The 1st Deadly Sin

5

He slept when he could, but it wasn’t much: perhaps four or five hours a night. But, to his surprise and pleasure, it didn’t slow him down. Within three days he had it all organized. It was functioning.

He took Lt. Jeri Fernandez out of the Garment Center division he hated, put him in command of the squad shadowing Daniel Blank. Delaney let him select his own spooks; the “Invisible Man” almost wept with gratitude. It was exactly the kind of job he loved, that he did best. It was his idea to borrow a Consolidated Edison van and tear up a section of East 83rd Street near the driveway leading to Blank’s apartment house. Fernandez’ men wore Con Ed uniforms and hard hats, and worked slowly on the hole they dug in the pavement. It played hell with traffic, but the van was filled with communication gear and weapons, and served as Fernandez’ command post. Delaney was delighted. Fuck the traffic jams.

For “Mr. Inside,” the Captain requisitioned Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship, the man who had handled the two original beefs on Daniel Blank. Working together closely, Delaney and Blankenship transferred the command post of Operation Lombard from the 251st Precinct house to the living room of Delaney’s home, next door. It wasn’t as spacious as they would have liked, but it had its advantages; the communications men could run wires out the window, up to Delaney’s roof, then across to tie in with the antennae on the precinct house roof.

Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald, “Pops,” was Delaney’s choice to head up the research squad, and MacDonald was happy. He got as much pleasure from an afternoon of sifting through dusty documents as another man might get in an Eighth Avenue massage parlor. Within 24 hours his men had compiled a growing dossier on Daniel G. Blank, taking him apart, piece by piece.

Captain Delaney appreciated the unpaid labors of his amateurs, but he couldn’t deny the advantages and privileges of being on active duty, in official command, with all the resources of the Department behind him, and a promise of unlimited men, equipment, funds.

Item: A tap was put on the home telephone of Daniel Blank. It was installed in the central telephone office servicing his number.

Item: The next day’s call to Charles Lipsky had resulted in the time of departure and license number of a cab picking up Blank’s dark-haired girl friend at his apartment house. Delaney told Blankenship what he wanted. Within three hours the license number had been traced, the fleet identified, and a dick was waiting in the garage for the driver to return. His trip sheet was checked, and the Captain had the address where the cab had dropped her off. One of Fernandez’ boys went over to check it; it turned out to be a townhouse on East End Avenue. After consultation with the lieutenant, Delaney decided to establish surveillance: one plainclothesman around-the-clock. Fernandez suggested detailing a two-man team to comb the neighborhood, to learn what they could about that house.

“It’s an expensive section,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Lots of VIP’s around there. Tell them to walk softly.”

“Sure, Captain.”

“And lots of servants. You got a good-looking black who could cuddle up to some of the maids and cooks on the street?”

“Just the man!” Fernandez said triumphantly. “A big, handsome stud. He don’ walk, he glides. And smart as a whip. We call him ‘Mr. Clean.’”

“Sounds good,” the Captain nodded. “Turn him loose and see what he can come up with.”

He then put on his civilian clothes, went over to Blank’s apartment house to slip Lipsky his twenty dollars. The doorman thanked him gratefully.

Item: An hour later, Blankenship handed him the trace on Charles Lipsky. As Delaney had suspected, the man had a sheet. As a matter of fact, he was on probation, having been found guilty of committing a public nuisance, in that he did “with deliberate and malicious intent,” urinate on the hood of a parked Bentley on East 59th Street.

Item: Christopher Langley called to report he had completed a list of all retail outlets of the West German ice ax in the U.S. With his new authority, Delaney was able to dispatch a squad car to go up to Langley’s, pick up the list, bring it back to the command post. The list was assigned to one of Detective sergeant MacDonald’s research men and, on the phone, he struck gold with his first call. Daniel G. Blank had purchased such an ax five years ago from Alpine Haven, a mail order house in Stamford, Conn., that specialized in mountaineering gear. A man was immediately sent to Stamford to bring back a photostatic copy of the sales check made out to Daniel G. Blank.

Item: Fernandez’ men, particularly “Mr. Clean,” made progress on that East End Avenue townhouse. At least, they now had the names of the residents: Celia Montfort, Blank’s dark, thin girl friend; her young brother Anthony; a houseman named Valenter; and a middle-aged housekeeper. The names were turned over to MacDonald; the professor set up a separate staff to check them out.

During these days and nights of frantic activity, in the week before Christmas, Captain Delaney took time out to perform several personal chores. He gave Mary her Christmas gift early and, in addition, two weeks’ vacation. Then he brought in an old uniformed patrolman, on limited duty, waiting for retirement, and told him to buy a 20-cup coffee urn and keep it going 24 hours a day in the kitchen; to keep the refrigerator filled with beer, cold cuts, cheese; and have enough bread and rolls on hand so anyone in Operation Lombard coming off a cold night’s watch, or just stopping by during the day to report, would be assured of a sandwich and a drink.

He ordered folding cots, pillows and blankets brought in, and they were set up in the living room, hallway, kitchen, dining room-any place except in his study. They were in use almost constantly. Men who lived out on Long Island or up in Westchester sometimes preferred to sleep in, rather than make the long trip home, eat, sleep a few hours, turn around and come right back again.

He also found time to call his amateurs, wish them a Merry Christmas, thank them, for their help and support and tell them as gently as he could, that their efforts were no longer needed. He assured them their aid had been of invaluable assistance in developing a “very promising lead.”

He did this on the phone to Christopher Langley and Calvin Case. He took Monica Gilbert to lunch and told her as much as he felt she should know: that partly through her efforts, he had a good chance to nail the killer but, because of the press of work, he wouldn’t be able to call her or see her as often as he’d like. She was understanding and sympathetic.

“But take care of yourself,” she entreated. “You look so tired.”

“I feel great,” he protested. “Sleep like a baby.”

“How many hours?”

“Well…as much as I can.”

“And you have regular, nourishing meals, I’m sure,” she said sardonically.

