Five minutes later they had agreed on fifty dollars, twenty immediately, thirty when Delaney returned the keys, and an extra twenty if Lipsky could get the license number of the cab used by Blank’s skinny girl friend.
“If I get it,” Lipsky said, “should I call your office?”
“I’m not in very much,” Delaney said casually. “In this business you’ve got to keep moving around. I’ll call you every day on the lobby phone. If you go back on nights, leave a message with your brother-in-law. I’ll find out from him when to call. Okay?”
“I guess,” Lipsky said doubtfully. “Jesus, if I didn’t need the dough so bad, I’d tell you to go suck.”
“Sharks?” the Captain asked.
“Yeah,” Lipsky said wonderingly. “How did you know?”
“A guess,” Delaney shrugged. He passed twenty under the table to the doorman. “I’ll see you at two-thirty this afternoon. What’s the apartment number?”
“Twenty-one H. It’s on a tag attached to the keys.”
“Good. Don’t worry. It’ll go like silk.”
“Jesus, I hope so.”
The Captain looked at him narrowly. “You don’t like this guy much, do you?”
Lipsky began to curse, ripe obscenities spluttering from his lips. Delaney listened awhile, serious and unsmiling, then held up a hand to cut off the flow of invective.
“One more thing,” he said to Lipsky. “In a few days, or a week from now, you might mention casually to Blank that I was around asking questions about him. You can describe me, but don’t tell him my name. You forgot it. Just say I was asking personal questions, but you wouldn’t tell me a goddamned thing. Got that?”
“Well … sure,” Lipsky said, puzzled. “But what for?”
“I don’t know,” Captain Delaney said. “I’m not sure. Just to give him something to think about, I guess. Will you do it?”
“Yeah. Sure. Why not?”
They left the luncheonette together. There were early workers on the streets now. The air was cold, sharp. The sky was lightening in the east; it promised to be a clear day. Captain Delaney walked home slowly, leaning against the December wind. By the time he unlocked his door he could hardly smell the rancid grease.
The projected break-in had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. He hadn’t planned that, hadn’t even considered it. But Lipsky had tied Daniel Blank to mountain climbing: the first time that was definitely established. And that led to the ice ax. That damned ax! Nothing so far had tied Blank to the purchase or possession of an ice ax. Delaney wanted things tidy. Possession would be tidy enough; purchase could be traced later.
He wasn’t lying when he told Lipsky he’d be in and out of Blank’s apartment in an hour. My God, he could find an ice ax in Grand Central Station in that time. And why should Blank hide it? As far as he knew, he wasn’t suspected. He owned rucksack, pitons, crampons, ice ax. What could be more natural? He was a mountaineer. All Delaney wanted from that break-in was the ice ax. Anything else would be gravy on the roast.
He wrote up his reports and noted, gratified, how fat the Daniel G. Blank file was growing. More important, how he was beginning to penetrate his man. Tony, a twelve-year-old boy pretty enough to be a girl. A thin, black-haired woman with no tits. Friends who owned a sex boutique. Much, much there. But if the ice ax didn’t exist in Blank’s apartment, it was all smoke. What would he do then? Start in again—someone else, another angle, a different approach. He was prepared for it.
He worked on his reports until Mary arrived. She fixed him coffee, dry toast, a soft-boiled egg. No grease. After breakfast, he went into the living room, pulled the shades, took off his shoes and jacket, unbuttoned his vest. He lay down on the couch, intending to nap for only an hour. But when he awoke, it was almost 11:30, and he was angry at himself for time wasted.
He went into the downstairs lavatory to rub his face with cold water and comb his hair. In the mirror he saw how he looked, but he had already felt it: blueish bags swelling down beneath his eyes, the greyish unhealthy complexion, lines deeper, wrinkled forehead, bloodless lips pressed tighter, everything old and troubled. When all this was over, and Barbara was well again, they’d go somewhere, groan in the sun, stuff until their skins were tight, eyes clear, memories washed, blood pure and pumping. And they’d make love. That’s what he told himself.
He called Monica Gilbert.
“Monica, I’m going over to visit my wife. I was wondering if—if you’re not busy—if you’d like to meet her.”
