First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Cal, are you hungry?” his wife asked anxiously. “I’ve got to get back to work soon.”

  “No, not me. Captain, you want a sandwich?”

  “Thank you, no.”

  “Just leave us alone, hon.”

  “Maybe I should just clean up a—”

  “Just leave us alone. Okay, hon?”

  She turned to go.

  “Mrs. Case,” Delaney said.

  She turned back.

  “Please stay. Whatever your husband and I have to discuss, there is no reason why you can’t hear it.”

  She was startled. She looked back and forth, man to man, not knowing.

  Calvin Case sighed. “You’re something,” he said to Captain Delaney. “You’re really something.”

  “That’s right,” Delaney nodded. “I’m something.”

  “You barge in here and you take over.”

  “You want to talk now?” Delaney asked impatiently. “Do you want to answer my questions?”

  “First tell me what it’s all about.”

  “A man was killed with a strange weapon. We think it was an ice ax and—”

  “Who’s ‘we’?”

  “I think it was an ice ax. I want to know more about it, and your name was given to me as the most experienced mountaineer in New York.”

  “Was,” Case said softly. “Was.”

  They sipped their drinks, looked at each other stonily. For once, there were no sirens, no buffalo whistles, no trembles of blasting or street sounds, no city noises. It was on this very block, Delaney recalled, that a fine old town house was accidentally demolished by a group of bumbling revolutionaries, proving their love of the human race by preparing bombs in the basement. Now, in the Case apartment, they existed in a bubble of silence, and unconsciously they lowered their voices.

  “A captain comes to investigate a crime?” Case asked quietly. “Even a murder? No, no. A uniformed cop or a detective, yes. A captain, no. What’s it all about, Delaney?”

  The Captain took a deep breath. “I’m on leave of absence. I’m not on active duty. You’re under no obligation to answer my questions. I was commander of the Two-five-one Precinct. Uptown. A man was killed there about a month ago. On the street. Maybe you read about it. Frank Lombard, a city councilman. A lot of men are working on the case, but they’re getting nowhere. They haven’t even identified the weapon used. I started looking into it on my own time. It’s not official; as I told you, I’m on leave of absence. Then, three days ago, another man was attacked not too far from where Lombard was killed. This man is, still alive but will probably die. His wound is like Lombard’s: a skull puncture. I think it was done with an ice ax.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “The nature of the wound, the size and shape. And an ice ax has been used as a murder weapon before. It was used to assassinate Leon Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “Whatever you can tell me about ice axes, who makes them, where you buy them, what they’re used for.”

  Calvin Case looked at his wife. “Will you get my axes, hon? They’re in the hall closet.”

  While she was gone the men didn’t speak. Case motioned toward a chair, but Delaney shook his head. Finally Mrs. Case came back, awkwardly clutching five axes. Two were under an arm; she held the handles of the other three in a clump.

  “Dump ’em on the bed,” Case ordered, and she obediently let them slide onto the soiled sheet.

  Delaney stood over them, inspected them swiftly, then grabbed. It was an all-steel implement, hatchet-length, the handle bound in leather. From the butt of the handle hung a thong loop. The head had a hammer on one side, a pick on the other. The pick was exactly like that described by Christopher Langley; about five inches long, it was square-shaped at the shaft, then tapered to a thinning triangle. As it tapered, the spike curved downward and ended in a sharp point. On the underside were four little saw teeth. The entire head was a bright red, the leather-covered handle a bright blue. Between was a naked shaft of polished steel. There was a stamping on the side of the head: a small inscription. Delaney put on his glasses to read it: “Made in West Germany.”

  “This—” he began.

  “That’s not an ice ax,” Calvin Case interrupted. “Technically, it’s an ice hammer. But most people call it an ice ax. They lump all these things together.”

  “You bought it in West Germany?”

  “No. Right here in New York. The best mountain gear is made in West Germany, Austria and Switzerland. But they export all over the world.”

  “Where in New York did you buy it?”

