The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  Barbara was still babbling, eyes closed, an almost-smile on her lips, and he waited anxiously, alone, while the nurse left for a moment to consult her medication chart. He listened to a never-ending stream of meaningless chatter: Lombard and Honey Bunch and suddenly, “I need a hundred dollars,” and Eddie and Liza, and then she was at the carousel in the park, describing it and laughing, and the painted horses went round and round, and then the nurse came back with a covered tray, removed a hypodermic, gave Barbara a shot in the arm, near the wrist. In a few moments she was calm, then sleeping.

  “Jesus Christ,” Delaney breathed, “what happened to her? What was that?”

  “Just upset,” the nurse smiled mechanically. “She’s all right now. She’s sleeping peaceably.”

  “Peacefully,” the Captain said.

  “Peacefully,” the nurse repeated obediently. “If you have any questions, please contact your doctor in the morning.” She marched out. Delaney stared after her, wondering if there was any end to the madness in the world. He turned back to the bed. Barbara was, apparently, sleeping peacefully. He felt so goddamned frightened, helpless, furious.

  It wasn’t 7:00 p.m., so he couldn’t call Thorsen. He walked home, hoping, just hoping, he might be attacked. He was not armed, but he didn’t care. He would kick them in the balls, bite their throats—he was in that mood. He looked around at the shadowed streets. “Try me,” he wanted to shout. “Come on! I’m here.”

  He got inside, took off his hat and coat, treated himself to two straight whiskies. He calmed down, gradually. What a thing that had been. He was home now, unhurt, thinking clearly. But Barbara…

  He sat stolidly sipping his whiskey until 7:00 p.m. Then he called Thorsen’s number, not really caring. Thorsen called him back almost immediately.

  “Edward?”

  “Yes.”

  “Something important?”

  “I think so. Can you get Johnson?”

  “He’s here now.”

  Then Delaney became aware of the tone of the man’s voice, the tightness, urgency.

  “I’ve got to see you,” the Captain said. “The sooner the better.”

  “Yes,” Thorsen agreed. “Can you come over now?”

  “Your office or home?”

  “Home.”

  “I’ll take a cab,” Captain Delaney told him. “About twenty minutes, at the most.”

  He hung up, then said, “Fuck ’em all,” in a loud voice. But he went into the kitchen, found a paper shopping bag in the cabinet under the sink, brought it back to the study. In it he placed the three hammers and the can of machine oil—all his “physical evidence.” Then he set out.

  Mrs. Thorsen met him at the door, took his coat and hat and hung them away. She was a tall silver-blonde almost gaunt, but with good bones and the most beautiful violet eyes Delaney had ever seen. They chatted a few moments, and he asked about Barbara. He mumbled something.

  “Have you eaten tonight, Edward?” she asked suddenly. He tried to think, not remembering, then shook his head. “I’m making some sandwiches. Ham-and-cheese all right? Or roast beef?”

  “Either or both will be fine, Karen.”

  “And I have some salad things. In about an hour or so. The others are in the living room—you know where.”

  There were three men in the room, all seated. Thorsen and Inspector Johnson rose and came forward to shake his hand. The third man remained seated; no one offered to introduce him.

  This man was short, chunky, swarthy, with a tremendous mustache. His hands lay flat on his knees, and his composure was monumental. Only his dark eyes moved, darting, filled with curiosity and a lively intelligence.

  It was only after he was seated that Delaney made him: Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski. He was a secretive, publicity-shy politico, reputed to be the mayor’s trouble-shooter and one of his closest confidants. In a short biographical sketch in the Times, the writer, speculating on Alinski’s duties, had come to the conclusion that, “Apparently, what he does most frequently is listen, and everyone who knows him agrees that he does that very well indeed.”

  “Drink, Edward?” Thorsen asked. “Rye highball?” Delaney looked around. Thorsen and Johnson had glasses. Alinski did not.

  “Not right now, thank you. Maybe later.”

  “All right. Karen is making up some sandwiches for us. Edward, you said you had something important for us. You can talk freely.”