He laughed. “I’m not starving,” he assured her. “With luck, this may be over soon. One way or another. Are you still visiting Barbara?”

“Almost every day. You know, we’re so dissimilar, but we have so much in common.”

“Do you? That’s good. I feel so guilty about Barbara. I dash in and dash out. Just stay long enough to say hello. But she’s been through this before. She’s a cop’s wife.”

“Yes. She told me.”

Her sad voice gave him a sudden, vague ache, of something he should have done but did not do. But he couldn’t think about it now.

“Thank you for visiting Barbara and liking her,” he said. “Did I tell you we’re now grandparents?”

“Barbara did. Mazeltov.”

“Thank you. An ugly little boy.”

“Barbara told me,” she repeated. “But don’t worry; within six months he’ll be a beautiful little boy.”

“Sure.”

“Did you send a gift?”

“Well…I really didn’t have time. But I did talk to Liza and her husband on the phone.”

“It’s all right. Barbara sent things. I picked them out for her and had them sent.”

“That was very kind of you.” He rubbed his chin, felt the bristle, realized he had neglected to shave that morning. That was no good. He had to present the image of a well-groomed, crisply uniformed, confident commander to his men. It was important.

“Edward,” she said, in a low voice, with real concern, “are you all right?”

“Of course I’m all right,” he said stonily. “I’ve been through things like this before.”

“Please don’t be angry with me.”

“I’m not angry. Monica. I’m all right. I swear it. I could be sleeping more and eating better, but it’s not going to kill me.

“You seem so-so wound up. This is important to you, isn’t it?”

“Important? That I nail this guy? Of course it’s important to me. Isn’t it to you? He killed your husband.”

She flinched at his brutality. “Yes,” she said faintly, “it’s important to me. But I don’t like what it’s doing to you.”

He wouldn’t think of what she had said, or what she had meant. First things first.

“I’ve got to get back,” he said, and signaled for a check.

During that wild week he found time for two more personal jobs. Still not certain in his mind why he was doing it, he selected the business card of a certain J. David McCann, representative of something called the Universal Credit Union. Wearing his stiff Homburg and floppy civilian overcoat, he walked into the effete, scented showroom of the Erotica on Madison Avenue and asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Morton, hoping neither would recognize him as the former commander of the precinct in which they lived and worked.

He spoke to both in their backroom office. Neither glommed him; he realized that except for members of business associations, VIP’s, community groups and social activists, the average New Yorker hadn’t the slightest idea of the name or appearance of the man who commanded the forces of law and order in his precinct. An ego-deflating thought.

Delaney took off his hat, bowed, presented his phony business card, did everything but tug his forelock.

“I’m not selling anything,” he said ingratiatingly. “Just a routine credit investigation. Mr. Daniel G. Blank has applied for a loan and given us your names as references. We just want to make sure you actually do know him.”

Flo looked at Sam. Sam looked at Flo.

“Of course we know him,” Sam said, almost angrily. “A very good friend.”

“Known him for years,” Flo affirmed. “Lives in the same apartment house we do.”

“Mm-hmm,” Delaney nodded. “A man of good character, you’d say? Dependable? Honest? Trustworthy?”

“A Boy Scout,” Sam assured him. “What the hell’s this all about?”

“You mentioned a loan,” Flo said. “What kind of a loan? How big?”

“Well…I really shouldn’t reveal these details,” Delaney said in soft confidential tones, “but Mr. Blank has applied for a rather large mortgage covering the purchase of a townhouse on East End Avenue.”

The Mortons looked at each other in astonishment. Then to Delaney’s interest, they broke into pleased smiles.

“Celia’s house!” Sam shouted, smacking his thighs. “He’s buying her place!”

“It’s on!” Flo screamed, hugging her arms. “They’re really getting together!”

Captain Delaney nodded at both, snatched his business card back from Sam’s fingers, replaced his Homburg, started from the office.

“Wait, wait, wait,” Sam called. “You don’t mind if we tell him you were here?”

“That you were checking up?” Flo asked. “You don’t mind if we kid him about it?”

“Of course not,” Captain Delaney smiled. “Please do.”

On the second call he wore the same clothes, used the same business card. But this time he had to sit on his butt in an overheated outer office for almost a half-hour before he was allowed to see Mr. Rene Horvath, Personnel Director of the Javis-Bircham Corp. Eventually he was ushered into the inner sanctum where Mr. Horvath inspected the Captain’s clothing with some distaste. As well he might; he himself was wearing a black raw silk suit, a red gingham plaid shirt with stiff white collar and cuffs, a black knitted tie. What Delaney liked most, he decided, were the black crinkle-patent leather moccasins with bright copper pennies inserted into openings on the top flaps. Exquisite.

Delaney went through the same routine he used with the Mortons, varying it to leave out any mention of a mortgage on a townhouse, saying only that Mr. Daniel G. Blank had applied for a loan, and that he, Mr. J. David McCann-“My card, sir”-and the Universal Credit Union were simply interested in verifying that Mr. Blank was indeed, as he claimed to be, employed by Javis-Bircham Corp.

“He is,” the elegant Mr. Horvath said, handing back the soiled business card with a look that suggested it might be a carrier of VD. “Mr. Daniel Blank is presently employed by this company.”

“In a responsible capacity?”

“Very responsible.”

“I suppose you’d object to giving me a rough idea of Mr. Blank’s annual income?”

“You suppose correctly.”

“Mr. Horvath, I assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence. Would you say that Mr. Blank is honest, dependable, and trustworthy?”

Horvath’s pinched face closed up even more. “Mr. McClosky-”

“McCann.”

“Mr. McCann, all J-B executives are honest, dependable and trustworthy.”

Delaney nodded, replaced the Homburg on his big head. “Thank you for your time, sir. I certainly do appreciate it. Just doing my job-I hope you realize that.”

“Naturally.”

Delaney turned away, but suddenly a squid hand was on his arm, gripping limply.

