didn’t.

He wasted a few minutes staring at that long mirrored wall, watching his image jerk along as he moved. He would have liked to search behind each mirror but knew it would take forever, and he’d never get them back in their precise pattern. He turned instead to a desk near the window. It was a slim, elegant spider of chrome and glass. One center drawer, one deep file drawer on the left side.

The top drawer was marvelously organized with a white plastic divider: paper clips (two sizes), sharpened pencils, stamps, built-in Scotch tape dispenser, scissors, ruler, letter opener, magnifying glass-all matching. Delaney was impressed. Not envious, but impressed.

There were three documents. One was a winter catalogue from Outside Life; the Captain smiled, without mirth. One, in a back corner, was obviously half a salary check, the half that listed taxes, pension payment, hospitalization, and similar deductions. Delaney put on his glasses to read it. According to his calculations, Blank was earning about $55,000 a year. That was nice.

The third document was an opened manila envelope addressed to Mr. Daniel G. Blank from something called Medical Examiners Institute. Delaney drew out the stapled report, scanned it quickly. Apparently, six months ago, Blank had undergone a complete physical checkup. He had had the usual minor childhood illnesses, but the only operation noted was a tonsillectomy at the age of nine. His blood pressure was just slightly below normal, and he had a 20 percent impairment of hearing in his left ear. But other than that, he seemed to be in perfect physical condition for a man his age.

Delaney replaced this document and then, recalling something, drew it out again. In his pocket notebook he made a notation of Blank’s blood type.

The deep file drawer contained one object: a metal document box. Delaney lifted it out, placed it atop the desk, examined it. Grey steel. Locked, with the lock on top. White plastic handle in front. About 12 inches long, eight inches wide, four inches deep. He could never understand why people bought such boxes for their valuables. It was true the box might be fire-resistant, but no professional thief would waste time forcing or picking the lock; he’d just carry the entire box away by its neat plastic handle, or slip it into a pillowcase with his other loot.

Delaney took a closer look at the lock. Five minutes at the most, but was it worth it? Probably checkbooks, bank books, maybe some cash, his lease, passport, a few documents not valuable enough to put in his safe deposit box. Blank, he was certain, would have a safe deposit box. He was that kind of a man. He replaced the document box in the desk, closed the drawer firmly. If he had time, he’d come back to it. He glanced at his watch; almost 25 minutes.

He moved toward the bedroom. But he paused before an ebony and aluminum liquor cabinet. He could not resist it, and opened the two doors. Matching glassware on one side: Baccarat crystal, and beautiful. What was it Handry had asked? What does Blank do with his money? He could tell Handry now: he buys Baccarat crystal.

The liquor supply was curious: one gin, one Scotch, one rye, one bourbon, one rum, and at least a dozen bottles of brandies and cordials. Curiouser and curiouser. What did a grown man want with an ink-colored liqueur called “Fleur d’Amour”?

There was a technique to a good search; some dicks were better at it than others. It was a special skill. Delaney knew he was good at it, but he knew others who were better. There was an old detective-the Captain thought he was probably retired by now-who could go through a six-room house in an hour and find the cancelled stamp he was looking for, or a single earring, or a glassine envelope of shit. You simply could not hide anything with absolute certainty that it could never be found. Given enough time, enough men, anything could be found, anywhere. Swallow a metal capsule? Stick a microfilm up your ass? Put a microdot in a ground-out tooth and have it capped? Tattoo your skull and let the hair grow over? Forget it. Anything could be found.

But those methods were rare and exotic. Most people with something to hide-documents, money, evidence, drugs-hid it in their own home or apartment. Easy to check its safety. Easy to destroy fast in an emergency. Easy to get when needed.

But within their homes-as the cops good at tossing well knew-most people had two tendencies: one rational, one emotional. The rational was that, if you lived a reasonably normal life, you had visitors: friends and neighbors dropping in, sometimes unexpectedly. So you did not hide your secret in the foyer, living room, or dining room: areas that were occupied by others at various times, where the hidden object might, by accident, be uncovered or be discovered by a drunken and/or inquisitive guest. So you selected bathroom or bedroom, the two rooms in your home indisputedly yours.

The emotional reason for choosing bathroom or bedroom was this: they were intimate rooms. You were naked there. You slept there, bathed, performed your bodily functions. They were your “secret places.” Where else would you conceal something secret, of great value to you alone, something you could not share?

Delaney went directly to the bathroom, removed the top of the toilet tank. An old trick but still used occasionally. Nothing in there except, he was amused to note, a plastic daisy and a bar of solid deodorant that kept Daniel Blank’s toilet bowl sweet-smelling and clean. Beautiful.

He tapped the wall tiles rapidly, lifted the tufted bathmat from the floor and looked underneath, made a closer inspection of the medicine cabinets, used his penlite to tap the length of the shower curtain rod. All hollow. What was he looking for? He knew but would not admit it to himself. Not at this moment. He was just looking.

Into the bedroom. Under the rug again. A long wiggle under the bed to inspect the spring. A careful hand thrust between spring and mattress. Under the pillows. Then the bed restored to its taut neatness. Nothing in the Venetian blinds. Base of the lamp? Nothing. Two framed French posters on the walls. Nothing on their backs. The paper appeared intact. That left the wall-length closet and the two dressers in pale Danish wood. He looked at his watch. Coming up to forty minutes. He was sweating now; he had not removed hat or overcoat or taken anything from his pockets that he did not immediately replace.

He tried the closet first. Two wide, hinged, louvered doors that could be folded back completely. So he did, and gazed in astonishment. He himself was a tidy man, but compared to Daniel Blank he was a lubber. Delaney liked his personal linen folded softly, neatly stacked with fold forward, newly laundered to the bottom. But this display in Blank’s closet, this was-was mechanized!

The top shelf, running the length of both closets, held linen: sheets, pillowcases, beach towels, bath towels, bathmats, hand towels, dish towels, washcloths, napkins, tablecloths, mattress covers, mattress pads, and a stack of heavy things whose function Delaney could only guess at, although they might have been dustcloths for covering furniture during an extended absence.

But what was so amazing was the precision with which these stacks had been arranged. Was it a militaristic cleaning woman or Blank himself who had adjusted these individual stacks, and then aligned all stacks as if with a stretched string? And the colors! No white sheets and pillowcases here, no dull towels and washcloths, but bright, jumping colors, floral designs, abstract patterns: an eye-jarring display. How to reconcile this extravagance with the white-and-black sterility of the living room, the architectural furniture?

On the floors of both closets were racks of shoes. In the left-hand closet, summer shoes-whites, sneakers, multicolors-each pair fitted with trees, encased in clear plastic bags. In the other closet, winter shoes, also with trees but not bagged. Practically all blacks these, mostly slip-ons, moccasin styles, two pair of buckled Guccis, three pairs of boots, one knee-high.

Similarly, hanging from the rod, summer clothing on the left, winter on the right. The summer suits were bagged in clear plastic, jackets on wooden hangers, trousers suspended from their cuffs on clamps. The uncovered winter suits were almost all black or midnight blue. There was a suede sports jacket, a tartan, a modest hound’s tooth. Four pairs of slacks: two grey flannel, one tartan, one a bottle-green suede. Two silk dressing gowns, one in a bird print, one with purple orchids.

Delaney did the best he could in a short time, feeling between and under the stacks of linen, shaking the shoes heels downward, pressing between his palms the bottoms of the plastic bags that protected the summer suits. He went into the living room, removed a small metal mirror from its hook on the wall, and by stretching, using the mirror and his penlite, he was able to see behind the stacks of linen on the top shelf. It was, he admitted, a cursory search, but better than nothing. That’s just what he found-nothing. He returned the mirror to its hook, adjusted it carefully.

That left the two dressers. They were matching pieces, each with three full drawers below and two half-drawers on top. He looked at his watch. About 46 minutes gone now. He had promised Lipsky an hour, no more.

He started on the dresser closest to the bedroom window. The first half-drawer he opened was all jewelry, loose or in small leather cases: tie pins, cufflinks, studs, tie tacks, a few things he couldn’t immediately understand-a belt of gold links, for instance, and a gold link wristwatch band, three obviously expensive identification bracelets, two heavy masculine necklaces, seven rings, a hand-hammered golden heart strung on a fine chain. He cautiously pried under everything.

The other half-drawer contained handkerchiefs, and how long had it been since he had seen Irish linen laundered to a silken feel? Nothing underneath.

Top full drawer: hosiery, at least fifty pair, from black silk formal to knee-length Argyle-patterned knits. Nothing there.

Second and third full drawers: shirts. Obviously business shirts in the second: white and light blue in a conservative cut.

In the third drawer, sports shirts, wilder hues, patterns, knits, polyesters. Again he thrust his hand carefully between and beneath the neat piles. His silk-covered fingers slid on something smooth. He drew it out.

It was, or had been originally, an 8x10 glossy photo of Daniel Blank taken in the nude. Not recently. He looked younger. His hair was thicker. He was standing with his hands on his hips, laughing at the camera. He had, Delaney realized, a beautiful body. Not handsome, not rugged, not especially muscular. But beautiful: wide shoulders, slender waist, good arms. It was impossible to judge his legs since the photograph had been cut across just above the pubic hair, by scissors, razor, or knife. Blank stood smiling at Delaney, hands on hips, prick and balls excised and missing. The Captain carefully slid the mutilated photo back beneath the knitted sports shirts.

He went to the second dresser now, feeling certain he would find little of significance, but wanting to learn this man. He had already observed enough to keep him pondering for weeks, but there might be more.

One half-drawer of the second dresser contained scarves: mostly foulard ascots, squares, a formal white silk scarf, a few patterned handkerchiefs. The second half-drawer contained a miscellany: two crushable linen beach hats, two pairs of sunglasses, a bottle of suntan lotion in a plastic bag, a tube of “Cover-All” sunscreen cream, and timetables of airline flights to Florida, the West Indies, Britain, Brazil, Switzerland, France, Italy, Sweden-all bound together with a rubber band.

The top full drawer was underwear. Delaney looked at the assortment, oddly moved. It was a feeling he had had before when searching the apartment of a stranger: secret intimacy. He remembered once sitting around in a squad room, just relaxing with two other detectives, gossiping, telling stories about their cases and experiences. One of the dicks was telling about a recent toss he had made of the premises of a hooker who had been beaten to death by one of her customers.

“My God,” the cop said, “I handled all her underwear and that frilly stuff, her garter belt and that thing they pin their napkins on and blue baby-doll pajamas she had, and the smell of it all, and I damned near came in my pants.”

The others laughed, but they knew what he meant. It wasn’t only that she had been a whore with lacy things that smelled sexy. It was the secret sharing, entering into another’s life as a god might enter-unseen, unsuspected, but penetrating into a human being and knowing.

That was something of what Captain Edward X. Delaney felt, staring at Blank’s precise stacks of briefs, bikinis, shorts, stretch panties, trimmed garments in colors he could not believe were sold anywhere but in women’s lingerie shops. But stolidly he felt beneath each stack after flipping them through, replaced everything meticulously, and went on.

The second full drawer was pajamas: jackets and pants in nylon, cotton, flannel. Sleep coats. Even a bright red nightshirt.

The bottom drawer was bathing suits-more than one man could use in a lifetime: everything from the tiniest of bikinis to long-legged surfing trunks. Three jockstraps, one no larger than an eyepatch. And in with it all, unexpectedly, six pairs of winter gloves: thin, black leather; rough cowhide, fleece-lined; bright yellow suede; grey formal with black stitching along the knuckles; etc. Nothing. Between items or underneath.

Delaney closed the final drawer, drew a deep breath. He looked at his watch again. Five minutes to go. He might stretch it a minute or two, but no more. Then, he was certain, he’d hear three frantic intercom rings from a spooked Charles Lipsky.

He could open that document case in the living room desk. He could take a look at the bottom kitchen cabinets. He could try several things. On impulse, nothing more, he got down on his hands and knees, felt beneath the bottom drawer of one of the dressers. Nothing. He crawled on hands and knees, felt beneath the other. Nothing. But as he felt about, the wood panel pressed slightly upward.

