The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not? He thinks this Blank stinks on ice.

  “How can I get in touch with him?”

  “You can call him on the lobby phone. You know where this Blank lives?”

  “Oh sure. That’s a good idea. I’ll call Lipsky there. Maybe this Blank is shacking up or something and is playing my client’s daughter along for kicks or maybe he smells money.”

  “Could be. Another drink?”

  “Not right now. Listen, have you seen Blank since he got in that fight in here?”

  “Sure. The bastard was in a few nights ago. He thought I didn’t recognize him, the shit, but I never forget a face.”

  “Did he behave himself?”

  “Oh sure. He was quiet. I didn’t say word one to him. Just served him his drink and left him alone. He had some Christmas packages with him so I guess he had been out shopping.” Christmas packages. It could be the night Albert Feinberg was killed. But Delaney didn’t dare press it.

  “Thanks very much,” he said, sliding off the stool. He started toward the door, then stopped and came back. The ten-dollar bill had disappeared.

  “Oh,” he said, snapping his fingers, “two more things…Could you call your brother-in-law and tell him I’m going to call him? I mean, it would help if I didn’t just call him cold. You can tell him what it’s all about, and there’ll be a couple of bucks in it for him.”

  “Sure,” the bartender nodded, “I can do that. I talk to him almost every day anyway. When he’s on days, he usually stops by for a brew when he gets off. But he’s on nights this week. You won’t get him before eight tonight. But I’ll call him at home.”

  “Many thanks. I appreciate that. The other thing is this: if Blank should stop in for a drink, tell him I was around asking questions about him. You don’t have to give him my name; just tell him a private investigator was in asking questions. You can describe me.” He grinned at the bartender. “Might put the fear of God in him. Know what I mean?”

  “Yeah,” the man grinned back, “I know what you mean.”

  He returned home to find a packet of Operation Lombard reports Mary had signed for. He left them on the hallway table, went directly to the kitchen, still wearing his stiff Homburg and heavy, shapeless overcoat. He was so hungry he was almost sick, and realized he had eaten nothing since breakfast. Mary had left a pot of lamb stew on the range. It was still vaguely warm, not hot, but he didn’t care. He stood there in Homburg and overcoat, and forked out pieces of lamb, a potato, onions, carrots. He got a can of beer from the refrigerator and drank, deeply from that, not bothering with a glass. He gulped everything, belching once or twice. After awhile he began to feel a little better; his knees stopped trembling.

  He took off hat and coat, opened another can of beer, brought that and the Operation Lombard reports into the study. He donned his glasses, sat at his desk. He began writing an account of his interview with the bartender at The Parrot.

  He filed away his account, then opened the package of Operation Lombard reports dealing with the murder of the fourth victim, Albert Feinberg. There were sketchy preliminary statements from the first uniformed patrolmen on the scene, lengthier reports from detectives, temporary opinion of the Medical Examiner (Dr. Sanford Ferguson again), an inventory of the victim’s effects, the first interview with the victim’s widow, photos of the corpse and murder scene, etc., etc.

  As Lt. Dorfman had said, there were “extras” that were not present in the three previous homicides. Captain Delaney made a careful list of them:

  1. Signs of a struggle. Victim’s jacket lapel torn, necktie awry, shirt pulled from belt. Scuff marks of heels (rubber) and soles (leather) on the sidewalk.

  2. Three Christmas packages nearby. One, which contained a black lace negligee, bore the victim’s fingerprints. The other two were empty—dummy packages—and bore no prints at all, neither on the outside wrapping paper nor the inside boxes.

  3. Drops of blood on the sidewalk a few feet from where the victim’s battered skull rested. Careful scrapings and analysis proved these several drops were not the victim’s blood type and were presumed to be the killer’s. (Delaney made a note to call Ferguson and find out exactly what blood types were involved.)