“Mr. McCann…”

“Yes?”

“You said Mr. Blank has applied for a loan?”

“Yes, sir.”

“How large a loan?”

“That I am not allowed to say sir. But you’ve been so cooperative that I can tell you it’s a very large loan.”

“Oh?” said Mr. Horvath. “Hmm,” said Mr. Horvath, staring at the bright pennies inserted into his moccasin tongues. “That’s very odd. Javis-Bircham, Mr. McCann, has its own loan program for all employees, from cafeteria busboy to Chairman of the Board. They can draw up to five thousand dollars, interest-free, and pay it back by salary deductions over a period of several years. Why didn’t Mr. Blank apply for a company loan?”

“Oh well,” Delaney laughed merrily, “you know how it is; everyone gets caught by the shorts sooner or later-right? And I guess he wanted to keep it private.”

He left a very perturbed Mr. Rene Horvath behind him, and he thought, if Handry’s impression was right and Blank’s position with the company was shaky, it was shakier now.

In that week before Christmas, while the Delaney’s living room furniture was being pushed back to the walls, deal tables and folding chairs brought in, cots set up, and communications men were still fiddling with their equipment, including three extra telephone lines, a “council of war” was scheduled every afternoon at 3:00 p.m. It was held in the Captain’s study where the doors could be closed and locked. Attending were Captain Delaney, Lt. Jeri Fernandez, Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship, and Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald. Delaney’s liquor cabinet was open or, if they preferred, there was cold beer or hot coffee from the kitchen.

The first few meetings were concerned mostly with planning, organization, division of responsibility, choice of personnel, chain of command. Then, as information began to come in, they spent part of their time discussing the “Time-Habit Charts” compiled by Blankenship’s squad. They were extremely detailed tabulations of Daniel Blank’s daily routine: the time he left for work, his route, time of arrival at the Javis-Bircham Building, when he left for lunch, where he usually went, time of arrival back at the office, departure time, arrival at home, when he departed in the evening, where he went, how long he stayed. By the end of the fourth day, his patterns were pretty well established. Daniel Blank appeared to be a disciplined and orderly man.

Problems came up, were hashed out. Delaney listened to everyone’s opinion. Then, after the discussion, he made the final decision.

Question: Should an undercover cop, with the cooperation of the management, be placed in Daniel Blank’s apartment house as a porter, doorman, or whatever? Delaney’s decision: No.

Question: Should an undercover cop be placed in Javis-Bircham, as close to Blank’s department as as he could get? Delaney’s decision: Yes. It was assigned to Fernandez to work out as best he could a cover story that might seem plausible to the J-B executives he’d be dealing with.

Question: Should a Time-Habit Chart be set up for the residents of that townhouse on East End Avenue? Delaney’s decision: No, with the concurring opinions of all three assistants.

“It’s a screwy household,” MacDonald admitted. “We can’t get a line on them. This Valenter, the butler-or whatever you want to call him-has a sheet on molesting juvenile males. But no convictions. But that’s all I’ve got so far.”

“I don’t have much more,” Fernandez confessed. “The dame-this Celia Montfort-was admitted twice to Mother of Mercy Hospital for suicide attempts. Slashed wrists, and once her stomach had to be pumped out. We’re checking other hospitals, but nothing definite yet.”

“The kid seems to be a young fag,” Blankenship said, “but no one’s given me anything yet that makes a pattern. Like Pops said, it’s a weird set-up. I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on over there. Nothing we can chart, anyway. She’s in, she’s out, at all hours of the day and night. She was gone for two days. Where was she? We don’t know and won’t until we put a special tail on her. Captain?”

“No,” Delaney said. “Not yet. Keep at it.”

Keep at it. Keep at it. That’s all they heard from him, and they did because he seemed to know what he was doing, radiated an aura of confidence, never appeared to doubt that if they all kept at it, they’d nail this psycho and the killings would stop.

Daniel G. Blank. Captain Delaney knew his name, and now the others did, too. Had to. The men on the street, in the Con Ed van, in the unmarked cars adopted, by common consent, the code name “Danny Boy” for the man they watched. They had his photo now, reprinted by the hundreds, they knew his home address and shadowed his comings and goings. But they were told only that he was a “suspect.”

Sometime during that week, Captain Delaney could never recall later exactly when, he scheduled his first press conference. It was held in the now empty detectives’ squad room of the 251st Precinct house. There were reporters from newspapers, magazines, local TV news programs. The cameras were there, too, and the lights were hot. Captain Delaney wore his Number Ones and delivered, from memory, a brief statement he had labored over a long time the previous evening.

“My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he started, standing erect, staring into the TV cameras, hoping the sweat on his face didn’t show. “I have been assigned command of Operation Lombard. This case, as you all know, involves the apparently unconnected homicides of four men: Frank Lombard, Bernard Gilbert, Detective Roger Kope, and Albert Feinberg. I have spent several days going through the records of Operation Lombard during the time it was commanded by former Deputy Commissioner Broughton. There is nothing in that record that might possibly lead to the indictment, conviction, or even identification of a suspect. It is a record of complete and utter failure.”

There was a gasp from the assembled reporters; they scribbled furiously. Delaney didn’t change expression, but he was grinning inwardly. Did Broughton really think he could talk to Delaney the way he had and not pay for it, eventually? The Department functioned on favors. It also functioned on vengeance. Run for mayor, would he? Lots of luck, Broughton!

“So,” Captain Delaney continued, “because there is such a complete lack of evidence in the files of Operation Lombard while it was under the command of former Deputy Commissioner Broughton, I am starting from the beginning, with the death of Frank Lombard, and intend to conduct a totally new investigation into the homicides of all four men. I promise you nothing, I prefer to be judged by my acts rather than by my words. This is the first and last press conference I intend to hold until I either have the killer or am relieved of command. I will not answer any questions.”