Now that was surprising. In chests of drawers as expensive and elegant as these appeared to be, he would have guessed a solid piece of wood beneath the bottom drawer, and between each pair of drawers another flat layer of wood. They were called “dust covers,” he remembered. Good furniture had them. Cheaply made chests had no horizontal partitions between the bottom of one drawer and the open top of the one beneath.

He climbed to his feet, brushed his overcoat, knees, and trouser cuffs free of carpet lint. There was lint; he picked it off carefully, put it into a vest pocket. Then he opened a few dresser drawers at random. It was true; there were no wooden partitions between drawers; they were simply stacked. Well, it would only take a minute…

He pulled out the first full drawer of one dresser, reached in and felt the bottom surfaces of the two half-drawers above it. Nothing. He closed the first full drawer, opened the second and ran his fingers over the bottom surface of the first full drawer. Nothing. He continued in this fashion. It only took seconds. Seconds of nothing.

He started on the second dresser. Closed the drawer containing Blank’s incredible underwear, opened the drawer containing pajamas, thrust his hand in to feel the undersurface of the drawer above. And stopped. He withdrew his hand a moment, wiped his silk-clad fingertips on his overcoat, reached in again, felt cautiously. Something there.

“Please, God,” he said aloud.

Slowly, with infinite caution, he closed the pajama drawer and then drew out the one above it, the underwear drawer. He drew it halfway out of the dresser. Then, fearful there might be wood splinters on the runners, sawdust, stains, anything, he took off his overcoat and laid it out on Daniel Blank’s bed, lining side up. Then he carefully removed the underwear drawer completely from the chest, placed it softly on his overcoat. He didn’t look at his watch now. Fuck Charles Lipsky.

He removed the stacks of underwear, placing them on the other side of the bed in the exact order in which he removed them. Four stacks across, two stacks back to front. They’d be returned to the drawer in the same order. When the drawer was empty, he slowly turned it upside down and placed it on his opened overcoat. He stared at the taped envelope. He could appreciate Blank’s reasoning: if the tape dried out and the envelope dropped, it could only drop into the next drawer down.

He pressed the envelope gently with his fingertips. Things stiffer than paper, and something hard. Leather maybe, wood or metal. The envelope was taped to the wooden bottom of the drawer on all its four sides. He put on his glasses again, bent over it. He used one of his lock picks, probed gently at the corners of the envelope where the strips of tape didn’t quite meet.

He wanted to avoid, if possible, removing the four strips of tape completely. He finally determined, to his satisfaction, the top of the envelope. Using a pick, he lifted a tiny corner of the top tape. Then he switched to tweezers. Slowly, slowly, with infinite caution, he peeled the tape away from the wood, making certain he did not pull the tape away from the paper envelope. Tape peeled off the rough wood stickily; he tried to curl it back without tearing it or folding it. He heard, dimly, three sharp rings on the intercom, but he didn’t pause. Screw Lipsky. Let him sweat for his fifty bucks.

When the top tape was free of the wood, he switched back to a locksmith’s pick slender as a surgeon’s scalpel. He knew the envelope flap would be unsealed, he knew it! Well, it wasn’t just luck or instinct. Why should Blank want to seal the envelope? He’d want to gloat over his goodies, and add more to them later.

Gently Delaney prized out the envelope flap, lifted it. He leaned forward to smell at the open envelope. A scent of roses. Back to the tweezers again, and he carefully withdrew the contents, laying them out on his overcoat lining in the order in which they had been inserted in the envelope: Frank Lombard’s driver’s license. Bernard Gilbert’s ID card. Detective Kope’s shield and identification. And four withered rose petals. From Albert Feinberg’s boutonniere. Delaney turned them over and over with his tweezers. Then he left them alone, lying there, walked to the window, put his hands in his pockets, stared out.

It really was a beautiful day. Crisp, clear. Everyone had been predicting a mild winter. He hoped so. He’d had his fill of snow, slush, blizzards, garbage-decked drifts-all the crap. He and Barbara would retire to some warm place, some place quiet. Not Florida. He didn’t enjoy the heat that much. But maybe to the Carolinas. Some place like that. He’d go fishing. He had never fished in his life, but he could learn. Barbara would have a decent garden. She’d love that.

God damn it, it wasn’t the murders! He had seen the results of murder without end. Murders by gun, by knife, by strangling, by bludgeoning, by drowning, by stomping, by-by anything. You name it; he had seen it. And he had handled homicides where the corpse was robbed: money taken, fingers cut off to get the rings, necklaces wrenched from a dead neck, even shoes taken and, in one case, gold teeth pulled out with pliers.

He turned back to that display on his overcoat. This was the worst. He could not say exactly why, but this was an obscenity so awful he wasn’t certain he wanted to live, to be a member of the human race. This was despoiling the dead, not for vengeance, want, or greed, but for-For what? A souvenir? A trophy? A scalp? There was something godless about it, something he could not endure. He didn’t know. He just didn’t know. Not right now. But he’d think about it.

He cleaned up fast. Everything back into the envelope with tweezers, in the exact order in which they had originally been packed. The envelope flap tucked under with no bend or crease. The top tape pressed down again upon the wood. It held. The drawer turned rightside up. Underwear back in neat stacks in the original order. Drawer slid into the dresser. He inspected the lining of his overcoat. Some wood dust there, from the drawer runners. He went into the bathroom, moistened two sheets of toilet paper at the sink, came back into the bedroom, sponged his overcoat lining clean. Back into the bathroom, used tissues into the toilet. But before he flushed, he used two more squares to wipe the sink dry. Then those went into the toilet also; he flushed all away. He would, he thought sardonically-and not for the first time-have made a hell of a murderer.

He made a quick trip of inspection through the apartment. All clean. He was at the front door, his hand on the knob, when he thought of something else. He went back into the kitchen, opened the lower cabinets. A plastic pail, detergents, roach spray, floor wax, furniture polish. And, what he had hoped to find, a small can of light machine oil.

He tore a square of paper towel from the roll hanging from the kitchen wall. Could this man keep track of pieces of toilet paper or sections of paper towel? Delaney wouldn’t be a bit surprised. But he soaked the paper towel in the machine oil, folded it up, put it inside one of his fleece-lined gloves in his overcoat pocket. Machine oil can returned to its original position.

Then back to the outside door, unlocking, a quick peer outside at an empty corridor. He stepped out, locked up, tried the knob three times. Solid. He walked toward the elevators, stripping off his black silk gloves stuffing them away into an inside pocket. He rang the Down button and while he waited, he took three ten-dollar bills from his wallet, folded them tightly about the keys, held them in his right hand.

There were six other people in the elevator. They stood back politely to let him get on. He edged slowly toward the back. Music was playing softly. In the lobby, he let everyone else off first, then walked out, looked about for Lipsky. He finally saw him, outside, helping an old woman into a cab. He waited patiently until Lipsky came back inside. Lipsky saw him, and the Captain thought he might faint. Delaney moved forward smiling, holding out his right hand. He felt Lipsky’s wet palm as keys and money were passed.

Delaney nodded, still smiling, and walked outside. He walked down the driveway. He walked home. He was thinking a curious thought: that his transfer to the Patrol Division had been a mistake. He didn’t want administrative experience. He didn’t want to be Police Commissioner. This was what he did best. And what he liked best.

He called Thorsen from his home. It was no time to be worrying about tapped phones, if that ever had any validity to begin with. But Thorsen did not return his call, not for 15 minutes. Delaney then called his office. The Deputy Inspector was “in conference” and could not be disturbed.

“Disturb him,” Delaney said sharply. “This is Captain Edward X. Delaney. It’s an emergency.”

He waited a few moments, then:

“Jesus Christ, Edward, what’s so-”

“I’ve got to see you. At once.”

“Impossible. You don’t know what’s going on down here. All hell is breaking loose. It’s the showdown.”

Delaney didn’t ask what “showdown.” He wasn’t interested. “I’ve got to see you,” he repeated.

Thorsen was silent a minute. Then: “Will it wait till six o’clock? There’s another meeting with the Commissioner at seven, but I’ll be able to see you at six. Can it hold till then?” Delaney thought. “All right. Six o’clock. Where?”

“Uptown. The seven o’clock meeting’s at the Mansion. Better make it my house at six.”

“I’ll be there.”

He pressed the phone prongs just long enough to break the connection, then dialed Dr. Sanford Ferguson.

“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“Neglect, neglect, neglect,” Ferguson said sorrowfully. “You haven’t called me for ‘two more things’ in weeks. Not sore at me, are you, Edward?”

“No,” Delaney laughed, “I’m not sore at you.”

“How you coming along?”

“All right. I read your preliminary report on the Feinberg kill, but I didn’t see the final PM.”

“Completed it today. The usual. Nothing new.”

“The preliminary report said that blood found on the sidewalk was not the victim’s type.”

“That’s correct.”

“What type was it?”

“You’re asking me? Edward, you're losing your grip. I thought you’d be telling me.”

“Just a minute.” Delaney took his notebook from his inside coat pocket. “All right, I’ll tell you. AB-Rh negative.”

There was a swift intake of breath. “Edward, you are getting somewhere, aren’t you? You’re right. AB-Rh negative. A rare type. Who has it?”

“A friend of mine,” Delaney said tonelessly. “A close friend.”

“Well, when you take him, make it clean, will you?” the Medical Examiner said. “I’m getting bored with crushed skulls. A single pop through the heart would be nice.”

“Too good for him,” Delaney said savagely.

Silence then. Finally: “Edward, you’re not losing your cool, are you?” Ferguson asked, concern in his voice.

“I’ve never been colder in my life.”

“Good.”

“One more thing…”

“Now I know you’re normal.”

“I’m mailing you a sample of a light machine oil. It’s a different brand from the one I gave you before. Will you try' to get a match with oil in the tissue from Feinberg’s wounds?”

“I’ll try. Sounds like you’re close, Edward.”

“Yes. Thank you, doctor.”

He looked at his watch. Almost two hours to kill before his meeting with Thorsen. He sat down at his study desk, put on his glasses, picked up a pencil, drew a pad toward him. He began to head the page “Report on-” then stopped, thinking carefully. Was it wise to have an account of that illegal break-in, in his handwriting? He pushed pad and pencil away, rose, began to pace around the room, hands jammed in his hip pockets.

If, for some reason he could not yet foresee, it came to a court trial or the taking of sworn depositions, it was Lipsky’s word against his. All Lipsky could swear to was that he had passed the keys. He had not seen Delaney in Blank’s apartment. He could not honestly swear to that, only that he had given Delaney the keys and presumed he was going to search the apartment. But presumptions had no value. Still, the Captain decided, he would not make a written report of the search. Not at this moment, at any rate. He continued his pacing.

The problem, he decided-the essential problem-was not how to take Blank. That had to wait for his meeting with Thorsen at six o’clock. The essential problem was Blank, the man himself, who he was, what he was, what he might do.

That apartment was a puzzle. It displayed a dichotomy (the Captain was familiar with the word) of personality difficult to decipher. There was the incredible orderliness, almost a fanatical tidiness. And the ultramodern furnishings, black and white, steel and leather, no warmth, no softness, no personal “give” to the surroundings.

Then there were the multi-hued linens, luxurious personal belongings, the excess of silk and soft fabrics, feminine underwear, the perfumes, oils, scented creams, the jewelry. That mutilated nude photograph. And, above all, the mirrors. Mirrors everywhere.

He went over to the cabinet, flipped through the Daniel G. Blank file, pulled out the thick report he had written after his interview with Dr. Otto Morgenthau. Delaney stood at his desk, turning pages until he found the section he wanted, where Morgenthau, having discussed causes, spoke about motives, how the mass murderer justified his actions to himself. The Captain had jotted short, elliptic notes:

“Elaborate rationalizations. No guilt. Killings necessary…

“1. Impose order on chaos. Cannot stand disorder or the unpredictable. Needs rules of institution: prison, army, etc. Finds peace, because no responsibility in completely ordered world.