  4. The victim’s wallet and credit card case appeared to be intact in his pockets. His wife stated that, to her knowledge, no identification was missing. However, pinned behind the left lapel of the victim’s overcoat and poking through the buttonhole, examiners had found a short green stem. The forensic men had identified it as genus Rosa, family Rosaceae, order Rosales. Investigation was continuing to determine, if possible, exactly what type of rose the victim had been sporting on his overcoat lapel.

  He was going over the reports once again when the outside door bell rang. Before he answered it, he slid the Operation Lombard material and his own notes into his top desk drawer and closed it tightly. Then he went to the door, brought Thomas Handry back into the study, took his coat and hat. He poured a Scotch on the rocks for Handry, drained the warm dregs of his own beer, then mixed himself a rye and water, sat down heavily behind the desk. Handry slumped in the leather club chair, crossed his knees.

  “Well…” Delaney said briskly. “What have you got?”

  “What have you got, Captain? Remember our deal?” Delaney stared at the neatly dressed young man a moment. Handry seemed tired; his forehead was seamed, diagonal lines that hadn’t been there before now ran from the corners of his nose down to the sides of his mouth. He bit continually at the hard skin around his thumbnails.

  “Been working hard?” Delaney asked quietly.

  “Handry shrugged. “The usual. I’m thinking of quitting.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’m not getting any younger, and I’m not doing what I want to do.”

  “How’s the writing coming?”

  “It’s not. I get home at night and all I want to do is take off my shoes, mix a drink, and watch the boob tube.” Delaney nodded. “You’re not married, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Got a woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “What does she think about your quitting?”

  “She’s all for it. She’s got a good job. Makes more than I do. She says she’ll support us until I can get published or get a job I can live with.”

  “You don’t like newspaper work?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Why not?”

  “I didn’t know there was so much shit in the world. I can’t take much more of it. But I didn’t come here to talk about my problems.”

  “Problems?” the Captain said, surprised. “That’s what it’s all about. Some you have to handle. Some there’s nothing you can do about. Some go away by themselves if you wait long enough. What were you worrying about five years ago?”

  “Who the hell knows.”

  “Well…there you are. All right, here’s what I’ve got…” Handry knew about the Captain’s amateurs, of the checkings of mailing lists and sales slips, of the setting up of Monica Gilbert’s master file of names, the investigation of their criminal records.

  Now the Captain brought him up-to-date on Daniel Blank, how he, Delaney, had found the year-old beef sheets in the Precinct house basement, the search of Blank’s car, the interview with the bartender at The Parrot.

  “…and that’s all I’ve got,” he concluded. “So far.” Handry shook his head. “Pretty thin.”

  “I know.”

  “You’re not even sure if this guy is a mountain climber.”

  “That’s true. But he was on the Outside Life mailing list, and that map in his car could be marked to a place where he climbs in this area.”

  “Want to go to the D.A. with that?”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “You don’t even know if he owns an ice ax.”

  “That’s true; I don’t.”

  “Well, what I’ve got isn’t going to help you much more.” He drew an envelope from his breast pocket, leaned
forward, scaled it onto Delaney’s desk. The envelope was unsealed. The Captain drew out a 4x5 glossy photo and a single Xerox sheet that he unfolded and smoothed out on his desk blotter. He tilted his desk lamp to cast a stronger beam, took up the photo. He stared at it a long time. There. You. Are.

  It was a close-up. Daniel Blank was staring directly at the lens. His shoulders were straight and wide. There was a faint smile on his lips, but not in his eyes.

  He seemed remarkably youthful. His face was smooth, unlined. Small ears set close to the skull. A strong jaw. Prominent cheek bones. Large eyes, widely spaced, with an expression at once impassive and brooding. Straight hair, parted on the left, but combed flatly back. Heavy brows. Sculpted and unexpectedly tender lips, softly curved.

  “Looks a little like an Indian,” Delaney said.

  “No,” Handry said. “More Slavic. Almost Mongol. Look like a killer to you?”