  “A place I used to work. I got an employees’ discount on it. It’s down on Spring Street, a place called ‘Outside Life.’ They sell gear for hunting, fishing, camping, safaris, mountaineering, back-packing—stuff like that.”

  “May I use your phone?”

  “Help yourself.”

  He was so encouraged, so excited, that he couldn’t remember Christopher Langley’s phone number and had to look it up in his pocket notebook. But he would not put the short ice ax down; he held it along with the phone in one hand while he dialed. He finally got through.

  “Mr. Langley? Delaney here.”

  “Oh, Captain! I should have called, but I really have nothing to report. I’ve made a list of possible sources, and I’ve been visiting six or seven shops a day. But so far I—”

  “Mr. Langley, do you have your list handy?”

  “Why yes, Captain. Right here. I was just about to start out when you called.”

  “Do you have a store named Outside Life on your list?”

  “Outside Life? Just a minute … Yes, here it is. It’s on Spring Street.”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yes, I have it. I’ve divided my list into neighborhoods, and I have that in the downtown section. I haven’t been there yet.”

  “Mr. Langley. I have a lead they may have what we want. Could you get there today?”

  “Of course. I’ll go directly.”

  “Thank you. Please call me at once, whether you find it or not. I’ll either be home or at the hospital.”

  He hung up, turned back to Calvin Case, still holding the ice ax. He didn’t want to let it go. He swung the tool in a chopping stroke. Then he raised it high and slashed down.

  “Nice balance,” he nodded.

  “Sure,” Case agreed. “And plenty of weight. You could kill a man easily.”

  “Tell me about ice axes.”

  Calvin Case told him what he could. It wasn’t much. He thought the modern ice ax had evolved from the ancient Al-pinestock, a staff as long as a shepherd’s crook. In fact, Case had seen several still in use in Switzerland. They were tipped with hand-hammered iron spikes, and used to probe the depth of snow, try the consistency of ice, test stone ledges and overhangs, probe crevasses.

  “Then,” Case said, “the two-handed ice ax was developed.” He leaned forward from the waist to pick up samples from the foot of his bed. Apparently he was naked under the sheet. His upper torso had once been thick and muscular. Now it had gone to flab: pale flesh matted with reddish hair, smelling rankly.

  He showed the long ice axes to Delaney, explaining how the implement could be used as a cane, driven into ice as a rope support, the mattock side of the head used to chop foot and hand holds in ice as capable of load-bearing as granite. The butt end of the handle varied. It could be a plain spike for hiking on glaciers, or fitted with a small thonged wheel for walking on crusted snow, or simply supplied with a small knurled cap.

  “Where did you get all these?” Delaney asked.

  “These two in Austria. This one in West Germany. This one in Geneva.”

  “You can buy them anywhere?”

  “Anywhere in Europe, sure. Climbing is very big over there.”

  “And here?”

  “There must be a dozen stores in New York. Maybe more. And other places too, of course. The Wes
t Coast, for instance.”

  “And this one?” Delaney had slipped the thong loop of the short ice ax over his wrist. “What’s this used for?”

  “Like I told you, technically it’s an ice hammer. If you’re on stone, you can start a hole with the pick end. Then you try to hammer in a piton with the other side of the head. A piton is a steel peg. It has a loop on top, and you can attach a line to it or thread it through.”

  Delaney drew two fingers across the head of the ax he held. Then he rubbed the tips of the two fingers with his thumb and grinned.

  “You look happy,” Case said, pouring himself another whiskey.

  “I am. Oiled.”

  “What?”

  “The ax head is oiled.”

  “Oh … sure. Evelyn keeps all my stuff cleaned and oiled. She thinks I’m going to climb again some day. Don’t you, hon?”

  Delaney turned to look at her. She nodded mutely, tried to smile. He smiled in return.

  “What kind of oil do you use, Mrs. Case?”

  “Oh … I don’t know. It’s regular oil. I buy it in a hardware store on Sixth Avenue.”

  “A thin oil,” Calvin Case said. “Like sewing machine oil. Nothing special about it.”

  “Do all climbers keep their tools cleaned and oiled?”