“Oh yes. I would. When?”
“Fifteen minutes or so. Too soon? Would you like lunch first?”
“Thank you, but I’ve had a salad. That’s all I’m eating these days.”
“A diet?” he laughed. “You don’t need that.”
“I do. I’ve been eating so much since—since Bernie died. Just nerves, I guess. Edward …”
“What?”
“You said you’d call me about Daniel Blank, but you didn’t. Was it anything?”
“I think so. But I’d like my wife to hear it, too. I trust her judgment. She’s very good on people. I’ll tell you both at the same time. All right?”
“Of course.”
“Be over in fifteen minutes.”
Then he called Barbara and told her he was bringing Monica Gilbert to meet her, the widow of the second victim. Barbara said of course. She was happy to talk to him and told him to hurry.
He had thought about it a long time—whether or not to bring the two women together. He recognized the dangers and the advantages. He didn’t want Barbara to think, even to suspect, that he was having a relationship—even an innocent relationship—with another woman while she, Barbara, was ill, confined to a hospital room, despite what she had said about his marrying again if anything happened to her. That was just talk, he decided firmly: an emotional outburst from a woman disturbed by her own pain and fears of the future. But Barbara would enjoy company—that he knew. She really did like people, much more than he did. He could tell her of a man arrested for molesting women—there was one crazy case: this nut would sneak into bedrooms out in Queens, always coming through unlocked windows, and he would kiss sleeping women and then run away. He never put his hands on them or injured them physically. He just kissed them. When he told Barbara about it, she gave a troubled sigh and said, “Poor fellow. How lonely he must have been.”—and her sympathies were frequently with the suspect, unless violence was involved.
Monica Gilbert needed a confidante as well. Her job was finished, her file complete. He wanted to continue giving her a feeling of involvement. So, finally, he had decided to bring them together.
It wasn’t a disaster, as he had feared, but it didn’t go marvelously well, as he had hoped. Both women were cordial, but nervous, guarded, reserved. Monica had brought Barbara a little African violet, not from a florist’s shop but one she had nurtured herself. That helped. Barbara expressed her condolences in low tones on the death of Monica’s husband: Delaney stayed out of it, standing away from Barbara’s bed, listening and watching anxiously.
Then they began speaking about their children, exchanging photographs and smiling. Their talk became louder than sickroom tones; they laughed more frequently; Barbara touched Monica’s arm. Then he knew it was going to be all right. He relaxed, sat in a chair away from them, listening to their chatter, comparing them: Barbara so thin and fine, wasted and elegant, a silver sword of a woman. And Monica with her heavy peasant’s body, sturdy and hard, bursting with juice. At that moment he loved them both.
For awhile they leaned close, conversing in whispers. He wondered if they might be talking about women’s ailments, women’s plumbing—a complete mystery to him—or perhaps, from occasional glances they threw in his direction, he wondered if they might be discussing him, although what there was about him to talk about he couldn’t imagine.
It was almost an hour before Barbara held out a hand to him. He came over to her bedside, smiling at both of them.
&nb
sp; “Daniel Blank?” Barbara asked.
He told them about the interviews with the bartender, with Handry, with Lipsky. He told them everything except his plan to be inside Blank’s apartment within two hours.
“Edward, it’s beginning to take form,” Barbara nodded approvingly. As usual, she went to the nub. “At least now you know he’s a mountain climber. I suppose the next step is to find out if he owns an ice ax?”
Delaney nodded. She would never even consider asking him how he might do this.
“Can’t you arrest him now?” Monica Gilbert demanded. “On suspicion or something?”
The Captain shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said patiently. “No evidence at all. Not a shred. He’d be out before the cell door was slammed behind him, and the city would be liable for false arrest. That would be the end of that.”
“Well, what can you do then? Wait until he kills someone else?”
“Oh …” he said vaguely, “there are things. Establish his guilt without a doubt. He’s just a suspect now, you know. The only one I’ve got. But still just a suspect. Then, when I’m sure of him, I’ll—well, at this moment I’m not sure what I’ll do. Something.”
