All Delaney’s interest in a possible injury to Dan’s left arm was due, of course, to the evidence of a scuffle, a fight, at the scene of the most recent homicide. Albert Feinberg had made his killer bleed a few drops on the sidewalk. He might have done more.
What time was it? Getting on toward midnight, Delaney guessed. On a long stake-out like this he very deliberately avoided looking at his watch. Start watching the clock, and you were dead; time seemed to go backwards. When the sky lightened, when it was dawn, then he could go home and sleep. Not before.
He varied his patrol, just to keep himself alert. Three up-and-downs on the apartment side. Crossing at different corners. Stopping in the middle of the block to retrace his steps. Anything to keep from walking in a dream. But always watching the lobby entrance. If his friend came out again, he’d come through there.
He finished his sandwich but saved the remainder of the brandy for later. It must be in the low 40s or high 30s by now; he put on his earmuffs. They were cops’ style, connected with a strip of elastic that went entirely around his head, and they fitted snugly. No metal band clamping them to his ears. That clamp could get so cold you thought your skull was coming off.
So what was this business about right hand, left hand, and slit pockets? He knew—no doubt at all—that Daniel Blank was guilty of four homicides. But what he needed was hard evidence, good enough to take to the DA and hope for an indictment. That was the reason for the Handry interview, and the follow-ups he’d have to make on Blank’s girl friend, the boy Tony, the Mortons. They were leads that any detective would investigate. They might peter out—probably would—but one of them might, just might, pay off. Then he could nail Danny Boy and bring him to trial. And then?
Then Delaney knew exactly what would happen. Blank’s smart, expensive lawyer would cop an insanity plea—“This sick man killed four complete strangers for no reason whatsoever. I ask you, Your Honor, were those the acts of a sane man?”—and Dan would be hidden away in an acorn academy for a period of years.
It would happen, and Delaney couldn’t object too strongly; Blank was sick, no doubt of that. Hospitalization, in his case, was preferable to imprisonment. But still … Well, what was it he, Delaney, wanted? Just to get this nut out of circulation? Oh no. No. More than that.
It wasn’t only Dan’s motives he couldn’t understand; it was his own as well. His thoughts about it were nebulous; he would have to do a lot more pondering. But he knew that never in his life had he felt such an affinity for a criminal. He had a sense that if he could understand Dan, he might better understand himself.
Later in the morning, the sky lightening now, Delaney continued his patrol, swinging his arms, stamping his feet because the brandy had worn off; it was goddamned cold. He got back to the problem of Daniel G. Blank, and to his own problems.
The truth came to him slowly, without shock. Well, it was his “truth.” It was that he wanted this man dead.
What was in Daniel Blank, what was in him, what he hoped to demolish by putting Dan to death was evil, all evil. Wasn’t that it? The idea was so irrational that he could not face, could not consider it.
He looked up to the sky again; it was once again black. It had been a false dawn. He resumed his patrol, flinging his arms sideways to smack his own shoulders, slapping his feet on the pavement, shivering in the darkness.
The phone awoke him. When he looked at the bedside clock it was almost 11:00 a.m. He wondered why Mary hadn’t picked it up downstairs, then remembered it was her day off. And he had left a note for her on the kitchen table. He really hadn’t been functioning too well when he came off that patrol, but he felt okay now. He must have slept “fast”—as they said in the Army; those four hours had been as good as eight.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“This is Handry. I got that interview set up with Blank.”
“Good. When’s it for?”
“The day after Christmas.”
“Any trouble?”
“Noo … not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“I did just what you said, contacted the Javis-Bircham PR man. He was all for it. So I went to see him. You know the type: a big laugh and lots of teeth. I showed him my press pass but he didn’t even look at it. He’ll never check with the paper. He can’t believe anyone could con him. He’s too bright—he thinks.”
“So what went wrong?”
“Nothing went wrong … exactly. He suggested the names of four young, up-and-coming J-B executives—that’s the way he kept referring to the corporation, J-B, like IBM, GE and GM—but none of the four names was Blank’s.”
“Did you tell him you wanted to interview a guy familiar with the uses and future of the computer in business?”
“Of course. But he didn’t mention Blank. That’s odd—don’t you think?”
“Mmm. Maybe. So how did you handle it?”
“Told him I was particularly interested in AMROK II. That’s the computer mentioned in that release about Blank I dredged out of the Fink File. Remember?”
“I remember. What did he say to that?”
“Well, then, he mentioned Blank, and agreed when I said I wanted to interview him. But he wasn’t happy about it, I could tell.”
“It might be personal animosity. You know—office politics. Maybe he hates Blank’s guts and doesn’t want him to get any personal publicity.”
“Maybe,” Handry said doubtedly, “but that’s not the impression I got.”
“What impression did you get?”
“Just a crazy idea.”
“Let’s have it,” Delaney said patiently.
“That maybe Blank’s stock is falling. That maybe he hasn’t been doing a good job. That maybe the rumor is around that they’re going to get rid of him. So naturally the PR man wouldn’t want an article in the paper that says what a great genius Blank is, and a week later J-B ties a can to him. Sound crazy?”
