Second Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  She nodded, apparently not caring. He made a small bow to her, and left.

  He lumbered over to Third Avenue and turned uptown. In this busy shopping district—big department stores, smart shops, fast-food joints jammed with noonday crowds—he pondered proper Latin. Was it qui bono or cui bono? He decided on the latter.

  Cui bono? The first question of any homicide dick: Who benefits? He had a disturbed son envious of his father’s talent. A sexless wife furious at her husband’s cheating. An art dealer scorned and humiliated in public. An artist friend jealous of the victim’s integrity. A quondam mistress hating his contempt. A mother and sister deserted and left to flounder.

  Some very highfalutin motives for murder—but cui bono?

  Edward X. Delaney ambled northward, considering the possibility of failure by limiting his investigation to these seven suspects. But the Department’s investigators had checked out all Maitland’s known drinking companions, models, neighbors, prostitutes, even distant relatives and old army buddies. Zilch. So Delaney was left with the seven. Cui bono?

  He picked up the photostats, paid, and asked for a receipt. He was keeping a careful list of all his expenses, to be submitted to the Department. He didn’t expect salary, but he’d be damned if he’d pay for the pleasure of assisting the NYPD.

  The house was empty when he returned. But there was a little note from Monica attached to the refrigerator door with a magnetic disk: Gone supermarketing. You need new shirts. Buy some.”

  He smiled. It was true the collars on some of his shirts were frazzled. He remembered when men had their collars turned when they got in that condition. Their wives did it, or the shirts were taken to local tailors who had signs posted: we turn collars. Put up a sign like that today, and no one would know what the hell you were talking about.

  He took a can of cold ale to his study. He took off his jacket and draped it across the back of his swivel chair. But he didn’t loosen his tie or roll up his cuffs. He repinned Maitland’s charcoal sketches to the map board and slid the photostats in a lower desk drawer. He planned to show them to Jake Dukker and Belle Sarazen, hoping for a make.

  He took a swallow of ale, then dialed the office of Deputy Commissioner Ivar Thorsen. He wasn’t in, but Delaney spoke to his assistant, Sergeant Ed Galey, and explained what he wanted: an opinion from the Department’s legal staff on how Victor Maitland’s estate would be divided under the laws of inheritance and succession of New York State.

  “The man left no will,” Delaney told Galey. “But there’s a wife and eighteen-year-old son. Also a mother and sister. I want to know who gets what. Understand?”

  “Got it, Chief,” Galey said. “I’m making notes. Wife and son, eighteen years old. Mother and sister. How do they split?”

  “Right,” Delaney said. “That’s it.”

  “The sister a minor?”

  “No,” Delaney said, thankful he was talking to a sharp cop, “she’s in her thirties. How soon do you think I can get it?”

  “It’ll be a couple of days, at least. But we’ll try to light a fire under them.”

  “Good. Thank you. One more thing, sergeant—is that Art Theft and Forgery Squad still in existence?”

  “Far as I know. It’s a little outfit. Two or three guys. They work out of Headquarters. Want the extension?”

  “Yes, please.”

  “Hold on.”

  In a minute, Sergeant Galey was back with the phone number and the name of the commanding officer, Lieutenant Bernard Wolfe.

  Delaney made a note, thanked him, and hung up. Two more swallows of ale. Then he called the Art Theft and Forgery Squad. The line was busy. More ale. Busy signal again. More ale. He finally got through, but the lieutenant wasn’t there. He left his name and number and asked that Wolfe call him as soon as possible.

  He drained off the ale and began writing out a report of his conversations with Theodore and Alma Maitland. He had almost finished when the phone rang, and he continued writing as he picked it up.

  “Chief Edward X. Delaney here.”

  “Chief, this is Lieutenant Bernard Wolfe. Art Squad. I understand you called me?”

  “Yes, lieutenant, I did. I’m working on the Victor Maitland homicide in a semi-official capacity.”

  “So I heard.”

  “Department grapevine?”

  “Not so much the Department as the art-business grapevine. It’s a small world, Chief; the word gets around.”

  “I imagine it does,” Delaney said. “And I figure you know a lot about that small world. I think you could be a big help to me, lieutenant, and I was hoping we could get together.”