An hour after this brief interview, shown in its entirety, appeared on local TV news programs, Captain Delaney received a package at his home. It was brought into his study by one of the uniformed patrolmen on guard duty at the outside door-a 24-hour watch. No one went in or out without showing a special pass Delaney had printed up, issued only to bona fide members of Operation Lombard. The patrolman placed the package on Delaney’s desk.

“Couldn’t be a bomb, could it, Captain?” he asked anxiously. “You was on TV tonight, you know.”

“I know,” the Captain nodded. He inspected the package, then picked it up gingerly. He tilted it gently, back and forth. Something sloshed.

“No,” he said to the nervous officer, “I don’t think it’s a bomb. But you did well to suggest it. You can return to your post.”

“Yes, sir,” the young patrolman said, saluted and left.

Handsome, Delaney thought, but those sideburns were too goddamned long.

He opened the package. It was a bottle of 25-year-old brandy with a little envelope taped to the side. Delaney opened the bottle and sniffed; first things first. He wanted to taste it immediately. Then he opened the sealed envelope. A stiff card. Two words: “Beautiful” and “Alinski.”

The mood of the “war councils” changed imperceptibly in the three days before Christmas. It was obvious they now had a working, efficient organization. Danny Boy was blanketed by spooks every time he stepped outside home or office. Blankenship’s bookkeeping and communications were beyond reproach. Detective sergeant MacDonald’s snoops had built up a file on Blank that took up three drawers of a locked cabinet in Delaney’s study. It included the story of his refusal to attend his parents’ funeral and a revealing interview with a married woman in Boston who agreed to give her impressions of Daniel Blank while he was in college, under the cover story that Blank was being considered for a high-level security government job. Her comments were damning, but nothing that could be presented to a grand jury. Blank’s ex-wife had remarried and was presently on an around-the-world honeymoon cruise.

During those last three days before Christmas, the impression was growing amongst Delaney’s assistants-he could feel the mood-that they were amassing a great deal of information about Daniel G. Blank-a lot of it fascinating and libidinous reading-but it amounted to a very small hill of beans. The man had a girl friend. So? Maybe he was or was not sleeping with her brother, Tony. So? He came out occasionally at odd hours, wandered about the streets, looked in shop windows, stopped in at The Parrot for a drink. So?

“Maybe he’s on to us,” Blankenship. “Maybe he knows the decoys are out every night, and he’s being tailed.”

“Can’t be,” Fernandez growled angrily. “No way. He don’ even see my boys. As far as he’s concerned, we don’ exist.”

“I don’t know what else we can do,” MacDonald confessed. “We’ve got him sliced up so thin I can see right through him. Birth certificate, diplomas, passport, bank statements-everything. You’ve seen the file. The man’s laid out there, bareassed naked. Read the file and you’ve got him. Sure, maybe he’s a psychopath, capable of killing I guess. He’s a cold, smart, slick sonofabitch. But take him into court on what we’ve got? Uh-uh. Never. That’s my guess.”

“Keep at it,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said.

Things slowed down on Christmas Eve. That was natural, men wanted to be home with their families. Squads were cut to a minimum (mostly bachelors or volunteers), and men sent home early. Delaney spent that quiet afternoon in his study, reading once again through his original Daniel G. Blank file and the great mass of material assembled by Pops and his squad who seemed to get their kicks sifting through dusty documents, military records, tax returns.

He read it all once more, sipping slowly from a balloon glass of that marvelous brandy Alinski had sent. He would have to call the Deputy Mayor to thank him, or perhaps mail a thank-you note, but meanwhile Alinski’s envelope was added to the stack of unopened Christmas cards and presents that had accumulated in a corner of the study. He’d get to them, eventually, or take them over to Barbara when she was well enough to open them and enjoy them.

So he sipped brandy through a long Christmas Eve afternoon (the usual conference had been cancelled). As he read, the belief grew in him that the chilling of Danny Boy would come about through the man’s personality, not by any clever police work, the discovery of a “clue,” or by a sudden revelation of friend or lover.

Who was Daniel G. Blank? Who was he? MacDonald had said he was sliced thin, that he was laid out in that file bareassed naked. No, Delaney thought, just the facts of the man’s life were there. But no one is a simple compilation of official documents, of interviews with friends and acquaintances, of Time-Habit schedules. The essential question remained: Who was Daniel G. Blank?

Delaney was fascinated by him because he seemed to be two men. He had been a cold, lonely boy who grew up in what apparently had been a loveless home. No record of juvenile delinquency. He was quiet, collected rocks and, until college, didn’t show any particular interest in girls. Then he refused to attend his parents’ funeral. That seemed significant to Delaney. How could anyone, no matter how young, do a thing like that? There was a callous brutality about it that was frightening.

Then there was his marriage-what was it Lipsky had called her? A big zoftig blonde-the divorce, the girl friend with a boy’s body, then possibly the boy himself, Tony. And meanwhile the sterile apartment with mirrors, the antiseptic apartment with silk bikini underwear and scented toilet paper. And according to one of MacDonald’s beautifully composed and sardonic reports, a fast climb up the corporate ladder.

Delaney went back to an interview one of MacDonald’s snoops had with a man named Robert White who had been Blank’s immediate superior at Javis-Bircham. He had, from all the evidence and statements available, been knifed and ousted by Daniel Blank. The interview with White had been made under the cover story that Blank was being considered for a high executive position with a corporation competing with J-B.

“He’s a nice lad,” Bob White had stated (“Possibly under the influence of alcohol,” the interrogating detective had noted carefully in his report). “He’s talented. Lots of imagination. Too much maybe. But he gets the job done: I’ll say that for him. But no blood. You understand? No fucking blood.”

Captain Delaney stared up at the ceiling. “No fucking blood.” What did that mean? Who was Daniel G. Blank? Of such complexity…Disgusting and fascinating. Courage-no doubt about that; he climbed mountains and he killed. Kind? Of course. He objected when he saw a man hit a dog, and he kept sentimental souvenirs of the men he murdered. Talented and imaginative? Well, his previous boss had said so. Talented and imaginative enough to fuck a 30-year-old woman and her 12-year-old brother, but Delaney didn’t suppose Bob White knew anything about that!