Delaney was silent, thinking it over. “No,” he said finally, “not so crazy. In fact, it may make a lot of sense. Can you have lunch today?”
“You paying?”
“Sure.”
“Then I can have lunch today. Where and when?”
“How about that chophouse where we ate before?”
“Sure. Fine. Great ale.”
“About twelve-thirty? In the bar?”
“I’ll be there.”
The Captain went to shave. As he scraped his jaw, he thought that Handry’s impression might possibly be correct. Blank’s little hobby could be affecting his efficiency during office hours; that wasn’t hard to understand. He had been the corporation’s fairhaired boy when that Fink File release was sent out. But now they weren’t happy about his being interviewed by the press. Interesting.
Wiping away excess lather and splashing after-shave lotion on his face, Delaney decided he better brief Handry on the upcoming interview during lunch. The interview was scheduled for the day after Christmas. By that time Handry might be reporting the results to Broughton, if he wanted to. But Delaney was determined to do everything he possibly could right up to that 24-hour deadline Alinski had promised which, when the Captain left the house, was now only six hours away.
Handry ordered a broiled veal chop and draft ale. Delaney had a rye highball and steak-and-kidney pie.
“Listen,” the Captain said to the reporter “we’ve got a lot to get through, so let’s get started on it right away.”
Handry stared at him. “What’s up?” he asked.
“What’s up?” Delaney repeated, puzzled. “What, do you mean, ‘What’s up’?”
“We’ve been sitting here five minutes at the most. You’ve already looked at your watch twice, and you keep fiddling with the silverware. You never did that before.”
“You should be a detective,” Delaney growled, “and go looking for clues.”
“No, thanks. Detectives lie too much, and they always answer a question with a question. Right?”
“When did I ever answer a question with a question?”
Handry shook with laughter, spluttering. Finally, when he calmed down, he said: “On the way over, just before I left the office, I met a guy at the water cooler. He’s on the political side. City. He says there was a big meeting at the Mansion last night. Heavy brass. He says the rumor is that Deputy Commissioner Broughton is on the skids. Because of his flop with Operation Lombard. You know anything about that?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t affect you one way or another?”
“No.”
“All right,” Handry sighed. “Have it your own way. So, like you said, let’s get started.”
“Look,” Delaney said earnestly, leaning forward across the table on his elbows. “I’m not conning you. Sure, there are some things I’m not telling you, but they’re not mine to tell. You’ve been a great help to me. This interview with Blank is important. I don’t want you to think I’m deliberately lying to you.”
“All right, all right,” Handry said, holding up a hand. “I believe you. Now, what I’d guess you’d like to know most from this Blank interview is whether or not he’s a mountain climber, and if he owns an ice ax. Right?”
“Right,” the Captain said promptly, not bothering to mention that he had already established these facts. It was necessary that Handry continue to believe that his interview was important. “Sure, I want to know what he does at Javis-Bircham, what his job is, how many people work for him, and so on. That has to be the bulk of the interview or he’ll get suspicious. But what I really want is his personal record, his history, his background, the man himself. Can you get that?”
“Sure.”
“You can? All right, let’s suppose I’m Blank. You’re interviewing me. How do you go about it?”
Handry thought a moment, then: “Could you tell me something about your personal life, Mr. Blank? Where you were born, schools you attended—things like that.”
“What for? I thought this interview was about the installation of AMROK II and the possibilities for the computer in business?”
“Oh, it is, it is. But in these executive interviews, Mr. Blank, we always try to include a few personal items. It adds to the readability of the article and to make the man interviewed a real person.”
“Good, good,” Delaney nodded. “You’ve got the right idea. Play up to his ego. There are millions of readers out there who want to know about him, not just the job he does.”
Their food and drinks arrived, and they dug in, but Delaney wouldn’t pause.
“Here’s what I need about him,” he said, and took a deep swallow from his glass. “Where and when he was born, schools, military service, previous jobs, marital status. All right—let’s take marital status. I’m Blank again. You ask questions.”
“Are you married, Mr. Blank?” Handry asked.
“Is that important to the article?”
“Well, if you’d rather not …”
“I’m divorced. I guess it’s no secret.”
“I see. Any children?”
“No.”
“Any plans for marriage in the near future?”
“I really don’t think that has any place in your article, Mr. Handry.”
“No. You’re right. I guess not. But we have a lot of women readers, Mr. Blank—more than you’d guess—and things like that interest them.”
“You’re doing great,” Delaney said approvingly. “Actually, he’s got a girl friend, but I doubt if he’ll mention her. Now let’s rehearse the mountain climbing thing. How will you go about that?”
“Do you have any hobbies, Mr. Blank? Stamp collecting, skiing, boating, bird watching—anything like that?”
“Well … as a matter of fact, I’m a mountain climber. An amateur one, I assure you.”
“Mountain climbing? That is interesting. Where do you do that?”
“Oh … here, in the States. And in Europe.”
“Where in Europe?”
“France, Switzerland, Italy, Austria. I don’t travel as much as I’d like to, but I try to include some climbing wherever I go.”