  “Be glad to,” Wolfe said. “You say when and where.”

  Delaney started to make a date, then remembered that Sergeant Boone was arranging a meeting with J. Julian Simon.

  “Suppose I call you Monday morning and we’ll set a definite time and place,” he said. “I’ll call about ten. Will that be all right?”

  Wolfe said that would be fine, and they hung up.

  10

  ON MONDAY MORNING, BOONE arrived, as usual, at nine A.M. Delaney went out in his shirtsleeves to invite the sergeant into the house.

  “I thought we’d spend the day getting caught up,” he told Boone. “Paperwork and so forth. And plan where we go from here.”

  “Fine with me, Chief,” Boone nodded. “I brought along my notes on what happened on Friday.”

  They went into Delaney’s study, and in a few minutes Monica brought in cups and a thermos of coffee, and a plate of miniature cinnamon doughnuts. She chatted a few minutes with Sergeant Boone, then left the two men together.

  The first thing Delaney wanted to know was about the appointment with J. Julian Simon. Boone said it was set for ten o’clock the following morning, and the Chief made a careful note of it.

  Then, both drinking black coffee and munching on their doughnuts, Boone told about his two time trials from Dukker’s place to Victor Maitland’s Mott Street studio. Delaney made notes as Boone reported. Neither man felt it necessary to comment on the significance of the trials.

  At ten, Chief Delaney called Lieutenant Bernard Wolfe of the Art Theft and Forgery Squad and made a luncheon appointment for noon on Tuesday, at Keen’s English Chop House on West 36th Street.

  “Ever been there?” he asked Boone, after he had hung up.

  “Never have, sir.”

  “Great mutton chops, if you can eat mutton at noon.”

  “What do you figure on getting from Wolfe?”

  “Nothing specific. Maybe some useful background on the New York art scene. And maybe he can mooch around for us and pick up something on Maitland. At this stage I’ll take anything—rumors, tips, gossip, whatever. All right, you go first; how did you make out with the Hemley woman?”

  Boone had good recall and, consulting his notes only a few times, delivered an accurate report on his lunch and conversation with Susan Hemley. After he had finished, the two men sat in silence a few moments, staring holes in the air.

  “Interesting,” Delaney said finally. “She told you that Mrs. Maitland thought, quote, There was more to it than that, unquote. And when you pressed her on it, she suddenly had to get back to the office. What was your impression? Did she know and was scamming? Or did she really not know, and had to get back? Which?”

  “I don’t know,” Boone said, troubled. “I’ve thought about it since, and I can’t make a hard assessment.”

  “Guess.”

  “I’d guess she didn’t know what Alma Maitland was talking about.”

  “All right. Let’s accept that for now. How about Geltman’s alibi? She saw him go in around ten, but she didn’t see him come out at one-thirty?”

  “That’s right, Chief. She was at lunch with Alma Maitland, or on her way to lunch.”

  “And no one else in the office saw Geltman come out?”

  “Right again. The office was empty. Everyone was out. So Geltman really has a one-man alibi: J. Julian Simo
n.”

  “How’s this …” Delaney said. “It’s not far from Simon’s office to Le Provençal, where Hemley lunched with Alma Maitland. So let’s say she leaves the office about one-fifteen. The moment she’s gone, the coast is clear and Geltman ducks out, goes downtown and knocks Maitland. No, no, no. Scratch that. It doesn’t listen. The Geltman staff and customers saw him back in the galleries at one-thirty, so he couldn’t have done that.”

  “Son of a bitch!” Boone said bitterly, and when Delaney stared at him, the sergeant blushed.

  “Sorry, sir,” he said. “The Simon and Brewster offices are halfway down a long corridor from the elevator. A wood-paneled door leading to the outer office. That’s where Susan Hemley has her desk. She said she talked a few minutes with Geltman that Friday morning, then he went into Simon’s inner office. That’s where she went to set up our appointment. But, like a fool, I didn’t check.”

  Delaney blinked twice, then smiled.

  “A private entrance,” he said. “From Simon’s inner office out to the corridor. It isn’t unusual to have a setup like that. So lawyers can duck out if there’s someone in the outer office they don’t want to see. Like a process server or a cop with a warrant.”