“2. Graffiti artist. Make his mark by murder. I exist! Statement to world.

“3. Alienation. Cannot relate to anyone. Cannot feel. Wants to come close to another human being. To love? Through love to all humanity and secret of existence. God? Because (in youth?) emotion, feeling, love have been denied to him. Cannot find (feel) except by killing. Ecstasy.”

Delaney reread these notes again, and recalled Dr. Morgenthau’s warning that in dealing with multiple killers, there were no precise classifications. Causes overlapped, and so did motives. These were not simple men who killed from greed, lust or vengeance. They were a tangled complex, could not recognize themselves where truth ended and fantasy began. But perhaps in their mad, whirling minds there were no endings and no beginnings. Just a hot swirl, with no more outline than a flame and as fluid as blood.

He put the notes away, no closer to Dan’s heart. The thing about Dan was-He stopped suddenly. Dan? He was thinking of him as “Dan” now? Not Blank, or Daniel G. Blank, but Dan. Very well, he would think of him as Dan. “A friend,” he had told Dr. Ferguson. “A close friend.” He had smelled his soap, handled his underwear, felt his silken robes, heard his voice, seen a photo of him naked. Discovered his secrets.

The trouble with Dan, the trouble with understanding Dan, was the question he had posed to Barbara: Was it possible to solve an irrational problem by rational means? He hadn’t the answer to that. Yet. He glanced at his watch, hurriedly emptied his pockets of penlite, black silk gloves, case of lock picks. He wrapped the oil-soaked wad of paper towel in a square of aluminum foil, put it into an envelope addressed to Dr. Sanford Ferguson, and mailed it on his way to the home of Deputy Inspector Thorsen.

It was strange; he could smell cigar smoke on the sidewalk outside Thorsen’s brownstone. He walked up the stoop; the smell was stronger. He hoped to hell Karen was visiting or up in her bedroom; she hated cigars.

He rang. And rang. Rang. Finally Thorsen pulled open the door.

“Sorry, Edward. Lots of noise,”

Thorsen, he noted, was under pressure. The “Admiral” was hanging on tight, but the fine silver hair was unbrushed, blue eyes dimmed, the whites bloodshot, lines in his face Delaney had never seen before. And a jerkiness to his movements.

The door of the living room was closed. But the Captain heard a loud, angry babble. He saw a pile of overcoats, at least a dozen, thrown over hallway chairs. Civilian and uniform coats, civilian hats and cop hats. One cane. One umbrella. The air was hot and swirling-cigar smoke, and harsh. Thorsen didn’t ask for his hat and coat.

“Come in here,” he commanded.

He led Delaney down a short hall to a dining room, flicked on a wall switch. There was a Tiffany lampshade over the heavy oak dining table. Thorsen closed the door, but the Captain could still hear the voices, still smell the coarse cigars.

“What is it?” Thorsen demanded.

Delaney looked at him. He could forgive that tone; the man was obviously exhausted. Something was happening, something big.

“Ivar,” he said gently-perhaps the second or third time in his life he had used the Deputy Inspector’s given name-“I’ve found him.”

Thorsen looked at him, not comprehending.

“Found him?”

Delaney didn’t answer. Thorsen, staring at him, suddenly knew.

“Oh Jesus,” he groaned. “Now of all times. Right now. Oh God. No doubt at all?”

“No. No doubt. It’s absolute.”

Thorsen took a deep breath.

“Don’t-” he started to say, then stopped, smiled wanly at the Captain. “Congratulations, Edward.”

Delaney didn’t say anything.

“Don’t move from here. Please. I want Johnson and Alinski in on this. I’ll be right back.”

The Captain waited patiently. Still standing, he ran his fingers over the waxed surface of the dining table. Old, scarred oak. There was something about wood, something you couldn’t find in steel, chrome, aluminum, plastic. The wood had lived, he decided; that was the answer. The wood had been seedling, twig, trunk, all pulsing with sap, responding to the seasons, growing. The tree cut down eventually, and sliced, planed, worked, sanded, polished. But the sense of life was still there. You could feel it.

Inspector Johnson seemed as distraught as Thorsen; his black face was sweated, and Delaney noted the hands thrust into trouser pockets. You did that to conceal trembling. But Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski was still expressionless, the short, heavy body composed, dark, intelligent eyes moving from man to man.

The four men stood around the dining room table. No one suggested they sit. From outside, Delaney could still hear the loud talk going on, still smell the crude cigar smoke.

“Edward?” Thorsen said in a low voice.

Delaney looked at the other two men. Then he addressed himself directly to Alinski.

“I have found the killer of Frank Lombard, Bernard Gilbert, Detective Kope, and Albert Feinberg,” he said, speaking slowly and distinctly. “There is no possibility of error. I know the man who committed the four homicides.”

There was silence. Delaney looked from Alinski to Johnson to Thorsen.

“Oh Jesus,” Johnson said. “That tears it.”

“No possibility of error?” Alinski repeated softly.

“No, sir. None.”

“Can we make a collar, Edward?” Thorsen asked. “Now?”

“No use. He’d be out in an hour.”

“Run him around the horn?” Johnson said in a cracked voice.

Delaney: “What for? A waste of time. He’d float free eventually.”

Thorsen: “Search warrant?”

Delaney: “Not even from a pet judge.”

Thorsen:“Anything for the DA?”

Delaney: “Not a thing.”

Thorsen:“Will he sweat in the slammer?”

Delaney: “No.”

Thorsen:“Break-in?”

Delaney: “What do you think?”

Thorsen:“You left it?”

Delaney: “What else could I do?”

Thorsen:“But it was there?”

Delaney: “Three hours ago. It may be gone by now.”

Thorsen:“Witnesses to the break-in?”

Delaney: “Presumption only.”

Thorsen:“Then we’ve got nothing?”

Delaney: “Not right now.”

“But you can nail him?”

Delaney (astonished): “Of course. Eventually.”

Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski had followed this fast exchange without interrupting. Now he held up a hand. They fell silent. He carefully relighted a cold cigar he had brought into the room with him.

“Gentlemen,” he said quietly, “I realize I am just a poor pole, one generation removed from the Warsaw ghetto, but I did think I had mastered the English language and the American idiom. But I would be much obliged, gentlemen, if you could inform me just what the fuck you are talking about.”

They laughed then. The ice was broken-which was, Delaney realized, exactly what Alinski had intended. The Captain turned to Thorsen.

“Let me tell it my way?”

Thorsen nodded.

“Sir,” the Captain said, addressing the Deputy Mayor directly, “I will tell you what I can. Some things I will not tell you. Not to protect myself. I don’t give a damn. But I don’t think it wise that you and these other men should have guilty knowledge. You understand?”

Alinski, smoking his cigar, nodded. His dark eyes deepened even more; he stared at Delaney with curious interest.

“I know the man who committed these homicides,” the Captain continued. “I have seen the evidence. Conclusive, incontrovertible evidence. You’ll have to take my word for that. The evidence exists, or did exist three hours ago, in this man’s apartment. But the evidence is of such a nature that it doesn’t justify a collar-an arrest. Why not? Because it exists in his apartment, his home. How could I swear to what I have seen? Legally, I have seen nothing. And if, by any chance, a sympathetic judge issued a search warrant, what then? Served on the man while he was home, he could stall long enough to destroy the evidence. Somehow. Then what? Arrest him on a charge-any charge? And run the risk of a false arrest suit? What for? Run him around the horn? That’s probably some of our cop talk you didn’t understand. It means collaring a suspect, keeping him in a precinct house detention cell, trying to sweat him-getting him to talk. He calls his lawyer. We’re required to let him do that. His lawyer gets a release. By the time the lawyer shows up with the paper, we’ve moved him to another precinct house tank. No one knows where. By the time the lawyer finds out, we’ve moved him again. We waltz him ‘around the horn.’ It’s an old routine, not used much these days, originally used when cops needed to keep an important witness in the slammer, or needed another day or two days or three days to nail the guy good. It wouldn’t work here. Sweating him wouldn’t work either. Don’t ask me how I know-I just know. He won’t talk. Why should he? He makes fifty-five thousand a year. He’s an important business executive with a big corporation in the city. He’s no street police with a snoot full of shit. We can’t lean on him. He’s got no record. He’s got a good lawyer. He’s got friends. He carries weight. Got it now?”

“Yes…” Alinski said slowly. “I’ve got it now. Thank you, Captain.”

“Fifty-five thousand a year?” Inspector Johnson said incredulously. “Jesus H. Christ!”

“One thing,” the Deputy Mayor said. “Inspector Johnson asked if you could nail him, and you said yes. How do you propose to do that?”

“I don’t know,” Delaney admitted. “I haven’t thought it through yet. That’s not why I came here tonight.”

“Why did you come?”

“This crazy’s coming up to another kill. I figure it should be in the week between Christmas and New Year’s. But it may be sooner. I can’t take the chance.”

Strangely, no one asked him how he had estimated the killer’s schedule. They simply believed him.

“So,” Delaney went on, “I came here tonight for three men, plainclothes, on foot, and one unmarked car, with two men, to cover this guy tonight. I either get this cover or I’ll have to dump what I have in Broughton’s lap, let him own it, and take my lumps. Before, I just had a lead to offer him. Now I’ve got the guy he’s bleeding for.”

His demand came so suddenly, so abruptly, that the other three were startled. They looked at each other; the noise and smells from outside, men talking, arguing, smoking in the living room, seemed to invade this quiet place and envelop them all.

“Now,” Thorsen said bitterly. “It would have to be tonight.”

“You can do it,” Delaney said stonily, staring at the Deputy Inspector. “I don’t give a fuck where you get them. Bring them in from Staten Island. This guy has got to be covered. Tonight and every night until I can figure out how to take him.” Silence then, in the dining room, the four men standing. Only Delaney looked at Thorsen; the other men’s eyes were turned downward, unseeing.

Was it a minute, or five, or ten? The Captain never knew. Finally Deputy Mayor Alinski sighed deeply, raised his head to look at Thorsen and Johnson.

“Would you excuse us?” he asked gently. “I would like to speak to Captain Delaney privately. For just a few moments. Would you wait outside, please?”

Wordlessly, they filed out, Johnson closing the door behind them.

Alinski looked at Delaney and smiled. “Could we sit down?” he asked. “It seems to me we have been standing much too long.”

Delaney nodded. They took padded armchairs on opposite sides of the oak table.

“You don’t smoke cigars?” Alinski asked.

“No more. Oh, occasionally. But not very often.”

“Filthy habit,” Alinski nodded. “But all enjoyable habits are filthy. I looked up your record. ‘Iron Balls.’ Am I right?”

“Yes.”

“In my younger days I was called ‘Bubble Head.’” Delaney smiled.

“Good record,” Alinski said. “How many commendations?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ve lost count. Many. You were in the Army in World War Two. Military Police.”

“That’s correct.”

“Yes. Tell me something, Captain: Do you feel that the military-the Army, Navy, Air Force-should be, at the top, under control of civilian authority-President, Secretary of Defense, and so forth?”

“Of course.”

“And do you also believe that the Police Department of the City of New York should also, essentially, be under civilian control? That is, that the Commissioner, the highest ranking police officer, should be appointed by the Mayor, a civilian politician?”

“Yes…I guess I believe that,” Delaney said slowly. “I don’t like civilian interference in Department affairs anymore than any other cop. But I agree the Department should be subject to some civilian control authority, not be a totally autonomous body. Some form of civilian control is the lesser of two evils.”

Alinski smiled wryly. “So many decisions in this world come down to that,” he nodded. “The lesser of two evils. Thorsen and Johnson tell me you are an apolitical man. That is, you have very little interest in Department politics, in feuds, cliques, personality conflicts. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“You just want to be left alone to do your job?”

“That’s right.”