  “Everyone looks like a killer to me,” Delaney said, not smiling. He turned his attention to the copy of the press release.

  It was dated almost two years previously. It was brief, only two paragraphs, and said merely that Daniel G. Blank had been appointed Circulation Director of all Javis-Bircham Publications and would assume his new duties immediately. He was planning to computerize the Circulation Department of Javis-Bircham and would be in charge of the installation of AMROK II, a new computer that had been leased and would occupy almost an entire floor of the Javis-Bircham Building on West 46th Street.

  Delaney read through the release again, then pushed it away from him. He took off his heavy glasses, placed them on top of the release. Then he leaned back in his swivel chair, clasped his hands behind his head, stared at the ceiling.

  “I told you it wouldn’t be much help,” Handry said.

  “Oh…I don’t know,” Delaney murmured dreamily. “There are some things…Fix yourself a fresh drink.”

  “Thanks. You want some more rye?”

  “All right. A little.”

  He waited until Handry was settled back in the club chair again. Then the Captain sat up straight, put on his glasses, read the release again. He moved his glasses down on his nose, stared at Handry over the rims.

  “How much do you think the Circulation Director of Javis-Bircham earns?”

  “Oh, I’d guess a minimum of thirty thousand. And if it ran to fifty, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”

  “That much?”

  “Javis-Bircham is a big outfit. I looked it up. It’s in the top five hundred of all the corporations in the country.”

  “Fifty thousand? Pretty good for a young man.”

  “How old is he?” Handry asked.

  “I don’t know exactly. Around thirty-five I’d guess.”

  “Jesus. What does he do with his money?”

  “Pays a heavy rent. Keeps an expensive car. Pays alimony. Travels, I suppose. Invests. Maybe he owns a summer home; I don’t know. There’s a lot I don’t know about him.”

  He got up to add more ice to his drink. Then he began to wander about the room, carrying the highball.

  “The computer,” he said. “What was it—AMROK II?” Handry, puzzled, said nothing.

  “Want to hear something funny?” Delaney asked.

  “Sure. I could use a good laugh.”

  “This isn’t funny-haha; this is funny strange. I was a detective for almost twenty years before I transferred to the Patrol Division. In those twenty years I had my share of cases involving sexual aberrations, either as a primary or secondary motive. And you know, a lot of those cases—many more than could be accounted for by statistical averages—involved electronic experts, electricians, mechanics, computer programmers, bookkeepers and accountants. Men who worked with things, with machinery, with numbers. These men were rapists or Peeping Toms or flashers or child molesters or sadists or exhibitionists. This is my own experience, you understand. I have never seen any study that breaks down sex offenders according to occupation. I think I’ll suggest an analysis like that to Inspector Johnson. It might prove valuable.”

  “How do you figure it?”

  “I can’t. It might just be my own experience with sex offenders, too limited to be significant. But it does seem to me that men whose jobs are—are mechanized or automated, whose daily relations with people are limited, are more prone to sex aberrations than men who have frequent and varied human contacts during their working hours. Whether the sex offense is due to the nature of the man’s work, or whether the man unconsciously sought that type of work because he was already a potential sex offender and feared human contact, I can’t say. How would you like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office?” Handry was startled. His drink slopped over the rim of the glass.

  “What?” he asked incredulously. “What did you say?” Delaney started to repeat his question, but the phone on his desk shrilled loudly.

  “Delaney here.”

  “Edward? Thorsen. Can you talk?”

  “Not very well.”

  “Can you listen a moment?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good news. We think Broughton’s on the way out. This fourth killing did it. The Mayor and Commissioner and their top aides are meeting tonight on it.”

  “I see.”

  “If I hear anything more tonight, I’ll let you know.”

  “Thank you.”

  “How are you coming?”

  “So-so.”

  “Got a name?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Hang in there. Things are beginning to break.”

