The 1st Deadly Sin (23 page)

“None whatsoever.”

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

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

“Oil? What kind of oil?”

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

“Anything else?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is there anything I can do?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

Dorfman’s pale blue eyes widened in shock.

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

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

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

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

“I won’t mention it, sir.”

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

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

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

“Thank you, lieutenant.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes sir, I believe he is.”

“Then he’ll be in the phone book?”

There was a moment’s silence.

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes sir,” she said. “I can do that.”

“Thank you.”

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

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

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

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

“I heard you had retired.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh I couldn’t put you to that—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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