The Deputy Mayor nodded again. “We owe you an explanation,” he said. “It won’t be a complete explanation because there are some things you have no need to know. Also, time is growing short. We must all be at the Mansion by seven. Well then…

“About three years ago it became apparent that there was a serious breach of security in the Mayor’s ‘Inner Circle.’ This is an informal group, about a dozen men-the Mayor’s closest personal friends, advisors, various media experts, campaign contributors, labor leaders, and so forth-on whom he depends for advice and ideas. Meetings are held once a month, or more often when needed. Well, someone in that group was leaking. Newspapers were getting rumors they shouldn’t get, and some individuals were profiting from plans still in the discussion stage, before the public announcement was made. The problem was dumped in my lap; one of my responsibilities is internal security. It wasn’t hard to discover who was leaking-his name’s of no importance to you.”

“How did you do it?” Delaney asked. “I’m just interested in the technique you used.”

“The most obvious,” Alinski shrugged. “Various fictitious documents planted with every man in the Inner Circle. Only one was leaked. It was that easy. But before we kicked this bastard downstairs to a job inspecting monuments or potholes-you don’t fire a man like that; the public scandal helps no one-I put him under twenty-four hour surveillance and discovered something interesting. Once a week he was having dinner with five men, always the same five men. They were meeting at one of their homes or in a hotel room or renting a private dining room in a restaurant. It was a curious group. Chairman of the Board of a downtown bank, real estate speculator, editor of a news magazine, a corporation VP, our squealer, and Deputy Commissioner Broughton. I didn’t like the smell of it. What did those men have in common? They didn’t even all belong to the same political party. So I kept an eye on them. A few months later, the six had grown to twelve, then to twenty. And they were entertaining occasional guests from Albany, and once a man from the Attorney-General’s office in Washington. By this time there were almost thirty members, dining together every week.”

“Including the man you infiltrated,” Delaney said.

Alinski smiled distantly but didn’t answer. “It took me a while to catch on,” he continued. “As far as I could determine, they had no name, no address, no letterhead, no formal organization, no officers. Just an informal group who met for dinner. That’s what I called them in my verbal reports to the Mayor-the ‘Group.’ I kept watching. It was fascinating to see how they grew. They split into three divisions; three separate dinners every week: one of the money men; one of editors, writers, publishers, TV producers; one of cops-local, state, a few federal. Then they began recruiting. Nothing obvious, but a solid cadre. Still no name, no address, no program-nothing. But odd things began happening: certain editorials, hefty campaign contributions to minor league pols, pressure for or against certain bills, some obviously planned and extremely well organized demonstrations, heavy clout that got a certain man off on probation of a tax evasion rap that should have netted him five years. The Group was growing, fast. And the members were Democrats, Republicans, Liberals, Conservatives-you name it, they had them. Still no public announcements, no formal program, no statement of principles-nothing like that. But it came increasingly clear what they were after: an authoritarian city government, ‘law and order,’ let the cops use their sticks, guns for everyone. Except the blacks. More muscle in government. Tell people, don’t ask them. Because people really want to be told, don’t they? All they need or want is a cold six-pack and a fourth rerun of ‘I Love Lucy.’”

Alinski glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to cut this short,” he said. “Time’s running out. But I get carried away. Half my family got made into soup at Treblinka. Anyway, Deputy Commissioner Broughton began to throw his weight around. The man is good; I don’t deny it. Shrewd, strong, active. And loud. Above all, loud. So when Frank Lombard was killed, the Group’s agit-prop division went to work. It was a natural. After all, Frank Lombard was a member of the Group.”

Delaney looked at him, astounded. “You mean these four victims had something in common after all-a political angle? Were the other three members of the Group, too?”

“No, no,” Alinski shook his head. “Don’t get me wrong. Detective Kope couldn’t have been a member because the Group doesn’t recruit cops under the rank of lieutenant. And Bernard Gilbert and Albert Feinberg couldn’t have been members because there are no Jews in the Group. No, Lombard’s death was just a coincidence, a chance killing, and I guess the man you’ve found has never even heard of the Group. Not many people have. But Lombard’s murder was a marvelous opportunity for the Group. First of all, he was a very vocal advocate of law and order.’ ‘Let us crush completely crime in our city streets.’ Broughton saw his opportunity. He got command of Operation Lombard. With the political pressures the Group organized, he got everything he wanted-men, equipment, unlimited funds. You’ve met Broughton?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t underestimate him. He has the confidence of the devil. He thought he’d wrap up the Lombard murder in record time. Score one for his side, and an important step toward becoming the next Commissioner. But in case he didn’t find Lombard’s killer, the Group would be left with their thumbs up their assholes. So I asked Thorsen and Johnson who were the best detectives in New York. They named you and Chief Pauley. Broughton took Pauley. Thorsen and Johnson asked for you, and we went along with them.”

“Who is ‘we’?”

“Our Group,” Alinski smiled. “Or call it our ‘Anti-Group.’ Anyway, here is the situation of this moment. At the meeting tonight, we think we can get Broughton dumped from Operation Lombard. No guarantee, but we think we can do it. But not if you go to him now and give him the killer.”

“Fuck Broughton,” Delaney said roughly. “I couldn’t care less about his ambitions, political or otherwise. I won’t go to him if you’ll just give me my three plainclothesmen on foot and two in an unmarked car.”

“But you see,” Alinski explained patiently, “we cannot possibly do that. How could we? From where? You don’t realize how big the Group has grown, how powerful. They are everywhere, in every precinct, in every special unit in the Department. Not the men; the officers. How can we risk alerting Broughton that we have the killer and want to put a watch on him? You know exactly what would happen. He would come galloping with sirens screaming, flashing lights, a hundred men and, when all the TV cameras were in place, he’d pull your man out of his apartment in chains.”

“And lose him in the courts,” Delaney said bitterly. “I’m telling you, at this moment you couldn’t even indict this man, let alone convict him.”

The Deputy Mayor looked at his watch again and grimaced. “We’re going to be late,” he said. He strode to the door, yanked it open. Thorsen and Johnson were waiting outside, in hats and overcoats. Alinski waved them into the dining room, then closed the door behind them. He turned to Delaney. “Captain,” he said. “Twenty-four hours. Will you give us that? Just twenty-four hours. After that, if Broughton still heads Operation Lombard, you better go to him and tell him what you have. He’ll crucify you, but he’ll have the killer-and the headlines-whether or not the man is ever convicted.”

“You won’t give the guards?” Delaney asked.

“No. I can’t stop you from going to Broughton right now, if that’s what you want to do. But I will not cooperate in his triumph by furnishing the men you want.”

“All right,” the Captain said mildly. He pushed by Alinski, Thorsen, Johnson, and pulled open the door. “You can have your twenty-four hours.”

He made his way through the hallway, crowded now with men pulling on hats and coats. He looked at no one, spoke to no one, although one man called his name.

Back in the dining room, Alinski looked at the two officers in astonishment. “He agreed so easily,” he said, puzzled. “Maybe he was exaggerating. Perhaps there is no danger tonight. He certainly didn’t fight very hard for the guards he wanted.”

Thorsen looked at him, then looked out into the hallway where the others were waiting.

“You don’t know Edward,” he said, almost sadly.

“That’s right,” Inspector Johnson agreed softly. “He’s going to freeze his ass off tonight.”

He wasn’t furious, wasn’t even angry. They had their priorities, and he had his. They had the “Group” and “Anti-Group.” He had Daniel G. Blank. It was interesting, listening to the Deputy Mayor, and he supposed their concern was important. But he had been in the Department a long time, had witnessed many similar battles between the “Ins” and the “Outs,” and it was difficult for him to become personally involved in this political clash. Somehow the Department always survived. At the moment, his only interest was Dan, his close friend Dan.

He walked home rapidly, called Barbara immediately. But it was Dr. Louis Bernardi who answered the phone.

“What’s wrong?” Delaney demanded. “Is Barbara all right?”

“Fine, fine, Captain,” the doctor soothed. “We’re just conducting a little examination.”

“So you think the new drug is helping?”

“Coming along,” Bernardi said blithely. “A little fretful, perhaps, but that’s understandable. It doesn’t worry me.”

Oh you bastard, Delaney thought again. Nothing worries you. Why the hell should it?

“I think we’ll give her a little something to help her sleep tonight,” Bernardi went on in his greasy voice. “Just a little something. I think perhaps you might skip your visit tonight, Captain. A nice, long sleep will do our Barbara more good.”

“Our Barbara.” Delaney could have throttled him, and cheerfully.

“All right,” he said shortly. “I’ll see her tomorrow.”

He looked at his watch: almost seven-thirty. He didn’t have much time; it was dark outside; the street lights were on, had been since six. He went up to the bedroom, stripped down to his skin. He knew, from painful experience, what to wear on an all-night vigil in the winter.

Thermal underwear, a two-piece set. A pair of light cotton socks with heavy wool socks over them. An old winter uniform, pants shiny, jacket frayed at the cuffs and along the seams. But there was still no civilian suit as warm as that good, heavy blanket wool. And the choker collar would protect his chest and throat. Then his comfortable “cop shoes” with a pair of rubbers over them, even though the streets were dry and no rain or snow predicted.

He unlocked his equipment drawer in the bedroom taboret. He owned three guns: his.38 service revolver, a.32 “belly gun” with a two-inch barrel, and a.45 automatic pistol which he had stolen from the U.S. Army in 1946. He selected the small.32, slid it from its flannel bag and, flicking the cylinder to the side, loaded it slowly and carefully from a box of ammunition. He didn’t bother with an extra gun belt. The gun was carried on his pants belt in a black leather holster. He adjusted it under his uniform jacket so the gun hung down over his right groin, aimed toward his testicles: a happy thought. He checked the safety again.

His identification into his inside breast pocket. A leather-covered sap slid into a special narrow pocket alongside his right leg. Handcuffs into his righthand pants pocket and, at the last minute, he added a steel-linked “come-along”-a short length of chain, just long enough to encircle a wrist, with heavy grips at both ends.

Downstairs, he prepared a thick sandwich of bologna and sliced onion, wrapped it in waxed paper, put it into his civilian overcoat pocket. He filled a pint flask with brandy; that went into the inside overcoat breast pocket. He found his fleece-lined earmuffs and fur-lined leather gloves; they went into outside overcoat pockets.

Just before he left the house, he dialed Daniel Blank. He knew the number by heart now. The phone rang three times, then that familiar voice said, “Hello?” Delaney hung up softly. At least his friend was home, the Captain wouldn’t be watching an empty hole.

He put on his stiff Homburg, left the hall light burning, double-locked the front door, went out into the night. He moved stiffly, hot and sweating under his layers of clothing. But he knew that wouldn’t last long.

He walked over to Daniel Blank’s apartment house, pausing once to transfer the come-along to his lefthand pants pocket so it wouldn’t clink against the handcuffs. The weighted blackjack knocked against his leg as he walked, but he was familiar with that feeling; there was nothing to be done about it.

It was an overcast night, not so much cold as damp and raw. He pulled on his gloves and knew it wouldn’t be long before he clamped on the earmuffs. It was going to be a long night.

Plenty of people still on the streets; laden Christmas shoppers hurrying home. The lobby lights of Dan’s apartment house were blazing. Two doormen on duty now, one of them Lipsky. They were hustling tips. Why not-it was Christmas, wasn’t it? Cabs were arriving and departing, private cars were heading into the underground garage, tenants on foot were staggering up with shopping bags and huge parcels.

Delaney took up his station across the street, strolling up and down the length of the block. The lobby was easily observable during most of his to-and-from pacing, or could be glimpsed over his shoulder. When it was behind him, he turned his head frequently enough to keep track of arrivals and departures. After every five trips, up and down, he crossed the street and walked along the other side once, directly in front of the apartment house, then crossed back again and continued his back-and-forth vigil. He walked at a steady pace, not fast, not slow, stamping each foot slightly with every step, swinging his arms more than he would ordinarily.

He could perform this job automatically, and he welcomed the chance it gave him to consider once again his conversation with Thorsen, Johnson, Deputy Mayor Alinski.