  “All right. Thank you for calling.”

  He hung up, turned back to Handry. “I asked how you’d like to go talk to Daniel Blank in his office.”

  “Oh sure,” Handry nodded. “Just waltz in and say, ‘Mr. Blank, Captain Edward X. Delaney of the New York Police Department thinks you axed four men to death on the east side. Would you care to make a statement?’”

  “No, not like that,” Delaney said seriously. “Javis-Bircham will have a publicity or public relations department, won’t they?”

  “Bound to.”

  “I’d do this myself, but you have a press card and identifications man. Identify yourself. Make an appointment. The top man. When you go see him, flash your buzzer. Say that your paper is planning a series of personality profiles on young, up-and-coming executives, the—”

  “Hey, wait a minute!”

  “The new breed of young executives who are familiar with computers, market sampling, demographic percentages and all that shit. Ask the public relations man to suggest four or five young, progressive Javis-Bircham executives who might fit the type your paper is looking for.”

  “Now see here—”

  “Don’t—repeat, do not—ask for Blank by name. Just come down hard on the fact that you’re looking for a young executive familiar with the current use and future value of computers in business operations. Blank is certain to be one of the four or five men he suggests to you. Ask a few questions about each man he suggests. Then you pick Blank. See how easy it is?”

  “Easy?” Handry' shook his head. “Madness! And what if the Javis-Bircham PR man checks back with the finance editor of my paper and finds out no such series of articles is planned?”

  “Chances are he won’t. He’ll be happy to get the publicity for Javis-Bircham, won’t he?”

  “But what if he does check? Then I’ll be out on my ass.”

  “So what? You’re thinking of quitting anyway, aren’t you? So one of your problems is solved right there.”

  Handry stared at him, shaking his head. “You really are a special kind of bastard,” he said in wonderment.

  “Or,” Delaney went on imperturbably, “if you like, you can give the finance editor on your paper a cover story. Tell him it’s a police case—which it is—and if he asks questions, tell him it involves a big embezzlement or fraud or something like that. Don’t mention the Lombard case. He’d probably cover for you if the Javis-Bircham PR man called and say, yes, the paper
was planning a series of articles on young, progressive executives. He’d do that for you, wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe.”

  “So you’ll do it?”

  “Just one question: why the fuck should I?”

  “Two answers to that. One, if Blank turns out to be the killer, you’ll be the only reporter in the world who had a personal interview with him. That’s worth something, isn’t it? Two, you want to be a poet, don’t you? Or some kind of writer other than a reporter or a rewrite man. How can you expect to be a good writer if you don’t understand people, if you don’t know what makes them tick? You’ve got to learn to get inside people, to penetrate their minds, their hearts, their souls. What an opportunity this is—to meet and talk to a man who might have slaughtered four human beings!”

  Handry drained his drink in a gulp. He rose, poured himself another, stood with his back to Delaney.

  “You really know how to go for the jugular, don’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Aren’t you ever ashamed of the way you manipulate people?”

  “I don’t manipulate people. Sometimes I give them the chance to do what they want to do and never had the opportunity. Will you do it, Handry?”

  There was silence. The reporter took a deep breath, then blew it out. He turned to face Delaney.

  “All right,” he said.

  “Good,” the Captain nodded. “Set up the appointment with Blank the way I’ve outlined it. Use your brains. I know you’ve got a good brain. The day before your interview is scheduled, give me a call. We’ll have a meet and I’ll tell you what questions to ask him. Then we’ll have a rehearsal.”

  “A rehearsal?”

  “That’s right. I’ll play Blank, to give you an idea of how he might react to your questions and how you can follow up on things he might or might not say.”

  “I’ve interviewed before,” Handry protested. “Hundreds of times.”

  “None as important as this. Handry, you’re an amateur liar. I’m going to make you a professional.”

  The reporter nodded grimly. “If anyone can, you can. You don’t miss a trick, do you?”