Who was Dan?

Captain Delaney rose to his feet, brandy glass in hand, about to propose a toast: “Here’s to you, Danny Boy,” when there was a knock on his study door. He sat down sedately behind his desk.

“Come in,” he called.

Lt. Jeri Fernandez stuck his head through the opened door.

“Busy, Captain?” he asked. “Got a few minutes?”

“Of course, of course,” Delaney gestured. “Come on in. Got some fine brandy here. How about it?”

“Ever know me to refuse?” Fernandez asked in mock seriousness, and they both laughed.

Then Delaney was in his swivel chair, swinging back and forth gently, holding his glass, and Fernandez was in the leather club chair. The lieutenant sipped the brandy, said nothing, but his eyes rolled to Heaven in appreciation.

“Thought you’d be home by now,” the Captain said.

“On my way. Just making sure everything’s copasetic.”

“I know I’ve told you this before, lieutenant, but I’ll say it again: tell your boys not to relax, not for a second. This monkey is fast.”

Fernandez hunched over in the club chair, leaning forward, head lowered, moving the brandy snifter between his palms.

“Faster than a thirty-eight, Captain?” he asked in a voice so low that Delaney wasn’t sure he heard him.

“What?” he demanded.

“Is this freak faster than a thirty-eight?” Fernandez repeated. This time he raised his head, looked directly into Delaney’s eyes.

The Captain rose immediately, went to the study doors, closed them and locked them, then came back to sit behind his desk again.

“What’s on your mind?” he asked quietly, looking directly at Fernandez.

“Captain, we been at this for-how long? Over a week now. Almost ten days. We got this Danny Boy covered six ways from Sunday. You keep calling him a ‘suspect.’ But I notice we’re not out looking for other suspects, digging into anyone else. Everything we do is about this guy Blank.”

“So?” Delaney said coldly.

“So,” Fernandez sighed, looking down at his glass, “I figure maybe you know something we don’ know, something you’re not telling us.” He held up a hand hastily, palm out. “This isn’t a beef, Captain. If there’s something we don’ have to know, that’s your right and privilege. Just thought-maybe-you might be sure of this guy but can’t collar him. For some reason. No witnesses. No evidence that’ll hold up. Whatever. But I figure you know it’s him. Know it!”

The Captain resumed his slow swinging back and forth in his swivel chair. “Supposing,” he said, “just supposing, mind you, that you’re right, that I know as sure as God made little green apples that Blank is our pigeon, but we can’t touch him. What do you suggest then?”

Fernandez shrugged. “Supposing,” he said, “just supposing that’s the situation, then I can’t see us collaring Danny Boy unless we grab him in the act. And if he’s as fast as you say he is, we’ll have another stiff before we can do that. Right?”

Delaney nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I’ve thought of that. So what’s your answer?”

Fernandez took a sip of brandy, then looked up.

“Let me take him, Captain,” he said softly.

Delaney set his brandy glass on the desk blotter, poured himself another small portion of that ambrosia, then carried the bottle over to Fernandez and added to his snifter. He returned to his swivel chair, set the bottle down, began to drum gently on his desk top with one hand, watching the moving fingers,

“You?” he asked Fernandez. “You alone?”

“No. I got a friend. The two-”

“A friend?” Delaney said sharply, looking up. “In the Department?”

The lieutenant was astonished. “Of course in the Department. Who’s got any friends outside the Department?”

“All right,” Delaney nodded. “How would you handle it?”

“The usual,” Fernandez shrugged. “We go up to his apartment and roust him. He resists arrest and tries to escape, so we ice him. Clean and simple and neat.”

The Captain sighed, shook his head. “It doesn’t listen,” he said.

“Captain, it’s been done before.”

“Goddamn it, don’t try to tell me my business,” Delaney shouted furiously. “I know it’s been done before. But we do it your way, and we all get pooped.”

He jerked to his feet, unbuttoned his uniform jacket, jammed his hands in his hip pockets. He began to pace about the study, not glancing at Fernandez as he talked.

“Look, lieutenant,” he said patiently, “this guy is no alley cat with a snoot full of shit, that no one cares if he lives or dies. Bum a guy like that, and he’s just a number in a potter’s field. But Danny Boy is somebody. He’s rich, he lives in a luxury apartment house, drives an expensive car, works for a big corporation. He’s got friends, influential friends. Chill him, and people are going to ask questions. And we better have the answers. If it’s done at all, it’s got to be done right.”

Fernandez opened his mouth to speak, but Delaney held up a hand. “Wait a minute. Let me finish. Now let’s take your plan. You and your friend go up to brace him. How you going to get inside his apartment? I happen to know that guy’s got more locks on his door than you’ll find in a Tombs’ cellblock. You think you’ll knock, say, ‘Police officers,’ and he’ll open up and let you in? The hell he will; he’s too smart for that. He’ll look at you through the peephole and talk to you through the locked door.”

“Search warrant?” Fernandez suggested.

“Not a chance,” Delaney shook his head. “Forget it.”

“Then how about this: One of us goes up and waits outside his door, before he gets home from work. The other guy waits in the lobby until he comes in and rides up in the elevator with him. Then we got him in his hallway between us.”

“And then what?” the Captain demanded. “You weight him right there in the corridor, while he’s between you, and then claim he was trying to escape or resisting arrest? Who’d buy that?”

“Well…” Fernandez said doubtfully, “I guess you’re right. But there’s got to-”

“Shut up a minute and let me think,” Delaney said. “Maybe we can work this out.”

The lieutenant was silent then, sipping a little brandy, his bright eyes following the Captain as he lumbered about the room.