“I’m sure you will,” Barbara smiled, taking Monica’s hand. “My husband is a very stubborn man. And he’s neat. He doesn’t like loose ends.’ ”
They all laughed. Delaney glanced at his watch, saw he had to leave. He offered to take Monica Gilbert home, but she wanted to stay awhile and said she’d leave when it was time to pick up her girls at school. Delaney glanced at Barbara, realized she wanted Monica’s company a while longer. He kissed Barbara’s cheek, nodded brightly at both, lumbered from the room. Outside in the hall, adjusting his Homburg squarely atop his head, he heard a sudden burst of laughter from inside the room, quickly suppressed. He wondered if they could be laughing at him, something he had done or said. But he was used to people finding him amusing; it didn’t bother him.
He had never, of course, had any intention of taking a camera to Blank’s apartment. What would a photograph of an ice ax prove? But he did take a set of locksmith’s picks, of fine Swedish steel, fitted into individual pockets in a thin chamois case. Included in the set were long, slender tweezers. The case went into his inside jacket pocket. In the lefthand pocket he clipped a two-battery penlite. Into his overcoat pocket he folded a pair of thin black silk gloves. Barbara called them his “undertaker’s gloves.”
At 2:30, Captain Delaney walked steadily up the driveway, pushed through the lobby door. Lipsky saw him almost at once. His face was pale, sheeny with sweat. His hand dipped into his lefthand jacket pocket. Brainless idiot, Delaney thought mournfully. The whole idea had been to transfer the keys during a normal handshake. Well, it couldn’t be helped now …
He advanced, smiling, holding out his right hand. Lipsky grabbed it with a damp palm and only then realized the keys were gripped in his left fist. He dropped Delaney’s hand, transferred the keys, almost losing them in the process. Delaney plucked them lightly from Lipsky’s nerveless fingers. The Captain slid them into his overcoat pocket, still smiling slightly, and said, “Any trouble, give me three fast rings on the intercom.”
Lipsky turned even paler. It was a warning Delaney had deliberately avoided giving the doorman at the luncheonette; it might have queered the whole thing right then.
He sauntered slowly toward the elevator banks, turning left to face the cars marked 15-34. Two other people were waiting: a man flipping through a magazine, a woman with an overflowing Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. A door slid open on a self-service elevator; a young couple with a small child came out. Delaney hung back a moment, then followed the other two into the elevator. The man punched 16, the woman pushed 21—Blank’s floor. Delaney pressed 24.
Both men removed their hats. They rode up in silence. The magazine reader got off at 16. The woman with the shopping bag got off at 21. Delaney rode up to 24 and stepped out. He killed a few minutes pinpointing the direction of apartment H, assuming it was in the same location on every floor.
He came back to the elevators to push the Down button. Thankfully, the elevator that stopped for him a moment later was empty. He pushed 21, suddenly became aware of the soft music. He didn’t recognize the tune. The door opened at 21. He pushed the Lobby button, then stepped out quickly before the doors closed.
The 21st Floor corridor was empty. He took off his fleece-lined leather gloves, stuffed them in an overcoat pocket, pulled on his “undertaker’s gloves.” As he walked the carpeted corridor, he scraped soles and heels heavily, hoping to remove whatever mud or dog shit or dust or dirt that had accumulated, possibly to show up in Blank’s apartment. And he noted the peephole in every door.
He rang the bell of apartment 21-H twice, heard it peal quietly inside. He waited a few moments. No answer. He went to work.
He had no trouble with two of the keys, but the third lock, the police bar, took more time. His hands were so large that he could not slip his fingers inside the partly opened door to disengage the diagonal rod. He finally took the tweezers from his pick case and, working slowly and without panic, moved the bar up out of its slot. The door swung open.
He stepped inside, closed the door gently behind him but did not lock it. He moved through the apartment swiftly, opening closet doors, glancing inside, closing them. He peeked behind the shower curtain in the bathroom, went down on his knees to peer under the bed. When he was satisfied the apartment was unoccupied, he returned to the front door, locked it, set the police bar in place.