  “The good ones do. And sharp.”

  Delaney nodded. Regretfully he relinquished the short-handled ice ax, putting it back with the others on the foot of Case’s bed.

  “You said you worked for Outside Life, where you bought this?”

  “That’s right. For almost ten years. I was in charge of the mountaineering department. They gave me all the time off I wanted for climbs. It was good publicity for them.”

  “Suppose I wanted to buy an ice ax like that. I just walk in and put down my money. Right?”

  “Sure. That one cost about fifteen dollars. But that was five years ago.”

  “Do I get a cash register receipt, or do they write out an itemized sales check?”

  Case looked at him narrowly. Then his bearded face opened into a smile; he showed his stained teeth again.

  “Mr. Detective,” he grinned. “Thinking every minute, aren’t you? Well, as far as Outside Life goes, you’re in luck. A sales slip is written out—or was, when I worked there. You got the customer’s name and address. This was because Sol Appel, who owns the place, does a big mail order business. He gets out a Summer and Winter catalogue, and he’s always anxious to add to his list. Then, on the slip, you wrote out the items purchased.”

  “After the customer’s name and address were added to the mailing list, how long were the sales slips kept? Do you know?”

  “Oh Jesus, years and years. The basement was full of them. But don’t get your balls in an uproar, Captain. Outside Life isn’t the only place in New York where you can buy an ice ax. And most of the other places just ring up the total purchase. There’s no record of the customer’s name, address, or what was bought. And, like I told you, most of these things are imported. You can buy an ice ax in London, Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Rome, Geneva, and points in between. And in Los Angeles, San Francisco, Boston, Portland, Seattle, Montreal, and a hundred other places. So where does that leave you?”

  “Thank you very much,” Captain Delaney said, without irony. “You have really been a big help, and I appreciate your cooperation. I apologize for the way I spoke.”

  Calvin Case made a gesture, a wave Delaney couldn’t interpret.

  “What are you going to do now, Captain?”

  “Do now? Oh, you mean my next step. Well, you heard my telephone call. A man who is helping me is on his way to Outside Life. If he is able to purchase an ice ax like yours, then I’ll go down there, ask if they’ll let me go through their sales slips and make a list of people who have bought ice axes.”

  “But I just told you, there’ll be thousands of sales checks. Thousands!”

  “I know.”

  “And there are other stores in New York that sell ice axes with no record of the buyer. And stores all over the world that sell them.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re a fool,” Calvin Case said dully, turning his face away. “I thought for awhile you weren’t, but now I think you are.”

  “Cal,” his wife said softly, but he didn’t look at her.

  “I don’t know what you think detective work is like,” Delaney said, staring at the man in the bed. “Most people have been conditioned by novels, the movies and TV. They think it’s either exotic clues and devilishly clever deductive reasoning, or else they figure it’s all rooftop chases, breaking down doors, and shoot-outs on the subway tracks. All that is maybe five percent of what a detective does. Now I’ll tell you how he mostly spends his time. About fifteen years ago a little girl was snatched on a street out on Long Island. She was walking home from school. A car pulled up alongside her and the driver said something. She came over to the car. A little girl. The driver opened the door, grabbed her, pulled her inside, and took off. There was an eyewitness to this, an old woman who ‘thought’ it was a dark car, black or dark blue or dark green or maroon. And she ‘thought’ it had a New York license plate. She wasn’t sure of anything. Anyway, the parents got a ransom note. They followed instructions exactly: they didn’t call the cops and they paid off. The little girl was found dead three days later. Then the FBI was called in. They had two things to work on: it might have been a New York license plate on the car, and the ransom note was hand-written. So the FBI called in about sixty agents from all over, and they were given a crash course in handwriting identification. Big blowups of parts of the ransom note were pasted on the walls. Three shifts of twenty men each started going through every application for an automobile license that originated on Long Island. They worked around the clock. How many signatures? Thousands? Millions, more likely. The agents set aside the possibles, and then handwriting experts took over to narrow it down.”

  “Did they get the man?” Evelyn Case burst out.