  Again Delaney became conscious of the tension in Thorsen’s voice, and when he looked at Inspector Johnson, the big black seemed stiff and grim.

  “All right,” Delaney said. “I’ll take it from the top.”

  He started speaking, still seated, and then, in a few moments, rose to pace around the room, or pause with his elbow on the mantel. He thought and spoke better, he knew, on his feet, and could gesture freely. None of the three men interrupted, but their heads or eyes followed him wherever he strode.

  He began with Lombard’s death. The position of the body. His reasons for thinking the killer had approached from the front, then whirled to strike Lombard down from behind. The shape and nature of the wound. Oil in the wound. The missing driver’s license. His belief that it was taken as evidence of the kill. Then Langley, his expertise, and the discovery of the bricklayers’ hammer which led to the rock hounds’ hammer which led to the ice ax.

  At this point he unpacked his shopping bag and handed around the tools. The three men examined them closely, their faces expressionless as they tested edges with thumbs, hefted the weight and balance of the tools.

  Delaney went on: the Bernard Gilbert attack. The missing ID card. His belief that the assailant was psychopathic. A resident of the 251st Precinct. And would kill again. The information supplied by Handry: the Trotsky assassination and the name of Calvin Case. Then the interview with Case. The oil on the ice ax heads. He handed around the can of oil.

  He had them now, and the three were leaning forward intently, Thorsen and Johnson neglecting their drinks, the Deputy Mayor’s sharp eyes darting and glittering. There wasn’t a sound from them.

  Delaney told them about the interview with Sol Appel at Outside Life. The mailing list and itemized sales checks. Then he related how he had traced a profile of the ice ax head. How he had given that and a sample of machine oil to the surgeon who did the autopsy on Gilbert. How the profile on the wound checked out. How the oil would be analyzed on the OAI.

  “Who did the post?” Inspector Johnson asked.

  Alinski’s head swivelled sharply, and he spoke for the first time. “Post?” he asked. “What’s post?”

  “Post-mortem,” Delaney explained. “I promised to keep the surgeon’s name out of it.”

  “We could find out,” Alinski said mildly.

  “Of course,” the Captain said, just as mildly. “But not from me.”

  That seemed to satisfy Alinski. Thorsen asked how much Delaney had told the surgeon, had told Langley, Handry, Case, Mrs. Gilbert, Sol Appel.

  Only as much as they needed to know, Delaney assured him. They knew only that he was engaged in a private investigation of the deaths of Lombard and Gilbert, and they were willing to help.

  “Why?” Alinski asked.

  Delaney shrugged. “For reasons of their own.” There was silence for a few minutes, then Alinski spoke softly:

  “You have no proof, do you, Captain?”

  Delaney looked at him in astonishment.

  “Of course not. It’s all smoke, all theory. I haven’t told you or shown you a single thing that could be taken into court at this time.”

  “But you believe in it?”

  “I believe in it. For one reason only—there’s nothing else to believe in. Does Operation Lombard have anything better?”

  The three men turned heads to stare wordlessly at each other. Delaney could tell nothing from their expressions.

  “That’s really why I’m here,” he said, addressing Thorsen. “I want to turn—”

  But at that moment there was a
kicking at the door; not a knocking, but three sharp kicks. Thorsen sprang up, stalked over, opened the door and relieved his wife of a big tray of food.

  “Thank you dear,” he smiled.

  “There’s plenty more of everything,” she called to the other men. “So don’t be polite if you’re hungry; just ask.”

  Thorsen put the loaded tray on a low cocktail table, and they clustered around. There were ham-and-cheese sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, chunks of tomato, radishes, dill pickles, slices of Spanish onions, a jar of hot mustard, olives, potato chips, scallions.

  They helped themselves, all standing, and Thorsen mixed fresh drinks. This time Delaney had a rye and water, and Deputy Mayor Alinski took a double Scotch.

  Unwilling to sacrifice the momentum of what he had been saying, and the impression he had obviously made on them, Delaney began talking again, speaking between bites of his sandwich and pieces of scallion. This time he looked at Alinski as he spoke.