What disturbed him was that he was not positive he had been entirely accurate in his comments regarding the admissibility of evidence and the possibility of obtaining a search warrant. Ten years ago he would have been absolutely certain. But recent court decisions, particularly those of the Supreme Court, had so confused him-and all cops-that he no longer comprehended the laws of evidence and the rights of suspects.

Even such a Philadelphia lawyer as Lt. Marty Dorfman had admitted his confusion. “Captain,” he had said, “they’ve demolished the old guidelines without substituting a new, definite code. Even the DA’s men are walking on eggs. As I see it, until all this gets straightened out and enough precedents established, each case will be judged on its own merits, and we’ll have to take our chances. It’s the old story: ‘The cop proposes, the judge disposes.’ Only now even the judges aren’t sure. That’s why the percentage of appeals is way, way up.”

Well, start from the beginning…His search of Dan’s apartment had been illegal. Nothing he saw or learned from that search could be used in court. No doubt about that. If he had taken away Dan’s “trophies,” it would have served no purpose other than to alert Blank that his apartment had been tossed, that he was under suspicion.

Now what about a search warrant? On what grounds? That Dan owned an ice ax of a type possibly used to kill four men? And, of course, of a type owned by hundreds of people all over the world. That blood of Dan’s type had been found at the scene of the most recent homicide? How many people had that blood type? That he possessed a can of light machine oil that a thousand other New Yorkers owned? And all of these facts established only by an illegal break-in. Or tell the judge that Daniel G. Blank was a known mountaineer and was suspected of carrying two dummy Christmas packages the night Albert Feinberg was slain? Delaney could imagine the judge’s reaction to a request for a search warrant on those grounds.

No, he had been correct. As of this moment, Dan was untouchable. Then why hadn’t he taken the whole mess to Broughton and dumped it on him? Because Alinski had been exactly right, knowing his man. Broughton would have said, “Fuck the law,” would have come on like Gang Busters, would have collared Blank, got the headlines and TV exposure he wanted.

Later, when Blank was set free, as he was certain to be, Broughton would denounce “permissive justice,” “slack criminal laws,” “handcuffing the cops, not the crooks.” The fact that Blank walked away a free man would have little importance to Broughton compared to the publicity of the suspect’s release, the public outcry, the furtherance of exactly what the Group wanted.

But if Dan couldn’t legally-

Delaney ceased pondering, his head crooked over his shoulder. There was a man standing in the lighted lobby, talking to one of the doormen. The man was tall, slender, wearing a black topcoat, no hat. Delaney stopped midstride, took a sham look at a nonexistent wristwatch, made a gesture of impatience, turned in his tracks, walked toward the lobby. He should apply for an Actors Equity card, he thought; he really should.

He came abreast of the lobby, across the street, just as Daniel Blank exited from the glass doors and stood a moment. It was undeniably him: wide shoulders, slim hips, handsome with vaguely Oriental features. His left hand was thrust into his topcoat pocket. Delaney glanced long enough to watch him sniff the night air, button up his coat with his right hand, turn up the collar. Then Blank walked down the driveway, turned west in the direction Delaney was moving across the street.

Ah there, the Captain thought. Out for a stroll, Danny boy?

“Danny Boy.” The phrase amused him; he began to hum the tune. He matched Blank’s speed, and when Dan crossed Second Avenue, Delaney crossed on his side, keeping just a little behind his target. He was good at tailing, but not nearly as good as, say, Lt. Jeri Fernandez, known to his squad as the “Invisible Man.”

The problem was mainly one of physical appearance. Delaney was obvious. He was tall, big, stooped, lumbering, with a shapeless black overcoat, a stiff Homburg set squarely atop his heavy head. He could change his costume but not the man he was.

Fernandez was average and middle. Average height, middle weight, no distinguishing features. On a tail, he wore clothes a zillion other men wore. More than that, he had mastered the rhythm of the streets, a trick Delaney could never catch. Even within a single city, New York, people moved differently on different streets. In the Garment District they trotted and shoved. On Fifth Avenue they walked at a slower tempo, pausing to look in shop windows. On Park Avenue and upper eastside cross streets they sauntered. Wherever he tailed, Fernandez picked up the rhythm of the street, unconsciously, and moved like a wraith. Set him down in Brussels, Cairo, or Tokyo, the Captain was convinced, and Lt. Jeri Fernandez would take one quick look around and become a resident. Delaney wished he could do it.

But he did what he could, performed what tricks he knew. When Blank turned the corner onto Third Avenue, Delaney crossed the street to move up behind him. He increased his speed to tail from in front. The Captain stopped to look in a store window, watched the reflection in the glass as Blank passed him. Delaney took up a following tail again, dropping behind a couple, dogging their heels closely. If Blank looked back, he’d see a group of three.

Dan was walking slowly. Delaney’s covering couple turned away. He continued in his steady pace, passing his quarry again. He was conscious that Blank was now close behind him, but he felt no particular fear. The avenue was well-lighted; there were people about. Danny Boy might be crazy, but he wasn’t stupid. Besides, Delaney was certain, he always approached his victims from the front.

Delaney walked another half-block and stopped. He had lost him. He knew it, without turning to look. Instinct? Something atavistic? Fuck it. He just knew it. He turned back, searched, cursed his own stupidity. He should have known, or at least wondered.

Halfway down the block was a pet shop, still open, front window brilliantly lighted. Behind the glass were pups-fox terriers, poodles, spaniels-all frolicking on torn newspaper, and gumming each other, pissing, shitting up a storm, pressing noses and paws against the window where at least half a dozen people stood laughing, tapping the glass, saying things like “Kitchy-koo.” Daniel Blank was one of them.

He should have guessed, he repeated to himself. Even the dullest dick three learned that a high percentage of killers were animal lovers. They kept dogs, cats, parakeets, pigeons, even goldfish. They treated their pets with tender, loving care, feeding them at great expense, hustling them to the vet at the first sign of illness, talking to them, caressing them. Then they killed a human being, cutting off the victim’s nipples or slicing open the abdomen or shoving a beer bottle up the ass. Captain Edward X. Delaney really didn’t want to know the explanation of this predilection of animal lovers for homicide. It was difficult enough, after years of experience, to assimilate the facts of these things happening. The facts themselves were hard enough to accept; who had the time or stomach for explanations?

Then Blank moved off, crossed the street, dodging oncoming traffic. Delaney tailed him on his side of the avenue, but when Dan went into a large, two-window liquor store, the Captain crossed and stood staring at the shop’s window display. He was not alone; there were two couples inspecting Christmas gift packages, wicker baskets of liqueurs, cases of imported wine. Delaney inspected them, too, or appeared to. His head was tilted downward just enough so that he could observe Daniel Blank inside the store.

Dan’s actions were not puzzling. He took a paper from his righthand pocket, unfolded it, handed it to the clerk. The clerk glanced at it and nodded. The clerk took a bottle of Scotch from a shelf, showed it to Blank. The bottle was in a box, gift-wrapped, a red plastic bow on top. Blank inspected it and approved. The clerk replaced the bottle on the shelf. Blank took several sealed cards from his pocket. They looked to Delaney, standing outside, like Christmas cards. The clerk ran off a tape on an electric adding machine, showed it to Blank. Dan took a wallet from his pocket, extracted some bills, paid in cash. The clerk gave him change. The clerk kept the sheet of paper and the envelopes. They smiled at each other. Blank left the store. It wasn’t difficult to understand; Dan was sending several bottles of holiday-wrapped Scotch to several people, several addresses. He left his list and identical cards to be enclosed with each gift. He paid for the liquor and the delivery fee. So?

Delaney tailed him away from the store, south three blocks, east two blocks, north four blocks. Dan walked steadily, alertly; the Captain admired the way he moved: balls of feet touching before the heels came down. But he didn’t dawdle, apparently wasn’t inspecting, searching. Just getting a breath of air. Delaney was back and forth, across, behind, in front, quartering like a good pointer. Nothing.

In less than a half-hour, Dan was back in his apartment house, headed for the bank of elevators, and eventually disappeared. Delaney, across the street, took a swallow of brandy, ate half his bologna and onion sandwich as he paced, watching. He belched suddenly. Understandable. Brandy and bologna and onion?

Was Dan in for the night? Maybe, maybe not. In any event, Delaney would be there until dawn. Blank’s stroll had been-well, inconclusive. It made sense, but the Captain had a nagging feeling of having missed something. What? The man had been under his direct observation for-oh, well, say 75 percent of the time he had been out on the street. He had acted like any other completely innocent evening stroller, out to buy some Christmas booze for his friends, doormen, acquaintances. So?

It did nag. Something. Delaney re-wrapped his half-sandwich, continued his routine pacing. Now the thing to do was to take it from the start, the beginning, and remember everything his friend had done, every action, every movement.

He had first glimpsed him inside the lobby, talking to a doorman. Blank came outside, looked up at the sky, buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, started walking west. Nothing in all that.

He recalled it all again. The slow walk along Third Avenue, Blank’s stop outside the pet shop, the way-

Suddenly there was a car pulling up alongside Delaney at the curb. A dusty, four-door, dark blue Plymouth. Two men in the front seat in civilian clothes. But the near man, not the driver, turned a powerful flashlight on Delaney.

“Police,” he said. “Stop where you are, please.”

Delaney stopped. He turned slowly to face the car. He raised his arms slightly from his body, turned his palms outward. The man with the flashlight got out of the car, his right hand near his hip. His partner, the driver, dimly seen, was cuddling something in his lap. Delaney admired their competence. They were professionals. But he wondered, not for the first time, why the Department invariably selected three-year-old, dusty, four-door, dark blue Plymouths for their unmarked cars. Every villain on the streets could spot one a block away.

The detective with the flashlight advanced two steps, but still kept a long stride away from Delaney. The light was directly in the Captain’s eyes.

“Live in the neighborhood?” the man asked. His voice was dry gin, on the rocks.

“Yes,” the Captain nodded.

“Do you have identification?”

“Yes,” Delaney said. “I am going to reach up slowly with my left hand, open my overcoat, then my jacket. I am going to withdraw my identification from the inside right breast pocket of my jacket with my left hand and hand it to you. Okay?”

The detective nodded.

Delaney, moving slowly, meticulously, handed over his buzzer and ID card in the leather folder. It was a long reach to the detective. The flashlight turned down to the badge and photo, then up again to Delaney’s face. Then it was snapped off.

“Sorry, Captain,” the man said, no apology in his voice. He handed the leather back.

“You did just right,” Delaney said. “Operation Lombard?”

“Yeah,” the detective said, and asked no unnecessary questions. “You’ll be around awhile?”

“Until dawn.”

“We won’t roust you again.”

“That’s all right,” Delaney assured him. “What’s your name?”

“You’re not going to believe it, Captain, but it’s William Shakespeare.”

“I believe it,” Delaney laughed. “There was a football player named William Shakespeare.”

“You remember him?” the dick said with wonder and delight. “He probably had the same trouble I have. You should see the looks I get when I register at a motel with my wife.”

“Who’s your partner?”

The dick turned his flashlight on the driver. He was black, grinning. “A spook,” the man on the sidewalk said. “Loves fried chicken and watermelon. Sam Lauder.”

The black driver nodded solemnly. “Don’t forget the pork chops and collard greens,” he said in a marvelously rich bass voice.

“How long you two been partners?” Delaney asked.

“About a thousand years,” the driver called.

“Naw,” the sidewalk man said. “A year or two. It just seems like a thousand.”

They all laughed.

“Shakespeare and Lauder,” Delaney repeated. “I’ll remember. I owe you one.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Shakespeare said. He got back in the car; they drove away. Delaney was pleased. Good men.

But to get back to Dan…He resumed his pacing, the lobby never out of his glance for more than 30 seconds. It was quiet in there now. One doorman.

After the stop at the pet shop, Dan had crossed to the liquor store, presented his Christmas list, paid for his purchases, then sauntered home. So what was bugging Delaney? He reached into his inner overcoat pocket for a swig of brandy from the flask. Reached into his outer pocket for a bit of sandwich. Reached-

Ah. Ah. Now he had it.