“Fascinating sport—but expensive, isn’t it, Mr. Blank? I mean, outside the travel. I’m just asking out of personal curiosity, but don’t you need a lot of equipment?”
“Oh … not so much. Outdoor winter wear, of course. A rucksack. Crampons. Nylon rope.”
“And an ice ax?”
“No,” Delaney said definitely. “Don’t say that. If Blank doesn’t mention it, don’t you suggest it. If he’s guilty, I don’t want to alert him. Handry, this stuff could be important, very important, but don’t say anything or suggest anything that might make him think your conversation is anything but what it’s supposed to be—an interview with a young executive who works with a computer.”
“You mean if he suspects it’s not what it seems, I may be in danger.”
“Oh yes,” the Captain nodded, digging into his meat pie. “You may be.”
“Thanks a whole hell of a lot,” Handry said, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re making me feel much better about the whole thing.”
“You’ll do all right,” Delaney assured him. “You take shorthand on these interviews?”
“My own kind. Very short notes. Single words. No one else can read it. I transcribe as soon as I get home or back to the office.”
“Good. Just take it easy. From what you’ve said, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the personal history, the background. Or with the hobby of mountain climbing. But on the ice ax and his romantic affairs, don’t push. If he wants to tell you, fine. If not, drop it. I’ll get it some other way.”
They each had another drink, finished their food. Neither wanted dessert, but Captain Delaney insisted they have espresso and brandy.
“That’s a great flavor,” Handry said, having taken a sip of his cognac. “You’re spoiling me. I’m used to a tuna fish sandwich for lunch.”
“Yes,” Delaney smiled. “Me, too. Oh, by the way, a couple of other little things.”
Handry put down his brandy snifter, looked at him with wonderment, shaking his head. “You’re incredible,” he said. “Now I understand why you insisted on the cognac. ‘A couple of little things?’ Like asking Blank if he’s the killer, or putting my head in the lion’s mouth at the zoo?”
“No, no,” Delaney protested. “Really little things. First of all, see if you can spot any injury to his left hand. Or wrist, arm or elbow. It might be bandaged or in a sling.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Just take a look, that’s all. See if he uses his left arm normally. Can he grip anything in his left hand? Does he hide it beneath his desk? Just observe—that’s all.”
“All right,” Handry sighed. “I’ll observe. What’s the other ‘little thing’?”
“Try to get a sample of his handwriting.”
Handry looked at him in astonishment. “You are incredible,” he said. “How in Christ’s name am I supposed to do that?”
“I have no idea,” Delaney confessed. “Maybe you can swipe something he signed. No, that’s no good. I don’t know. You think about it. You’ve got a good imagination. Just some words he’s written and his signature. That’s all I need. If you can manage it.”
Handry didn’t answer. They finished their brandy and coffee. The Captain paid the check, and they left. Outside on the sidewalk, they turned coat collars up against the winter wind. Delaney put his hand on Handry’s arm.
“I want the stuff we talked about,” he said in a low voice. “I really do. But what I want most of all are your impressions of the man. You’re sensitive to people; I know you are. How could you want to be a poet and not be sensitive to people, what they are, what they think, what they feel, who they hate, who they love? That’s what I want you to do. Talk to this man. Observe him. Notice all the little things he does—bites his fingernails, picks his nose, strokes his hair, fidgets, crosses his legs back and forth—anything and everything. Watch
him. And absorb him. Let him seep, into you. Who is he and what is he? Would you like to know him better? Does he frighten you, disgust you, amuse you? That’s really what I want—your feeling about him. All right?”
“All right,” Thomas Handry said.
As soon as he got home, Delaney called Barbara at the hospital. She said she had had a very good night’s sleep and was feeling much better. Monica Gilbert was there, they were having a nice visit, she liked Monica very much. The Captain said he was glad, and would come over to see her in the evening, no matter what.
“I send you a kiss,” Barbara said, and made a kissing sound on the phone.
“And I send you one,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said, and repeated the sound. What he had always considered silly sentimentality now didn’t seem silly to him at all, but meaningful and so touching he could hardly endure it.
He called Charles Lipsky. The doorman was low-voiced and cautious.
“Find anything?” he whispered.
For a moment, Delaney didn’t know what he was talking about, then realized Lipsky was referring to the previous afternoon’s search.
“No,” the Captain said. “Nothing. The girl friend been around?”
“Haven’t seen her.”
“Remember what I said; you get the license number and—”
“I remember,” Lipsky said hurriedly. “Twenty. Right?”
“Yes,” Delaney said. “One other thing, is anything wrong with Blank’s left arm? Is it hurt?”
“He was carrying it in a sling for a couple of days.”
“Was he?”
“Yeah. I asked him. He said he slipped on a little rug in his living room. His floors were just waxed. He landed on his elbow. And he hit his face on the edge of a glass table, so it was scratched up.”
“Well,” the Captain said, “they say most accidents happen in the home.”
“Yeah. But the scratches are gone and he ain’t wearing the sling no more. That worth anything?”
“Don’t get greedy,” Delaney said coldly.
“Greedy?” Lipsky said indignantly. “Who’s greedy? But one hand washes the other—right?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” the Captain said. “You still on days?”
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