  “I want to turn over everything I’ve got to Chief Pauley. I admit it’s smoke, but it’s a lead. I’ve got three or four inexperienced people who can check sources of the ax and the Outside Life mailing list and sales checks. But Pauley’s got five hundred dicks and God knows how many deskmen if he needs them. It’s a question of time. I think Pauley should take this over; he can do it a lot faster than I can. It might prevent another kill, and I’m convinced there will be another, and another, and another, until we catch up with this nut.”

  The other three continued eating steadily, sipping their drinks and looking at him. Once Thorsen started to speak, but Alinski held up a hand, silencing him. Finally the Deputy Mayor finished his sandwich, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, took his drink back to his chair. He sat down, sighed, stared at Delaney.

  “A moral problem for you, isn’t it, Captain?” he asked softly.

  “Call it what you like,” Delaney shrugged. “I just feel what I have is strong enough to follow up on, and Chief Pauley is—”

  “Impossible,” Thorsen said.

  “Why impossible?” Delaney cried angrily. “If you—”

  “Calm down, Edward,” Inspector Johnson said quietly. He was on his third sandwich. “That’s why we wanted to talk to you tonight. You obviously haven’t been listening to radio or TV in the last few hours. You can’t turn over what you have to Chief Pauley. Broughton canned him a few hours ago.”

  “Canned him?”

  “Whatever you want to call it. Relieved him of command. Kicked him off Operation Lombard.”

  “Jesus Christ!” Delaney said furiously. “He can’t do that.”

  “He did it,” Thorsen nodded. “And in a particularly—in a particularly brutal way. Didn’t even tell the Chief. Just called a press conference and announced he was relieving Pauley of all command responsibilities relating to Operation Lombard. He said Pauley was inefficient and getting nowhere.”

  “But who the hell is—”

  “And Broughton is going to take over personal supervision of all the detectives assigned to Operation Lombard.”

  “Oh God,” Delaney groaned. “That tears it.”

  “You haven’t heard the,worst,” Thorsen went on, staring at him without expression. “About an hour ago Pauley filed for retirement. After what Broughton said, Pauley knows his career is finished, and he wants out.”

  Delaney sat down heavily in an armchair, looked down at his drink, swirling the ice cubes.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said bitterly. “Pauley was a good man. You have no idea how good. He was right behind me. Only because I had the breaks, and he didn’t. But he would have been on to this ice ax thing in another week or so. I know he would; I could tell it by the reports. God damn it! The Department can’t afford to lose men like Pauley. Jesus! A good brain and thirty years’ experience down the drain. It just makes me sick!”

  None of them said anything, giving him time to calm down. Alinski rose from his chair to go over to the food tray again, take a few radishes and olives. Then he came over to stand before Delaney’s chair, popping food.

  “You know, Captain,” he said gently, “this development really doesn’t affect your moral problem, does it? I mean, you can still take what you have to Broughton.”

  “I suppose so,” Delaney said morosely. “Canning Pauley, for God’s sake. Broughton’s out of his mind. He just wanted a goat to protect his own reputation.”

  “That’s what we think,” Inspector Johnson said.

  Delaney looked up at Deputy Mayor Alinski, still standing over him.

  “What’s it all about?” he demanded. “Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”

  “Do you really want to know, Captain?”

  “Yeah, I want to know,” Delaney grunted. “But I don’t want you to tell me. I’ll find out for myself.”

  “I think you will,” Alinski nodded. “I think you are a very smart man.”

  “Smart? Shit! I can’t even find one kill-crazy psychopath in my own precinct.”

  “It’s important to you, isn’t it, Captain, to find the killer? It’s the most important thing.”

  “Of course it’s the most important thing. This nut is going to keep killing, over and over and over. There will be shorter intervals between murders. Maybe he’ll hit in the daytime. Who the hell knows? But I can guarantee one thing: he won’t stop now. It’s a fever in his blood. He can’t stop. Wait’ll the newspapers get hold of this. And they will. Then the shit will hit the fan.”

  “Going to take what you have to Broughton?” Thorsen asked, almost idly.

  “I don’t know. I don’t know what I’ll do. I have to think about it.”