Blank had been talking to a doorman inside the lobby when Delaney first spotted him. Unbuttoned black topcoat, left hand thrust into topcoat pocket. Then Dan had come out under the portico, buttoning up his topcoat, turning up the collar with his right hand. No action from the left hand so far-correct?

Then the stroll. Both hands jammed into topcoat pockets. The walk, the tail, the stop at the pet shop-all that was nothing. But now Delaney, from under the brim of his wooden Homburg, is observing Blank inside the liquor store. The right hand dips into the righthand topcoat pocket and comes out with a folded list. The right hand unfolds it on the counter. The right hand holds it out to the clerk. The clerk offers a Christmas-wrapped bottle of Scotch to Blank. Dan takes it in his right hand, inspects it, approves, hands it back to the clerk. Still no action from that left hand. It’s dead. Right hand goes back into the topcoat pocket. Out come a half-dozen Christmas cards to be taped to the gifts of liquor. The right hand comes out again with a wallet. The tape is run off. Money paid. The change goes back into the righthand pocket of the topcoat. Left hand, where are you?

Captain Delaney stopped, stood, remembering and suddenly laughing. It was so beautiful. The details always were. What man would carry his Christmas list, Christmas cards and wallet in the outer pocket of his topcoat? Answer: no man. Because Delaney owned a handsome, custom-made, uniform overcoat that had flapped slits just inside the pocket openings so that he could reach inside to equipment on his gun belt without unbuttoning the overcoat. During World War II he had a lined trench coat with the same convenience, and for his birthday in 1953, Barbara had given him an English raincoat with the identical feature; it could be raining cats and dogs, but you didn’t have to unbutton your coat, you just reached through those flapped slits for wallet, tickets, identification-whatever.

Sure. That’s how Dan had paid for his liquor purchase. He had reached through his topcoat pocket for the list in his jacket pocket. Through his topcoat pocket to take the wallet off his hip. Through his topcoat pocket to find, somewhere, in some jacket or trouser pocket, the addressed and sealed Christmas cards to be taped to the bottles he was sending. Beautiful.

Beautiful not because this was how Daniel G. Blank was sending Christmas gifts, but because this was how Danny Boy was killing men. Slit pockets. Left hand in pocket, through the slit, holding the ice ax handle. Coat unbuttoned. Right hand swinging free. Then, at the moment of meeting, the quick transfer of the ax to the right hand-that innocent, open, swinging right hand-and then the assault. It was slick. Oh God, was it slick.

Delaney continued his patrol. He knew, he knew, Blank would not come out again this night. But that was of no consequence. Delaney would parade until dawn. It gave him time to think things out.

Time to consider The Case of the Invisible Left Hand. What was the solution to that? Two possibilities, Delaney thought. One: The left hand was through the slit of the topcoat pocket and was actually holding the ax under the coat by its handle or leather loop. But the Captain didn’t think it likely. Dan’s coat had been open when Delaney first saw him in the brightly lighted lobby. Would he risk the doorman or another tenant glimpsing the ax beneath his open coat? From then on, the topcoat was buttoned. Why would Dan carry an ice ax beneath a buttoned coat? He obviously wasn’t on the prowl for a victim.

Possibility Two: The left hand was injured or incapacitated in some way. Or the wrist, arm, elbow, or shoulder. Danny Boy couldn’t use it normally and tucked it away into the topcoat pocket as a king of sling. Yes, that was it and it would be easy to check. Thomas Handry could do it in his interview or, better yet, when Delaney called Charles Lipsky tomorrow, he’d ask about any sign of injury to Blank’s left arm. The Captain planned to call Lipsky every day to ask if the doorman had been able to get the taxi license number of Dan’s dark, skinny girl friend.

All Delaney’s interest in a possible injury to Dan’s left arm was due, of course, to the evidence of a scuffle, a fight, at the scene of the most recent homicide. Albert Feinberg had made his killer bleed a few drops on the sidewalk. He might have done more.

What time was it? Getting on toward midnight, Delaney guessed. On a long stake-out like this he very deliberately avoided looking at his watch. Start watching the clock, and you were dead; time seemed to go backwards. When the sky lightened, when it was dawn, then he could go home and sleep. Not before.

He varied his patrol, just to keep himself alert. Three up-and-downs on the apartment side. Crossing at different corners. Stopping in the middle of the block to retrace his steps. Anything to keep from walking in a dream. But always watching the lobby entrance. If his friend came out again, he’d come through there.

He finished his sandwich but saved the remainder of the brandy for later. It must be in the low 40’s or high 30’s by now; he put on his earmuffs. They were cops’ style, connected with a strip of elastic that went entirely around his head, and they fitted snugly. No metal band clamping them to his ears. That clamp could get so cold you thought your skull was coming off.

So what was this business about right hand, left hand, and slit pockets? He knew-no doubt at all-that Daniel Blank was guilty of four homicides. But what he needed was hard evidence, good enough to take to the DA and hope for an indictment. That was the reason for the Handry interview, and the follow-ups he’d have to make on Blank’s girl friend, the boy Tony, the Mortons. They were leads that any detective would investigate. They might peter out-probably would-but one of them might, just might, pay off. Then he could nail Danny Boy and bring him to trial. And then?

Then Delaney knew exactly what would happen. Blank’s smart, expensive lawyer would cop an insanity plea-“This sick man killed four complete strangers for no reason whatsoever. I ask you, Your Honor, were those the acts of a sane man?”-and Dan would be hidden away in an acorn academy for a period of years.

It would happen, and Delaney couldn’t object too strongly; Blank was sick, no doubt of that. Hospitalization, in his case, was preferable to imprisonment. But still…Well, what was it he, Delaney, wanted? Just to get this nut out of circulation? Oh no. No. More than that.

It wasn’t only Dan’s motives he couldn’t understand; it was his own as well. His thoughts about it were nebulous; he would have to do a lot more pondering. But he knew that never in his life had he felt such an affinity for a criminal. He had a sense that if he could understand Dan, he might better understand himself.

Later in the morning, the sky lightening now, Delaney continued his patrol, swinging his arms, stamping his feet because the brandy had worn off; it was goddamned cold. He got back to the problem of Daniel G. Blank, and to his own problems.

The truth came to him slowly, without shock. Well, it was his “truth.” It was that he wanted this man dead.

What was in Daniel Blank, what was in him, what he hoped to demolish by putting Dan to death was evil, all evil. Wasn’t that it? The idea was so irrational that he could not face, could not consider it.

He looked up to the sky again; it was once again black. It had been a false dawn. He resumed his patrol, flinging his arms sideways to smack his own shoulders, slapping his feet on the pavement, shivering in the darkness.

The phone awoke him. When he looked at the bedside clock it was almost 11:00 a.m. He wondered why Mary hadn’t picked it up downstairs, then remembered it was her day off. And he had left a note for her on the kitchen table. He really hadn’t been functioning too well when he came off that patrol, but he felt okay now. He must have slept “fast”-as they said in the Army; those four hours had been as good as eight. “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

“This is Handry. I got that interview set up with Blank.”

“Good. When’s it for?”

“The day after Christmas.”

“Any trouble?”

“Noo…not exactly.”

“What happened?”

“I did just what you said, contacted the Javis-Bircham PR man. He was all for it. So I went to see him. You know the type: a big laugh and lots of teeth. I showed him my press pass but he didn’t even look at it. He’ll never check with the paper. He can’t believe anyone could con him. He’s too bright-he thinks.”

“So what went wrong?”

“Nothing went wrong…exactly. He suggested the names of four young, up-and-coming J-B executives-that’s the way he kept referring to the corporation, J-B, like IBM, GE and GM-but none of the four names was Blank’s.”

“Did you tell him you wanted to interview a guy familiar with the uses and future of the computer in business?”

“Of course. But he didn’t mention Blank. That’s odd-don’t you think?”

“Mmm. Maybe. So how did you handle it?”

“Told him I was particularly interested in AMROK II. That’s the computer mentioned in that release about Blank I dredged out of the Fink File. Remember?”

“I remember. What did he say to that?”

“Well, then, he mentioned Blank, and agreed when I said I wanted to interview him. But he wasn’t happy about it, I could tell.”

“It might be personal animosity. You know-office politics. Maybe he hates Blank’s guts and doesn’t want him to get any personal publicity.”

“Maybe,” Handry said doubtedly, “but that’s not the impression I got.”

“What impression did you get?”

“Just a crazy idea.”

“Let’s have it,” Delaney said patiently.

“That maybe Blank’s stock is falling. That maybe he hasn’t been doing a good job. That maybe the rumor is around that they’re going to get rid of him. So naturally the PR man wouldn’t want an article in the paper that says what a great genius Blank is, and a week later J-B ties a can to him. Sound crazy?”

Delaney was silent, thinking it over. “No,” he said finally, “not so crazy. In fact, it may make a lot of sense. Can you have lunch today?”

“You paying?”

“Sure.”

“Then I can have lunch today. Where and when?”

“How about that chophouse where we ate before?”

“Sure. Fine. Great ale.”

“About twelve-thirty? In the bar?”

“I’ll be there.”

The Captain went to shave. As he scraped his jaw, he thought that Handry’s impression might possibly be correct. Blank’s little hobby could be affecting his efficiency during office hours; that wasn’t hard to understand. He had been the corporation’s fairhaired boy when that Fink File release was sent out. But now they weren’t happy about his being interviewed by the press. Interesting.

Wiping away excess lather and splashing after-shave lotion on his face, Delaney decided he better brief Handry on the upcoming interview during lunch. The interview was scheduled for the day after Christmas. By that time Handry might be reporting the results to Broughton, if he wanted to. But Delaney was determined to do everything he possibly could right up to that 24-hour deadline Alinski had promised which, when the Captain left the house, was now only six hours away.

Handry ordered a broiled veal chop and draft ale. Delaney had a rye highball and steak-and-kidney pie.

“Listen,” the Captain said to the reporter “we’ve got a lot to get through, so let’s get started on it right away.”

Handry stared at him. “What’s up?” he asked.

“What’s up?” Delaney repeated, puzzled. “What do you mean, ‘What’s up’?”

“We’ve been sitting here five minutes at the most. You’ve already looked at your watch twice, and you keep fiddling with the silverware. You never did that before.”

“You should be a detective,” Delaney growled, “and go looking for clues.”

“No, thanks. Detectives lie too much, and they always answer a question with a question. Right?”

“When did I ever answer a question with a question?” Handry shook with laughter, spluttering. Finally, when he calmed down, he said: “On the way over, just before I left the office, I met a guy at the water cooler. He’s on the political side. City. He says there was a big meeting at the Mansion last night. Heavy brass. He says the rumor is that Deputy Commissioner Broughton is on the skids. Because of his flop with Operation Lombard. You know anything about that?”

“No.”

“Doesn’t affect you one way or another?”

“No.”

“All right,” Handry sighed. “Have it your own way. So, like you said, let’s get started.”

“Look,” Delaney said earnestly, leaning forward across the table on his elbows. “I’m not conning you. Sure, there are some things I’m not telling you, but they’re not mine to tell. You’ve been a great help to me. This interview with Blank is important. I don’t want you to think I’m deliberately lying to you.”

“All right, all right,” Handry said, holding up a hand. “I believe you. Now, what I’d guess you’d like to know most from this Blank interview is whether or not he’s a mountain climber, and if he owns an ice ax. Right?”

“Right,” the Captain said promptly, not bothering to mention that he had already established these facts. It was necessary that Handry continue to believe that his interview was important. “Sure, I want to know what he does at Javis-Bircham, what his job is, how many people work for him, and so on. That has to be the bulk of the interview or he’ll get suspicious. But what I really want is his personal record, his history, his background, the man himself. Can you get that?”

“Sure.”

“You can? All right, let’s suppose I’m Blank. You’re interviewing me. How do you go about it?”

Handry thought a moment, then: “Could you tell me something about your personal life, Mr. Blank? Where you were born, schools you attended-things like that.”