“Look,” Delaney said, “there’s a doorman over there. Guy named Charles Lipsky. He’s got access to duplicate keys to every apartment in the building. They hang on a board outside the assistant manager’s office. This Lipsky’s got a sheet. As a matter of fact, he’s on probation, so you can lean on him. Now…you hear on the radio that Danny Boy has left work and is heading home. You and your friend get the keys from Lipsky, go upstairs and get inside Blank’s apartment. Then you relock the door from the inside. So when he comes home, unlocks his door and marches in, you’re already in there.”

“I like it,” Fernandez grinned.

“When the time comes I’ll draw you a floor plan so you’ll know where to be when he comes in. Then you-”

“A floor plan?” the lieutenant interrupted. “But how-”

“Just don’t worry about it. Don’t even think about it. When the time comes, you’ll have a floor plan. But you give him time to get inside before you show yourselves. Maybe even give him time to relock his door so he can’t make a fast run for it. He’s sure to relock once he’s inside his apartment; that’s the kind of a guy he is. Then you show yourselves. Now here’s where it begins to get cute. Can you get hold of a piece that can’t be traced?”

“Oh sure. No trouble.”

“What is it?”

“A Saturday-night special.”

The Captain took a deep breath, blew it out in an audible sigh.

“Lieutenant,” he said gently, “Danny Boy makes fifty-five big ones a year, drives a Stingray, and wears silk underwear. Do you really think he’s the kind of guy who’d own a piece of crap like that? What else can you get?”

The “Invisible Man” thought a moment, his teeth clenched. “A nine-millimeter Luger,” he said finally. “Brand-new. Right off the docks. Never been used. Still in the oiled envelope.”

“What kind of grips.”

“Wood.”

“Yesss…” Delaney said thoughtfully. “He might own a gun like that. But the brand-new part is no good. It’ll have to have at least three magazines fired through with a complete breakdown and cleaning between firings. Can you manage that?”

“No sweat, Captain.”

“And it’s got to be banged up a little. Not a lot. A few nicks on the grips. A little scratch here and there. You understand?”

“Like he’s owned it for a long time?”

“Right. And took it on those mountain climbing trips of his to plink at tin cans or some such shit. Now here’s something else: keep the box or envelope it came in, get the right cleaning tools and some oil-soaked rags. You know, the usual crap. This stuff you turn over to me.”

“To you, Captain?”

“Yes, to me. All right, now you and your buddy are inside the apartment, and the door is locked. You’ve both got your service revolvers, and one of you has also got the used Luger. It’s loaded. Full magazine. As soon as Danny Boy is inside his apartment, and has locked the door, you show. And for God’s sake, have your sticks out. Don’t relax for a second. Keep this guy covered.”

“Don’ worry, he’ll be covered.”

“Don’t say a word to him, not a word. Just back him toward the bedroom door. You’ll see where it is on that floor plan I’ll draw for you. Now this is where you’ve got to work fast. As soon as he’s in the bedroom doorway, or near it, facing you, weight him. Make it fast, and-this is important-make certain you both ice him. I don’t know how good a friend this pal of yours is, but you’ve both got to do it. You understand?”

Fernandez smiled slyly. “You’re a smart man, Captain.”

“Yes. Now you’re working fast. He’s down, and for Christ’s sake make certain he’s gone.”

“He’ll have enough weight in him to sink him,” the lieutenant assured him. “He’ll be a clunk before he hits the floor.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Delaney grunted. “Now, the moment he’s down, one of you-I don’t care who it is-straddles his body, facing in the direction he was facing just before he bought it. And then-”

“And then we fire two or three shots from the Luger into the opposite wall,” Fernandez said rapidly. “Where the two of us was just standing.”

“Now you’re catching it,” the Captain said approvingly. “But it’s got to be done fast-so that if anyone hears the shots, it’s just a lot of shots, no pauses. No witness is going to remember how many shots were fired, when, or in what order. But just to play safe, the Luger should be fired into the opposite wall as soon as possible after you’ve iced him.”

“I’ve got it,” Fernandez smiled. “Two of three shots into the wall. Not too high. Like he really was firing at us.”

“Right. Splinter a couple of mirrors if you can. That opposite wall is full of mirrors. Then what do you do?”

“Easy,” Fernandez said. “Wipe the Luger clean. Put it in his hand and-”

“His right hand,” Delaney cautioned. “He’s right-handed. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t forget it. The Luger gets wiped clean and put in his right hand.”

“Try it,” Delaney said, “but don’t get spooked if it doesn’t work. It’s tougher than you think to get a clunk’s hand to grip a gun-even a fresh clunk. lust make sure you get a couple of good prints on it. They probably won’t show on the wood grips, especially if they’re checkered, but put them on the metal. Anywhere. The gun can even be on the floor, near his right hand. But a couple of good prints are what we need. What do you do next?”

“Let’s see…” Fernandez thought deeply. He took a sip of his brandy. “Well, we’ve still got the keys to the guy’s apartment.”

“Right,” Delaney said promptly. “So your friend has got to go down to the lobby and slip the keys back to Lipsky. Tell him to leave Danny Boy’s apartment door open on the way out. Not open, but unlocked. And while he’s doing that, what are you doing?”

“Me? Well, I guess I could start tossing-”

“Forget it,” the Captain said. “Don’t touch a goddamn thing. The first thing you do is call me on Blank’s phone. I’ll be waiting for your call. I’ll collect a squad and be right over. But don’t do a thing until I get there. Don’t even sit down in a chair. Just stand there. If you get any flak from neighbors, just identify yourself, tell them more cops are on the way, and keep them out in the corridor. All right, I come in with a squad. You tell us what happened, and keep it as short as possible. I make the calls I have to make-the ME, lab, and so forth. Then we start a search, and then I’ll plant the oily rag, the cleaning tools, the extra Luger magazines, and so forth. I don’t know how I’ll carry them up there, but I’ll-”

“But why should you do it, Captain?” Fernandez protested. “We could take that stuff up there with us.”

Delaney grinned cynically. “In cases like this, it’s best that everyone be involved, as equally as possible. It’s insurance. That’s why I want you to make certain that both you and your friend feed Danny Boy the pills.”