  “That’s wise,” Alinski said unexpectedly. “Think about it. There’s nothing like thought—long, deep thought.”

  “I just want all of you to know one thing,” Delaney said angrily, not understanding why he was angry. “The decision is mine. Only mine. What I decide to do, I’ll do.”

  They would have offered him something, but they knew better.

  Johnson came over to put a heavy hand on Delaney’s shoulder. The big black was grinning. “We know that, Edward. We knew you were a hard-nose from the start. We’re not going to lean on you.”

  Delaney drained his drink, rose, put the empty glass on the cocktail table. He repacked his paper shopping bag with hammers and the can of oil.

  “Thank you,” he said to Thorsen. “Thank Karen for me for the food. I can find my own way out.”

  “Will you call and tell me what you’ve decided, Edward?”

  “Sure. If I decide to go to Broughton, I’ll call you first.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Gentlemen,” Delaney nodded around, and marched out. They watched him go, all of them standing.

  He had to walk five blocks and lost two dimes before he found a public phone that worked. He finally got through to Thomas Handry.

  “Yes?”

  “Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Am I interrupting you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Working?”

  “Trying to.”

  “How’s it coming?”

  “It’s never as good as you want it to be.”

  “That’s true,” Delaney said, without irony and without malice. “True for poets and true for cops. I was hoping you could give me some help.”

  “That photo of the ice ax that killed Trotsky? I haven’t been able to find it.”

  “No, this is something else.”

  “You’re something else too, Captain—you know that? All for you and none for me. When are you going to open up?”

  “In a day or so.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise.”

  “All right. What do you want?”

  “What do you know about Broughton?”

  “Who?”

  “Broughton, Timothy A., Deputy Commissioner.”

  “That prick? Did you see him on TV tonight?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “
He fired Chief Pauley. For inefficiency and, he hinted, dereliction of duty. A sweet man.”

  “What does he want?”

  “Broughton? He wants to be commissioner, then mayor, then governor, then President of these here You-nited States. He’s got ambition and drive you wouldn’t believe.”

  “I gather you don’t approve of him.”

  “You gather right. I’ve had one personal interview with him. You know how most men carry pictures of their wives and children in their wallets? Broughton carries pictures of himself.”

  “Nice. Does he have any clout? Political clout?”

  “Very heavy indeed. Queens and Staten Island for starters. The talk is that he’s aiming for the primary next year. On a ‘law and order’ platform. You know, ‘We must clamp down on crime in the streets, no matter what it costs.”’

  “You think he’ll make it?”

  “He might. If he can bring off his Operation Lombard thing, it’s bound to help. And if Lombard’s killer turns out to be a black heroin addict on welfare who’s living with a white fifteen-year-old hippie with long blonde hair, there’ll be no stopping Broughton.”

  “You think the mayor’s worried?”

  “Wouldn’t you be?”

  “I guess. Thank you, Handry. You’ve made a lot of things a lot clearer.”

  “Not for me. What the hell is going on?”

  “Will you give me a day—or two?”

  “No more. Gilbert died, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. He did.”

  “There’s a connection, isn’t there?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two days,” Handry said. “No more. If I don’t hear from you by then, I’ll have to start guessing. In print.”

  “Good enough.”

  He walked home, the shopping bag bumping against his knee. Now he could understand something of what was going on—the tension of Thorsen, Johnson’s grimness, Alinski’s presence. He really didn’t want to get involved in all that political shit. He was a cop, a professional. Right now, all he wanted to do was catch a killer, but he seemed bound and strangled by this maze of other men’s ambitions, feuds, obligations.

  What had happened, he realized, was that his search for the killer of Lombard and Gilbert had become a very personal thing to him, a private thing, and he resented the intrusion of other men, other circumstances, other motives. He needed help, of course—he couldn’t do everything himself—but essentially it was a duel, a two-man combat, and outside advice, pressures, influence were to be shunned. You knew what you could do, and you respected your opponent’s ability and didn’t take him lightly. Whether it was a fencing exhibition or a duel to the death, you put your cock on the line.