“What for? I thought this interview was about the installation of AMROK II and the possibilities for the computer in business?”

“Oh, it is, it is. But in these executive interviews, Mr. Blank, we always try to include a few personal items. It adds to the readability of the article and to make the man interviewed a real person.”

“Good, good,” Delaney nodded. “You’ve got the right idea. Play up to his ego. There are millions of readers out there who want to know about him, not just the job he does.”

Their food and drinks arrived, and they dug in, but Delaney wouldn’t pause.

“Here’s what I need about him,” he said, and took a deep swallow from his glass. “Where and when he was born, schools, military service, previous jobs, marital status. All right-let’s take marital status. I’m Blank again. You ask questions.”

“Are you married, Mr. Blank?” Handry asked.

“Is that important to the article?”

“Well, if you’d rather not…”

“I’m divorced. I guess it’s no secret.”

“I see. Any children?”

“No.”

“Any plans for marriage in the near future?”

“I really don’t think that has any place in your article, Mr. Handry.”

“No. You’re right. I guess not. But we have a lot of women readers, Mr. Blank-more than you’d guess-and things like that interest them.”

“You’re doing great,” Delaney said approvingly. “Actually, he’s got a girl friend, but I doubt if he’ll mention her. Now let’s rehearse the mountain climbing thing. How will you go about that?”

“Do you have any hobbies, Mr. Blank? Stamp collecting, skiing, boating, bird watching-anything like that?”

“Well…as a matter of fact, I’m a mountain climber. An amateur one, I assure you.”

“Mountain climbing? That is interesting. Where do you do that?”

“Oh…here, in the States. And in Europe.”

“Where in Europe?”

“France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria. I don’t travel as much as I’d like to, but I try to include some climbing wherever I go.”

“Fascinating sport-but expensive, isn’t it, Mr. Blank? I mean, outside the travel. I’m just asking out of personal curiosity, but don’t you need a lot of equipment?”

“Oh…not so much. Outdoor winter wear, of course. A rucksack. Crampons. Nylon rope.”

“And an ice ax?”

“No,” Delaney said definitely. “Don’t say that. If Blank doesn’t mention it, don’t you suggest it. If he’s guilty, I don’t want to alert him. Handry, this stuff could be important, very important, but don’t say anything or suggest anything that might make him think your conversation is anything but what it’s supposed to be-an interview with a young executive who works with a computer.”

“You mean if he suspects it’s not what it seems, I may be in danger.”

“Oh yes,” the Captain nodded, digging into his meat pie. “You may be.”

“Thanks a whole hell of a lot,” Handry said, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re making me feel much better about the whole thing.”

“You’ll do all right,” Delaney assured him. “You take shorthand on these interviews?”

“My own kind. Very short notes. Single words. No one else can read it. I transcribe as soon as I get home or back to the office.”

“Good. Just take it easy. From what you’ve said, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the personal history, the background. Or with the hobby of mountain climbing. But on the ice ax and his romantic affairs, don’t push. If he wants to tell you, fine. If not, drop it. I’ll get it some other way.” They each had another drink, finished their food. Neither wanted dessert, but Captain Delaney insisted they have espresso and brandy.

“That’s a great flavor,” Handry said, having taken a sip of his cognac. “You’re spoiling me. I’m used to a tuna fish sandwich for lunch.”

“Yes,” Delaney smiled. “Me, too. Oh, by the way, a couple of other little things.”

Handry put down his brandy snifter, looked at him with wonderment, shaking his head. “You’re incredible,” he said. “Now I understand why you insisted on the cognac. ‘A couple of little things?’ Like asking Blank if he’s the killer, or putting my head in the lion’s mouth at the zoo?”

“No, no,” Delaney protested. “Really little things. First of all, see if you can spot any injury to his left hand. Or wrist, arm or elbow. It might be bandaged or in a sling.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Just take a look, that’s all. See if he uses his left arm normally. Can he grip anything in his left hand? Does he hide it beneath his desk? Just observe-that’s all.”

“All right,” Handry sighed. “I’ll observe. What’s the other ‘little thing’?”

“Try to get a sample of his handwriting.”

Handry looked at him in astonishment. “You are incredible,” he said. “How in Christ’s name am I supposed to do that?”

“I have no idea,” Delaney confessed. “Maybe you can swipe something he signed. No, that’s no good. I don’t know. You think about it. You’ve got a good imagination. Just some words he’s written and his signature. That’s all I need. If you can manage it.”

Handry didn’t answer. They finished their brandy and coffee. The Captain paid the check, and they left. Outside on the sidewalk, they turned coat collars up against the winter wind. Delaney put his hand on Handry’s arm.

“I want the stuff we talked about,” he said in a low voice. “I really do. But what I want most of all are your impressions of the man. You’re sensitive to people; I know you are. How could you want to be a poet and not be sensitive to people, what they are, what they think, what they feel, who they hate, who they love? That’s what I want you to do. Talk to this man. Observe him. Notice all the little things he does-bites his fingernails, picks his nose, strokes his hair, fidgets, crosses his legs back and forth-anything and everything. Watch him. And absorb him. Let him seep into you. Who is he and what is he? Would you like to know him better? Does he frighten you, disgust you, amuse you? That’s really what I want-your feeling about him. All right?”

“All right,” Thomas Handry said.

As soon as he got home, Delaney called Barbara at the hospital. She said she had had a very good night’s sleep and was feeling much better. Monica Gilbert was there, they were having a nice visit, she liked Monica very much. The Captain said he was glad, and would come over to see her in the evening, no matter what.

“I send you a kiss,” Barbara said, and made a kissing sound on the phone.

“And I send you one,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said, and repeated the sound. What he had always considered silly sentimentality now didn’t seem silly to him at all, but meaningful and so touching he could hardly endure it.

He called Charles Lipsky. The doorman was low-voiced and cautious.

“Find anything?” he whispered.

For a moment, Delaney didn’t know what he was talking about, then realized Lipsky was referring to the previous afternoon’s search.

“No,” the Captain said. “Nothing. The girl friend been around?”

“Haven’t seen her.”

“Remember what I said; you get the license number and-”

“I remember,” Lipsky said hurriedly. “Twenty. Right?”

“Yes,” Delaney said. “One other thing, is anything wrong with Blank’s left arm? Is it hurt?”

“He was carrying it in a sling for a couple of days.”

“Was he?”

“Yeah. I asked him. He said he slipped on a little rug in his living room. His floors were just waxed. He landed on his elbow. And he hit his face on the edge of a glass table, so it was scratched up.”

“Well,” the Captain said, “they say most accidents happen in the home.”

“Yeah. But the scratches are gone and he ain’t wearing the sling no more. That worth anything?”

“Don’t get greedy,” Delaney said coldly.

“Greedy?” Lipsky said indignantly. “Who’s greedy? But one hand washes the other-right?”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” the Captain said. “You still on days?”

“Yeah. Until Christmas. Jesus, you know you was up there over an hour, and I buzzed you, and you-”

The Captain hung up. A little of Charles Lipsky went a long, long way.

He wrote up reports of his meeting with Thomas Handry and his conversation with the doorman. The only thing he deliberately omitted was his final talk with Handry on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. That exchange would mean nothing to Broughton.

It was past 4:00 p.m. when he finished putting it all down on paper. The reports were added to the Daniel G. Blank file. He wondered if he’d ever see that plump folder again. Alinski and the Anti-Group had about two more hours. Delaney didn’t want to think of what would happen if he didn’t hear from them. He’d have to deliver Blank's file to Broughton, of course, but how he’d deliver it was something he wouldn’t consider until the crunch.

He went into the living room, slipped off his shoes, lay down on the couch, intending only to relax, rest his eyes, think of happier times. But the weariness he hadn’t yet slept off, the two drinks and brandy at lunch-all caught up with him; he slept lightly and dreamed of the wife of a homicide victim he had interrogated years and years ago. “He was asking for it,” she said, and no matter what questions he put to her, that’s all she’d say: “He was asking for it, he was asking for it.”

When he awoke, the room was dark. He laced on his shoes, walked through to the kitchen before he put on a light. The wall clock showed almost 7:00 p.m. Well, it was time…Delaney opened the refrigerator door, looked for a cold can of beer to cleanse his palate and his dreams. He found it, was just peeling back the tab when the phone rang.

He walked back into the study, let the phone ring while he finished opening the beer and taking a deep swallow. Then: “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

There was no answer. He could hear loud conversation of several men, laughter, an occasional shout, the clink of bottles and glasses. It sounded like a drunken party.

“Delaney here,” he repeated.

“Edward?” It was Thorsen’s voice, slurred with drink, weariness, happiness.

“Yes. I’m here.”

“Edward, we did it. Broughton is out. We pooped him.”

“Congratulations,” Delaney said tonelessly.

“Edward, you’ve got to return to active duty. Take over Operation Lombard. Whatever you want-men, equipment, money. You name it, you’ve got it. Right?” Thorsen shouted; Delaney grimaced, held the phone away from his ear. He heard two or three voices shout, “Right!” in reply to Thorsen’s question.

“Edward? You still there?”

“I’m still here.”

“You understand? You back on active duty. Head of Operation Lombard. Whatever you need. What do you say?”

“Yes,” Captain X. Delaney said promptly.

“Yes? You said yes?”

“That’s what I said.”

“He said yes!” Thorsen screamed. Again Delaney held the phone away, hearing the loud gabble of many voices. This was fraternity house stuff, and it displeased him.

“My God, that’s great,” the Deputy Inspector said in what Delaney was sure Thorsen thought was a sober and solemn voice.

“But I want complete control,” the Captain said stonily. “Over the whole operation. No written reports. Verbal reports to you only. And-”

“Whatever you want, Edward.”

“And no press conferences, no press releases, no publicity from anyone but me.”

“Anything, Edward, anything. Just wrap it up fast. You understand? Show Broughton up for the stupid schmuck he is. He gets canned and three days later you’ve solved it. Right? Shows up the bastard.”

“Canned?” the Captain asked. “Broughton?”

“’mounts to the same thing,” Thorsen giggled. “Filed for retirement. Stupid sonofabitch. Says he’s going to run for mayor next year.”

“Is he?” Delaney said, still speaking in a dull, toneless voice. “Ivar, are you certain you’ve got this straight? I’ll take it on, but only on the conditions that I have complete control, verbal reports only to you, pick my own men, handle all the publicity personally. Is that understood?”

“Captain Delaney,” a quiet voice said, “this is Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski. I apologize, but I have been listening in on an extension. There is a certain celebration going on here.”

“I can hear it.”

“But I assure you, your conditions will be met. You will have complete control. Whatever you need. And nothing in the press or TV on Operation Lombard will come from anyone but you. Satisfactory?”

“Yes.”

“Great!” Deputy Inspector Thorsen burbled. “The Telex will go out immediately. We’ll get out a press release right away-just so we can make the late editions-that Broughton has put in for retirement and you’re taking over Operation Lombard. Is that all right, Edward? Just a short, one-paragraph release. Okay?”

“Yes. All right.”

“Your personal orders have already been cut. The Commissioner will sign them tonight.”

“You must have been very sure of me,” Delaney said.

“I wasn’t,” Thorsen laughed, “and Johnson wasn’t. But Alinski was.”

“Oh?” Delaney said coldly. “Are you there, Alinski?”

“I am here, Captain,” the soft voice came back.

“You were sure of me? That I’d take this on?”

“Yes,” Alinski said. “I was sure.”

“Why?”

“You don’t have any choice, do you, Captain?” the Deputy Mayor asked gently.

Delaney hung up, just as gently.

The first thing the Captain did was finish his beer. It helped. Not only the tang of it, the shock of coldness in his throat, but it stimulated the sudden realization of the magnitude of the job he had agreed to, the priorities, big responsibilities and small details, and the fact that “first things first” would be the only guide that might see him through. Right now, the first thing was finishing a cold beer.

“You don’t have any choice, do you, Captain?” the Deputy Mayor had asked gently.

