The 1st Deadly Sin (39 page)

Key word.

“Important,” Langley repeated. “Yes. Thank you.”

They agreed Delaney could retain possession of the Outside Life ice ax. He placed it carefully in the rear of the second file cabinet drawer. His “exhibits” were growing. Then he walked Langley to the door.

“And how is the Widow Zimmerman?” he asked.

“What? Oh. Very well, thank you. She’s been very kind to me. You know…”

“Of course. My wife thought very well of her.”

“Did she!”

“Oh yes. Liked her very much. Thought she was a very warm hearted, sincere, out-going woman.”

“Oh yes. Oh yes. She is all that. Did you eat any of the gefilte fish, Captain?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“It grows on you. An acquired taste, I suspect. Well…” The little man started out. But the Captain called, “Oh, Mr. Langley, just one more thing,” and he turned back.

“Did you get a sales check when you bought the ice ax at Outside Life?”

“A sales check? Oh, yes. Here it is.”

He pulled it from his overcoat pocket and handed it to Delaney. The Captain inspected it eagerly. It bore Langley’s name and address, the time (“Mountain ax—4B54C”) and the price, $18.95, with the city sales tax added, and the total.

“The clerk asked for my name and address because they send out free catalogues twice a year and want to add to their mailing list. I gave my right name. That was all right, wasn’t it, Captain?”

“Of course.”

“And I thought their catalogue might be interesting. They do carry some fascinating items.”

“May I keep this sales check?”

“Naturally.”

“You’re spending a lot of money on this case, Mr. Langley.” He smiled, tossed a hand in the air, and strutted out, the debonair boulevardier.

After the door was locked behind him, the Captain returned to his study, determined to take up his task of writing out the complete reports of his investigation. But he faltered. Finally he gave it up; something was bothering him. He went into the kitchen. The pot of stew was on the cold range. Using a long-handled fork, he stood there and ate three pieces of luke-warm beef, a potato, a small onion, and two slices of carrot. It all tasted like sawdust but, knowing Mary’s cooking, he supposed it was good and the fault was his.

Later, at the hospital, he told Barbara what the problem was. She was quiet, almost apathetic, lying in her bed, and he wasn’t certain she was listening or, if she was, if she understood. She stared at him with what he thought were fevered eyes, wide and brilliant.

He told her everything that had happened during the day, omitting only the call from the bookseller about the Honey Bunch books. He wanted to surprise her with that. But he told her of Langley buying the ice ax and how he, Delaney, was convinced that a similar tool had been used in the Lombard and Gilbert attacks.

“I know what should be done now,” he said. “I already have Langley working on other places where an ice ax can be bought. He’ll be checking retailers, wholesalers, manufacturers and importers. It’s a big job for one man. Then I must try to get a copy of Outside Life’s mailing list. I don’t know how big it is, but it’s bound to be extensive. Someone’s got to go through it and pull the names and addresses of every resident of the Two-five-one Precinct. I’m almost certain the killer lives in the neighborhood. Then I want to get all the sales slips of Outside Life, for as many years as they’ve kept them, again to look for buyers of ice axes who live in the Precinct. And that checking and cross-checking will have to be done at every store where Langley discovers ice axes are sold. And I’m sure some of them won’t have mailing lists or itemized sales checks, so the whole thing may be a monumental waste of time. But I think it has to be done, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said firmly. “No doubt of it. Besides, it’s your only lead, isn’t it?”

“The only one,” he nodded grimly. “But it’s going to take a lot of time.”

She looked at him a few moments, then smiled softly.

“I know what’s bothering you, Edward. You think that even with Mr. Langley and Calvin Case helping you, checking all the lists and sales slips will take too much time. You’re afraid someone else may be wounded or killed while you’re messing around with mailing lists. You’re wondering if perhaps you shouldn’t turn over what you have right now to Operation Lombard, and let Broughton and his five hundred detectives get on it. They could do it so much faster.”

“Yes,” he said, grateful that she was thinking clearly now, her mind attuned to his. “That’s exactly what’s worrying me. How do you feel about it?”

“Would Broughton follow up on what you gave him?”

“Chief Pauley sure as hell would. I’d go to him. He’s getting desperate now. And for good reason. He’s got
nothing.
He’d grab at this and really do a job.”

They were silent then. He came over to sit by her bedside and hold her hand. Neither spoke for several minutes.

“It’s really a moral problem, isn’t it?” she said finally.

He nodded miserably. “It’s my own pride and ambition and ego…And my commitment to Thorsen and Johnson, of course. But if I don’t do it, and someone else gets killed, I’ll have a lot to answer for.”

She didn’t ask to whom.

“I could help you with the lists,” she said faintly. “Most of the time I just lie here and read or sleep. But I have my good days, and I could help.”

He squeezed her hand, smiled sadly. “You can help most by telling me what to do.”

“When did you ever do what I told you to do?” she scoffed. “You go your own way, and you know it.”

He grinned. “But you help,” he assured her. “You sort things out for me.”

“Edward, I don’t think you should do anything immediately. Ivar Thorsen is deeply involved in this, and so is Inspector Johnson. If you go to Broughton, or even Chief Pauley, and tell them what you’ve discovered and what you suspect, they’re sure to ask who authorized you to investigate.”

“I could keep Thorsen and Johnson out of it. Don’t forget, I have that letter from the Commissioner.”

“But it would still be a mess, wouldn’t it? And Broughton would probably know Thorsen is involved; the two of you have been so close for so long. Edward, why don’t you have a talk with Ivar and Inspector Johnson? Tell them what you want to do. Discuss it. They’re reasonable men; maybe they can suggest something. I know how much this case means to you.”

“Yes,” he said, looking down, “it does. More every day. And when Thorsen went to the scene of the Gilbert attack, he was really spooked. He as much as said that this business of cutting Broughton down was small stuff compared to finding the killer. Yes, that’s the best thing to do. I’ll talk to Thorsen and Johnson, and tell them I want to go to Broughton with what I’ve got. I hate the thought of it—that shit! But maybe it has to be done. Well, I’ll think about it some more. I’ll try to see them tomorrow, so I may not be over at noon. But I’ll come in the evening and tell you how it all came out.”

“Remember, don’t lose your temper, Edward.”

“When did I ever lose my temper?” he demanded. “I’m always in complete control.”

They both laughed.

6

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you get it?”

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

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

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

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

“Important?”

“I think so.”

“You can’t tell me on the phone?”

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

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

“Thank you, doctor.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It was traced.”

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

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

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

“Not if Broughton’s man is there.”

“I didn’t think so.”

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

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

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

“So?”

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

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

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