The lieutenant puzzled over this. Then his face cleared. “Smart,” he nodded. “So no one talks, ever, and knows none of the others is going to spill.”

“Something like that,” Delaney agreed, not smiling. “Mutual trust. Now here’s the cover story: Operation Lombard determined that the weapon used in the four homicides was an ice ax. That’s a tool used by mountain climbers. Danny Boy is a mountain climber. There’s hard evidence for all this. We checked into purchasers of ice axes in the Two-five-one Precinct, where all the killings occurred, and you and your friend were given a list of ice ax owners to question. Just to put the icing on the cake, I’ll give you two or three names and addresses to check out before you get to Danny Boy. Then you say you identified yourselves as police officers, he let you in, and you asked to examine his ice ax. He said it was in his bedroom and went in there to get it. It’s really in the outside hall closet, but he went into the bedroom and came out with the Luger, blasting. But he missed. The two of you went for your sticks and iced him. How does it sound?”

The lieutenant shook his head admiringly. “You’re a wonder, Captain,” he said. “It sounds great, just great.”

“And, with any luck, while I’m planting the Luger equipment, I’ll turn up the evidence that will put the finger on Danny Boy but good. It was there a few weeks ago. If it’s still there, believe me, no one will ask any questions. But even if he’s destroyed it by now, it won’t make any difference. He’ll be wasted, and it’ll all be over.”

“Sounds perfect, Captain.”

“No,” Delaney said, “it’s not perfect. There are some loose ends we’ll have to take care of. For instance, this friend of yours-I’ll have to meet him.”

“You already know him.”

“He’s in Operation Lombard?”

“Yes ”

“Good. That makes it easier. This was just a quick outline, lieutenant. The three of us will have to go over it again and again and again until we’ve got it just right and our timing set. Maybe we could even have a dry-run to work out any bugs, but essentially I think it’s a logical and workable plan.”

“I think it’s a winner, Captain. Can’t miss.”

“It can miss,” Delaney said grimly. “Anything can miss. But I think it’s worth a chance.”

“Then it’s on, Captain? Definitely?”

Delaney took a deep breath, came back to sit behind his desk again. He sat erect in his swivel chair, put his big hands flat on the desk top.

“Well…maybe not definitely,” he said finally. “I like it because it gives me another option, and I’m practically running out of those. I’ve got just one other idea that’s been percolating in my brain. I tell you what: Go ahead and get the Luger. Fire it, clean it, and bang it up a little. But don’t mention a word to your friend. If I decide to go ahead, I’ll let you know. Got it?”

“Sure,” Fernandez nodded. “I do what you said about the Luger but hold up on anything else until I get the word from you.”

“Exactly.”

They both rose to their feet. The lieutenant put out his hand; Delaney grasped it.

“Captain,” Lt. Fernandez said seriously, “I want to wish a Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you and yours. I hope Mrs. Delaney is feeling much better real soon.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Delaney said. “The very merriest of Christmases to you and your family, and I hope the New Year brings you everything you want. It’s a real pleasure working with you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Fernandez said. “Likewise.” Delaney closed the door, came back into the study.

He sat down at his desk, wished he had a fresh Cuban cigar, and considered the plan he had discussed with Lt. Fernandez. It wasn’t foolproof; such plans never were. There was always the possibility of the unexpected, the unimagined: a scream from somewhere, a sudden visitor, a phone call. Danny Boy might even charge the two police officers, going right into their naked guns. He was capable of such insanity.

But essentially, Delaney decided, it was a logical and workable program. It was a solution. There were a lot of loose ends: how would he carry the Luger tools and cleaning equipment up to the apartment when he answered Fernandez’ call, where would he plant them (in the bedroom, obviously), what if the souvenirs were no longer taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer? A hundred questions would be asked, by newsmen and by his superiors. How had Operation Lombard determined that an ice ax was the weapon used in the four homicides? How had they latched onto Daniel Blank? There would be many, many such questions; he would have to anticipate them all and have his answers ready.

He looked at his watch. Almost 4:15; it was a long afternoon. He sighed, pulled himself to his feet, unlocked the study door to the living room, wandered in.

The two big transceivers were on plain pine planks, placed across sawhorses. A uniformed officer was seated in front of each instrument, hunched over a table microphone. A separate table, not as large, held the three new telephones. There was a uniformed officer on duty there, reading a paperback novel. Two men, stripped to their scivvies, were sleeping on cots alongside the wall. One was snoring audibly. Detective second grade Samuel Wilding-he was one of Blankenship’s assistants-was seated at a card table making notes on a chart. Delaney raised a hand to him.

He stood a moment near the radios, hands clasped behind his back. He was probably, he thought regretfully, making the operators nervous. But there was no answer for that.

The room was quiet. No, not quiet; except for the low snoring, it was absolutely silent. Late afternoon darkness crept through open drapes, and with it came a-what? A sweetness, Captain Delaney admitted, laughing at himself, but it was a kind of sweetness.

The uniformed men had taken off their blouses. They were working at their desks in sweaters or T-shirts, but still wearing gun belts. Only Detective Wilding wore a jacket, and his was summer-weight, with lapels. So what was it? Delaney wondered. Why the sweetness? It came, he decided, from men on duty, doing their incredibly boring jobs, enduring. The fraternity. Of what? (Delaney: “A friend? In the Department?” Fernandez: ((astonished)): “Of course in the Department. Who’s got any friends outside the Department?”) A kind of brotherhood.

A phone rang on the deal desk. The officer on duty put aside his paperback, picked up the ringing phone. “Barbara,” he said.

They had devised a radio and telephone code as simple and brief as they could make it. Not because Danny Boy might be listening in, but to keep away the short-wave nuts who tuned to police frequencies.

“Danny Boy”-Daniel G. Blank.

“Barbara”-the command post in Delaney’s home.

“White House”-Blank’s apartment house.