What had he meant by that?

He switched on the desk lamp, sat down, put on his glasses, pulled the yellow, legal-lined pad toward him, began to doodle-squares, circles, lines. Rough diagrams, very rough, and random ideas expressed in arrowheads, lightning bolts, spirals.

First things first. First of the first was around-the-clock surveillance of Daniel G. Blank. Three plainclothesmen on foot and two unmarked cars of two men each should do it. Seven men. Working eight-hour shifts. That was 21 men. But a police commander with any experience at all didn’t multiply his personnel requirements by three: he multiplied by four, at least. Because men are entitled to days off, vacations, sick leave, family emergencies, etc. So the basic force watching Danny Boy was 28, and Delaney wondered if he had been too optimistic in thinking he could reduce the 500 detectives assigned to Operation Lombard by two-thirds.

That was one division: the outside force shadowing Blank. A second division would be inside, keeping records, monitoring walkie-talkie reports from the Blank guards. That meant a communications set-up. Receivers and transmitters. Somewhere. Not in the 251st Precinct house. Delaney owed Lt. Dorfman that one. He’d get Operation Lombard out of there, establish his command post somewhere else, anywhere. Isolate his men. That would help cut down leaks to the press.

A third division would be research: the suspect’s history, background, credit rating, bank accounts, tax returns, military record-anything and everything that had ever been recorded about the man. Plus interviews with friends, relatives, acquaintances, business associates. Cover stories could be concocted so Blank wasn’t alerted.

(But what if he was? That blurry idea in the back of Delaney’s mind began to take on a definite outline.)

A possible fourth division might investigate the dark, skinny girl friend, the boy Tony, the friends-what was their name? Morton. That was it. They owned the Erotica. All that might take another squad.

It was all very crude, very tentative. Just a sketching-in. But it was a beginning. He doodled on for almost an hour, starting to firm it up, thinking of what men he wanted where, who he owed favors to. Favors. “I owe you one.”

“That’s one you owe me.” The lifeblood of the Department. Of politics. Of business. Of the thrusting, scheming, rude world. Wasn’t that the rough cement that kept the whole rickety machine from falling apart? You be nice to me and I’ll be nice to you. Charles Lipsky: “One hand washes the other-right?”

It was an hour-more than that-since his conversation with Thorsen. The Telex would now be clicked out in every precinct house, detective division, and special unit in the city. Captain Delaney went up to his bedroom, stripped down to his underwear and took a “whore’s bath,” soaping hands, face and armpits with a washcloth, then drying, powdering, combing his hair carefully.

He put on his Number Ones, his newest uniform, used, so far, only for ceremonies and funerals. He squared his shoulders, pulled the blouse down tautly, made certain his decorations were aligned. He took a new cap from a plastic bag on the closet shelf, wiped the shield bright on his sleeve, set the cap squarely atop his head, the short beak pulled down almost over his eyes. The uniform was a brutal one: choker collar, shielded eyes, wide shoulders, tapered waist. Menace there.

He inspected himself in the downstairs mirror. It was not egotism. If you had never belonged to church, synagogue or mosque, you might think so. But the costume was continuing tradition, symbol, myth-whatever you like. The clothing, decorations, insignia went beyond clothing, decorations, insignia. They were, to those of the faith, belief.

He decided against an overcoat; he wouldn’t be going far. He went into the study just long enough to take the photo of Daniel G. Blank from the file and scrawl the man’s address, but not his name, on the back. He slipped the photo into his hip pocket. He left his glasses on the desk. If possible, you did not wear eyeglasses when you exercised command, or exhibit any other signs of physical infirmity. It was ridiculous, but it was so.

He locked up, marched next door to the 251st Precinct house. The Telex had obviously come through; Dorfman was standing near the sergeant’s desk, his arms folded, waiting. When he saw Delaney, he came forward at once, his long, ugly face relaxing into a grin. He held out a hand eagerly.

“Congratulations, Captain.”

“Thank you,” Delaney said, shaking his hand. “Lieutenant, I’ll have this gang out of your hair as soon as possible. A day or two at the most. Then you’ll have your house back.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Dorfman said gratefully.

“Where are they?” Delaney asked.

“Detectives’ squad room.”

“How many?”

“Thirty, forty-around there. They got the word, but they don’t know what to do.”

Delaney nodded. He walked up the old creaking stairway, past the commander’s office. The frosted glass door of the detectives’ squad room was closed. There was noise from inside, a lot of men talking at once, a buzz of confused sound, angry turbulence. The Captain opened the door, and stood there.

The majority were in plainclothes, a few in uniform. Heads turned to look at him, then more. All. The talk died down. He just stood there, looking coldly out from under the beak of his cap. They all stared at him. A few men rose grudgingly to their feet. Then a few more. Then more. He waited unmoving, watching them. He recognized a few, but his aloof expression didn’t change. He waited until they were all standing, and silent.

“I am Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he said crisply. “I am now in command. Are there any lieutenants here?”

Some of the men looked around uneasily. Finally, from the back, a voice called, “No, Captain, no lieutenants.”

“Any detective sergeants?”

A hand went up, a black hand. Delaney walked toward the raised hand, men stepping aside to let him through. He walked to the back of the room until he was facing the black sergeant, a short, heavy set man with sculpted features and what appeared to be a closely-fitted knitted cap of white wool. He was, Delaney knew, called “Pops,” and he looked like a professor of Middle English literature. Strangely enough, he had professorial talents.

“Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald,” Captain Delaney said loudly, so everyone could hear him.

“That’s right, Captain.”

“I remember. We worked together. A warehouse job over on the west side. About ten years ago.”

“More like fifteen. Captain.”

“Was it? You took one in the hip.”

“In the ass, Captain.”

There were a few snickers. Delaney knew what MacDonald was trying to do, and fed him his lines.

“In the ass?” he said. “I trust it healed, sergeant?”

The black professor shrugged. “Just one more crease, Captain,” he said. The listening men broke up, laughing and relaxing.

Delaney motioned to MacDonald. “Come with me.” The sergeant followed him out into the hallway. The Captain closed the door, shutting off most of the laughter and noise. He looked at MacDonald. MacDonald looked at him.

“It really was the hip,” Delaney said softly.

“Sure, Captain,” the sergeant agreed. “But I figured-”

“I know what you figured,” the Captain said, “and you figured right. Can you work till eight tomorrow morning?”

“If I have to.”

“You have to,” Delaney said. He drew Blank’s photo from his pocket, handed it to MacDonald. “This is the man,” he said tonelessly. “His address is on the back. You don’t have to know his name-now. It’s a block-size apartment building. Entrance and exit through a lobby on east Eighty-third. One doorman this time of night. I want three men, plain, covering the lobby. If this man comes out, I want them close to him.”

“How close?”

“Close enough.”

“So if he farts, they can smell it?”

“Not that close. But don’t let this guy out of their sight. Not for a second. If he spots them, all right. But I wouldn’t like it.”

“I understand, Captain. A crazy?”

“Something like that. Just don’t play him for laughs. He’s not a nice boy.”

The sergeant nodded.

“And two cars. Two men each, in plain. At both ends of the block. In case he takes off. He’s got a black Chevy Stingray in the underground garage, or he might take a cab. Got all that?”

“Sure, Captain.”

“You know Shakespeare and Lauder?”

“The ‘Gold Dust Twins?’ I know Lauder.”

“I’d like them in one of the cars. If they’re not on duty, any good men will do. That makes seven men. You pick six more, three in plain and three in uniform, and have them stand by here until eight tomorrow morning. Everyone else can go home. But everyone back by eight tomorrow, and anyone else you can reach by phone or who calls in. Got it?”

“Where do you want me, Captain?”

“Right here. I’ve got to go out for an hour or so, but I’ll be back. We’ll have some coffee together and talk about that extra crease in your ass.”

“Sounds like a jolly night.”

Delaney looked at him a long time. They had started in the Department the same year, had been in the same Academy class. Now Delaney was a captain, and MacDonald was a sergeant. It wasn’t a question of ability. Delaney wouldn’t mention what it was, and MacDonald never would either.

“What’s Broughton had you on?” he asked the sergeant finally.

“Rousting street freaks,” MacDonald said.

“Shit,” Delaney said disgustedly.

“My sentiments exactly, Captain,” the sergeant said.

“Well, lay it all on,” the Captain said. “I’ll be back in an hour or so. Your men should be in position by then. The sooner, the better. Show them that photo, but you hang onto it. It’s the only one I’ve got. I’ll have copies run off tomorrow.”

“Is he it, Captain?” Detective sergeant MacDonald asked.

Delaney shrugged. “Who knows?” he said.

He turned, walked away. He was at the staircase when the sergeant called softly: “Captain.” He turned around.

“Good to be working with you again, sir,” MacDonald said.

Delaney smiled faintly but didn’t answer. He walked down the stairway thinking of Broughton’s stupidity in using MacDonald to pull in street freaks. MacDonald! One of the best professors in the Department. No wonder those forty men had been sour and grumbling. It wasn’t that Broughton hadn’t kept them busy, but he had misused their individual abilities and talents. No one could take that for long without losing drive, ambition, even interest in what he was doing. And what was he, Delaney? What were his abilities and talents? He waved a hand in answer to the desk sergeant’s salute as he walked out. He’knew what he was. He was a cop.

He would have commandeered a squad car, but there was none around. So he walked over to Second Avenue, got a cab heading downtown. He walked into the hospital and, for once, the white tiled walls and the smell couldn’t depress him. Wait until Barbara heard!

Then he pushed open the door of her room. There was a nurses’ aide sitting alongside the bed. Barbara appeared to be sleeping. The aide motioned to him, beckoning him outside into the corridor.

“She’s had a bad evening,” she whispered. “Earlier it took two of us to hold her down, and we had to give her something. Doctor said it would be all right.”

“Why?” the Captain demanded. “What is it? Is it the new drug?”

“You’ll have to ask doctor,” the aide said primly. Delaney wondered again, in despair, why they always just said “doctor.” Never “the doctor.”

“You have to consult engineer.”

“You’ll have to talk to architect.”

“You’ll have to discuss that with lawyer.” It made the same sense, and it all made no sense whatever.

“I’ll sit with her awhile,” Delaney told the aide. She was so young; he couldn’t blame her. Who could he blame?

She nodded brightly. “Tell me when you leave. Unless she’s asleep by then.”

“She’s not asleep now?”

“No. Her eyes are closed, but she’s awake. If you need any help, ring the bell or call.”

She walked away quickly, leaving him wondering what help he might need. He went softly back into the hospital room, still wearing his uniform cap. He pulled a chair over to Barbara’s bedside, sat looking at her. She did seem to be sleeping; her eyes were shut tight, she was breathing deeply and regularly. But, while he watched, her eyelids flicked open, she stared at the ceiling.

“Barbara?” he called gently. “Darling?”

Her eyes moved, but her head didn’t turn. Her eyes moved to look at him, into him, through him, not seeing him.

“Barbara, it’s Edward. I’m here. I have so much to tell you, dear. So much has happened.”

“Honey Bunch?” she said.

“It’s Edward, dear. I have a lot to tell you. A lot has happened.”

“Honey Bunch?” she said.

He found the books in the metal taboret alongside her bed. He took the top one, not even glancing at the title, and opened it at random. Not having his glasses, he had to hold the book almost at arm’s length. But the type was large, there was good white space between the lines.

Sitting upright in his Number One uniform, gleaming cap squarely atop his head, the commander of Operation Lombard began reading:

“Honey Bunch picked her nasturtiums that morning and she gave away her first bouquet. That is always a lovely garden experience-to give away your first bouquet. Of course Honey Bunch gave hers to Mrs. Lancaster and the little old lady said that she would take the flowers home and put them in water and make them last as long as possible.

“ ‘Haven’t you any garden at all?’ asked Honey Bunch. ‘Just a little one?’

“ ‘No garden at all,’ replied the old lady sadly. ‘This is the first year I can remember that I haven’t had a piece of ground to do with as…’ ”