  “Oh, sure,” Delaney nodded. “They got him. Eventually. And if they hadn’t found it in the Long Island applications, they’d have inspected every license in New York State. Millions and millions and millions. I’m telling you all this so you’ll know what detective work usually is: common sense; a realization that you’ve got to start somewhere; hard, grinding, routine labor; and percentages. That’s about it. Again, I thank you for your help.”

  He was almost at the shaded doorway to the living room when Calvin Case spoke in a faint, almost wispy voice.

  “Captain.”

  Delaney turned. “Yes?”

  “If you find the ax at Outside Life, who’ll go through the sales slips?”

  Delaney shrugged. “I will. Someone will. They’ll be checked.”

  “Sometimes the items listed on the sales slips are just by stock number. You won’t know what they are.”

  “I’ll get identification from the owner. I’ll learn what the stock numbers mean.”

  “Captain, I’ve got all the time in the world. I’m not going any place. I could go through those sales checks. I know what to look for. I could pull out every slip that shows an ice ax purchase faster than you could.”

  Delaney looked at him a long moment, expressionless. “I’ll let you know,” he nodded.

  Evelyn Case saw him to the outside door.

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  When he left the Case home he walked directly over to Sixth Avenue and turned south, looking for a hardware store. Nothing. He returned to 11th Street and walked north. Still nothing. Then, across Sixth Avenue, on the west side, he saw one.

  “A little can of oil,” he told the clerk. “Like sewing machine oil.”

  He was offered a small, square can with a long neck sealed with a little red cap.

  “Can I oil tools with this?” he asked.

  “Of course,” the clerk assured him. “Tools, sewing machines, electric fans, locks … anything. It’s the biggest selling all-purpose oil in t
he country.”

  Thanks a lot, Delaney thought ruefully. He bought the can of oil.

  He shouldn’t have taken a cab. They still had sizable balances in their savings and checking accounts, they owned securities (mostly tax-exempt municipal bonds) and, of course, they owned their brownstone. But Delaney was no longer on salary, and Barbara’s medical and hospital bills were frightening. So he really should have taken the subway and changed at 59th Street for a bus. But he felt so encouraged, so optimistic, that he decided to buy a cab to the hospital. On the way uptown he took the little red cap off the oil can and squeezed a few drops of oil onto his fingertips. He rubbed it against his thumb. Thin oil. It felt good, and he smiled.

  But Barbara wasn’t in her room. The floor nurse explained she had been taken down to the lab for more X-rays and tests. Delaney left a short note on her bedside table: “Hello. I was here. See you this evening. I love you. Edward.”

  He hurried home, stripped off overcoat and jacket, loosened his tie, rolled up his cuffs, put on his carpet slippers. Mary was there and had a beef stew cooking in a Dutch oven. But he asked her to let it cool after it was done; he had too much to do to think about eating.

  He had cleaned out the two upper drawers of a metal business file cabinet in the study. In the top drawer he had filed the copies of the Operation Lombard reports. Methodically, he had divided this file in two: Frank Lombard and Bernard Gilbert. Under each heading he had broken the reports down into categories: Weapon, Motive, Wound, Personal History, etc.

  In the second drawer he had started his own file, a thin folder that consisted mostly, at this time, of jotted notes.

  Now he began to expand these notes into reports, to whom or for what purpose he could not say. But he had worked this way on all his investigations for many years, and frequently found it valuable to put his own instinctive reactions and questions into words. In happier times Barbara had typed out his notes on her electric portable, and that was a big help. But he had never solved the mysteries of the electric, and now would have to be content with handwritten reports.

  He started with the long-delayed directory of all the people involved, their addresses and telephone numbers, if he had them or could find them in the book. Then he wrote out reports of his meeting with Thorsen and Johnson, of his interviews with Lombard’s widow, mother, and associates, his talks with Dorfman, with Ferguson. He wrote as rapidly as he could, transcribing scribbles he had made in his pocket notebook, on envelopes of letters, on scraps of paper torn from magazines and newspaper margins.