The next step was silly, but basic. But perhaps not so silly. He remembered the case of a dick two who had spent four hours tossing the wrong apartment. Delaney went looking for subscription magazines, letters … anything. He found a shelf of books on computer technology. Each one, on the front end paper, bore an engraved bookplate neatly pasted in place. A nude youth with bow and arrow leaping through a forest glade. “Ex Libris. Daniel G. Blank.” Good enough.
He returned to the front door again, put his back against it, then began to stroll, to wander through the apartment. Just to absorb it, to try to understand what kind of a man lived here.
But did anyone live here? Actually breathe, sleep, eat, fart, belch, defecate in these sterile operating rooms? No cigarette butts, no tossed newspapers, no smells, no photos, personal mementoes, vulgar little geegaws, souvenirs, no unwashed glass or chipped paint or old burns or a cracked ceiling. It was all so antiseptic he could hardly believe it; the cold order and cleanliness were overwhelming. Furniture in black leather and chrome. Crystal ashtrays precisely arranged. An iron candelabra with each taper carefully burned down to a different length.
He thought of his own home: his, Barbara’s, their family’s.
Their home sang their history, who they were, their taste and lack of taste, worn things, used things, roots, smells of living, memories everywhere. You could write a biography of Edward X. Delaney from his home. But who was Daniel G. Blank? This decorator’s showroom, this model apartment said nothing. Unless.
That heavy beveled mirror in the foyer, handsomely framed. That long wall in the living room bearing at least 50 small mirrors of various shapes, individually framed. A full-length mirror on the bedroom door. A double medicine cabinet, both sliding doors mirrored. Did that plethora of mirrors say anything about the man who lived there?
There was another sure tip-off, to anyone’s life style: the contents of the refrigerator, kitchen cabinets, the bathroom cabinet. In the refrigerator, a bottle of vodka, three bottles of juice—orange, grapefruit, tomato. Salad fixings. Apples, tangerines, plums, peaches, dried apricots and dried prunes. In the cabinets, coffee, herbal teas, spices, health foods, organic cereals. No meats anywhere. No cheese. No coldcuts. No bread. No potatoes. But sliced celery and carrots.
In the bathroom, behind the sliding cabinet doors, he found the scented soaps, oils, perfumes, colognes, lotions, unguents, powders, deodorants, sprays. One bottle of aspirin. One bottle of pills, almost ful
l, he recognized as Librium. One envelope of pills he could not identify. One bottle of vitamin B-12 pills. Shaving gear. He closed the doors with the tips of his gloved fingers. Was the toilet paper scented? It was. He glanced at his watch. About ten minutes so far.
Once again he returned to the entrance, trying to walk softly in case the tenant in the apartment below might hear footsteps and wonder who was in Mr. Blank’s apartment at this hour.
He switched on the overhead light, opened the door of the foyer closet.
On the top shelf: six closed hatboxes and a trooper’s winter hat of black fur.
On the rod: two overcoats, three topcoats, two raincoats, a thigh-length coat of military canvas, olive-drab, fleece-lined, with an attached hood, a waist-length jacket, fur-lined, two light-weight nylon jackets.
On the floor: a sleeping bag rolled up and strapped, heavy climbing boots with ridged soles, a set of steel crampons, a rucksack, a webbed belt, a coil of nylon line, and …
One ice ax.
There it was. It was that easy. An ice ax. Delaney stared at it, feeling no elation. Perhaps satisfaction. No more than that.
He stared at it for almost a minute, not doubting his eyes but memorizing its exact position. Balanced on the handle butt. The head leaning against two walls in the corner. The leather thong loop from the end of the handle curved to the right, then doubled back upon itself.
The Captain reached in, picked it up in his gloved hand. He examined it closely. “Made in West Germany.” Similar to those sold by Outside Life. He sniffed at the head. Oiled steel. The handle darkened with sweat stains. Using one of his lock picks, he gently prized the leather covering away from the steel shaft, just slightly. No stains beneath the leather. But then, he hadn’t expected to find any.
He stood gripping the ax, loath to put it down. But it could tell him nothing more; he doubted very much if it could tell the forensic men anything either. He replaced it as carefully as he could, leaning it into the corner at the original angle, arranging the leather thong in its double-backed loop. He closed the closet door, looked at his watch. Fifteen minutes.
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