“Factory”-the Javis-Bircham Building.

“Castle”-the East End Avenue townhouse.

“Bulldog One”-the phony Con Ed van on the street outside the White House. It was Lt. Fernandez’ command post.

“Bulldog Two, Three, Four, etc”-code names for Fernandez’ unmarked cars and spooks on foot.

“Tiger One”-the man watching the Montfort townhouse. “Tiger Two” and “Tiger Three” were the street men sweeping the neighborhood.

Other than that, the Operation Lombard investigators used their actual names in transmissions, keeping their calls, in compliance with frequently repeated orders, informal and laconic.

When the phone rang, the officer who answered it said “Barbara.” Then he listened awhile, turned to look at Detective Wilding. “Stryker at the Factory,” he reported. “Danny Boy has his coat and hat on, looks like he’s ready to leave.” Stryker was the undercover man planted at Javis-Bircham. He was a tabulating clerk-and a good one-in Blank’s department.

Detective Wilding nodded. He turned to a man at the radio. “Alert Bulldog Three.” He looked at Delaney. “Okay for Stryker to cut out?”

The Captain nodded. The detective called to the man on the phone, “Tell Stryker he can take off. Report back the day after Christmas.”

The officer spoke into the phone, then grinned. “That Stryker,” he said to everyone listening. “He doesn’t want to take off. He says they’ve got an office party going, and he ain’t going to miss it.”

“The greatest cocksman in the Department,” someone said. The listening men broke up. Captain Delaney smiled thinly. He leaned forward to hear one of the radio operators say, “Bulldog Three from Barbara. Got me?”

“Yes. Very nice.” It was a bored voice.

“Danny Boy on his way down.”

“Okay.”

There was a quiet wait of about five minutes. Then: “Barbara from Bulldog Three. We’ve got him. Heading east on Forty-sixth Street. A yellow cab. License XB sixty-one-dash-forty-nine-dash-three-dash-one. Got it?”

“XB sixty-one-dash-forty-nine-dash-three-dash-one.”

“Right on.”

It was all low key; it was routine. The logs were kept carefully, and the 24-hour Time-Habit Charts were marked in. But nothing was happening.

Delaney stalked back into his study, put on his glasses, drew his yellow pad toward him. He jotted two lists. The first consisted of five numbered items:

1. Garage attendant.

2. Bartender at Parrot.

3. Lipsky.

4. Mortons.

5. Horvath at J-B.

The second list came slower, over a period of almost an hour. It finally consisted of four numbered items.

Delaney put it aside, rose, lumbered back into the living room. He went directly to Detective Samuel Wilding.

“When’s Blankenship coming back on?” he demanded.

“Tomorrow at noon, Captain. We’re splitting up because of Christmas.”

Delaney nodded. “Tell him, or leave a note for him, that I want to be informed immediately of any change in Danny Boy’s Time-Habit pattern. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Informed immediately,” the Captain repeated.

He marched through to his dining room and up to the lone man of Detective sergeant MacDonald’s squad on duty. The man looked up, startled.

“When’s MacDonald due back?” Delaney asked.

“Tomorrow at four in the afternoon, Captain. We’re splitting-”

“I know, I know,” Delaney said testily. “Christmas. I want to leave a message for him.” The duty officer took up a pad and waited, pencil in hand. “Tell him I want a photograph of Detective Kope.”

The officer’s pencil hesitated.

“Kope? The guy who got chilled?”

“Detective third grade Roger Kope, homicide victim,” Delaney said grimly. “I need a photograph of him. Preferably with his family. A photograph of the entire Kope family. Got that?”

He looked down at the officer’s pad. It was covered with squiggles.

“You know shorthand?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I took a course.”

“Very good. It’s valuable. I wish I knew it. But I guess I’m too old to learn now.”

He started to explain to the officer that MacDonald would do best to send a man for the photo who had known Kope, who had been a friend of the family. But he stopped. The sergeant was an old cop; he’d know how to handle it.

He tramped back into his study, closed the doors. He looked at his watch. Almost 7:00 p.m. It was time. He looked at the list on his desk, then dialed the number of Daniel G. Blank. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. He walked back into the living room, over to the radio operator keeping the log.

“Danny Boy in the White House?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. No departure. About half an hour ago Tiger One called in. Princess left the Castle in a cab.” (“Princess” was the code name for Celia Montfort.) “About then minutes later Bulldog One reported her arrival at the White House. They’re both still in there, as far as we know.”

Delaney nodded, went back into his study, closing the door. He called Blank’s number again. No answer. Maybe Danny Boy and the Princess were having a sex scene and weren’t answering the phone. Maybe. And maybe they were at a Christmas Eve Party. At the Mortons, possibly? Possibly. He went to the file cabinet, took out the thin folder on the Mortons that MacDonald’s snoops had assembled. Their home phone number was there.

Delaney came back to his desk, dialed the number.

“Mortons’ residence,” a female voice answered, after the seventh ring.

In the background Delaney could hear the loud voices of several people, shouts, laughter. A party. He didn’t grin.

“I’m trying to reach Mr. Daniel Blank,” he said slowly, distinctly, “and I was given this number to call. Is he there?”

“Yes, he is. Just a minute, please.”

He heard her call, “Mr. Blank! Phone!” Then that familiar voice was there, curious and cautious. Delaney knew what Danny Boy was wondering: how had anyone traced him to the Mortons’ Christmas Eve party?

“Hello?”

“Mr. Daniel G. Blank?”

“Yes. Who is this?”

“Frank Lombard.”

There was a sound at the other end of the phone: part moan, part groan, part gasp-something sick and unbelieving. “Who?”

“Frank Lombard,” Delaney said in a low, soft voice. “You know me. We’ve met before. I just wanted to wish you-” But the connection went dead. Delaney hung up gently, smiling now. Then he put on overcoat and cap and went out into the dark night to find a drugstore that was still open so he could buy a bottle of perfume and take it to the hospital, a Christmas gift for his wife.