  “Right!” Boone said. “If Simon has a corridor door from his private office, Geltman could arrive at ten, and lam right out again. That would give him all the time in the world to get down to Mott Street, fix Maitland, and either return to Simon’s office or go directly back to his Galleries. Sorry I missed that door, Chief.”

  “No harm done. We can check on it tomorrow. And Hemley said Simon and Geltman are old friends?”

  “Yep. Play handball together.”

  “Cute. Playing ball together. Well … we’ll see. What kind of a woman is this Hemley? Pretty?”

  “Attractive enough. Not beautiful. Very thin. Not too young. Short, blonde, curly hair. No tits or ass. Good legs. Good voice. Not too much in the brains department.”

  “Sexy?”

  Boone thought a moment.

  “I’d say yes. Something there. Like if she let herself go, she’d be hell on wheels.”

  “If Geltman was right about maybe Alma Maitland being a lez, would there be that between them?”

  Boone considered again, then sighed.

  “Might be,” he said. “A possibility. I just can’t say. What man could?”

  “Certainly not me,” Delaney rumbled. “But did she come on with you? You know, man-woman stuff? Make a play? Angling for another date?”

  “Nooo,” Boone said slowly. “Not really. Polite and friendly, but nothing heavy. Maybe I didn’t turn her on. All I can do is tell you my feeling, that if I had invited her to an orgy, she’d have giggled and said, ‘Sure!’”

  “Well, I’ll meet her tomorrow morning and see how my take compares with yours. Now let me tell you about my little soiree with Ted and Alma Maitland.”

  He reported to Boone everything that had happened during the interrogations of the two. The sergeant listened intently, making occasional notes but not interrupting. When Delaney finished, Boone looked up from his notebook, excited.

  “Wow,” he said. “That’s something. And all new. The business of Ted’s violence wasn’t in the tub, was it, sir?”

  “No. Not a word.”

  “Can we get the psychiatrist to talk?”

  “No way. He’ll clam. And legally.”

  “So Ted boy was having his lunch alone in Washington Square Park. He says. You realize what that means, Chief? Alma says she was shopping alone. Sarazen and Dukker claim they were with each other, but they could have pulled it. Even the mother and sister could have driven down from Rockland in plenty of time for the fun. And Saul Geltman’s half-ass alibi depends on J. Julian Simon, his old handball buddy. Beautiful. They’re all guilty. What do we do now?”

  “What we do now,” Edward X. Delaney said, “is construct a time chart. Names listed in a vertical column. Times in a horizontal line. So we can see at a glance where each of the seven was at any fifteen-minutes period between nine o’clock that Friday morning and, say, five that afternoon. Or where they say they were. I have some graph paper around here somewhere; that’ll get us started.

  They had hardly begun their time chart when Monica called them to lunch. She had set it out in the dining room, but it was a do-it-yourself sandwich luncheon. Sour rye, dark pumpernickel, fluffy challeh. Salami, bologna, braunschweiger, turkey. Tomatoes, radishes, cukes, slices of Spanish onion. Herring in sour cream. Olives. Kosher dills. German potato salad and cold baked beans. Dark beer for Delaney and iced tea for Boone. Monica sat with them, picked, and wouldn’t let them talk business. So they could do nothing but eat and eat.

  After, they helped her clear the table, wash up, get the leftovers put away.

  “Just right,” Delaney said, kissing her cheek. “Hit the spot.”

  “Great, Mrs. Delaney,” Sergeant Boone said. “I don’t have food like that very often.”

  He thought she murmured, “You could,” but he wasn’t certain.

  Then the two men went back into the study and got to work on the time chart. When they had finished, they had a handsome graph that showed the movements of the suspects almost minute by minute during the day of the murder. And, in colored pencil, it revealed whether the suspect’s whereabouts were merely claimed or confirmed by one or more witnesses.

  It proved nothing, of course; they didn’t expect it would. But it did give them a visual image of all the action, and after it was pinned to the map board, alongside Maitland’s charcoal sketches, they gazed at it with approval. It seemed to bring everything into focus.

  The Chief went into the kitchen and brought back a can of beer for himself and a bottle of tonic water for Boone. Then they sat staring at the time chart again and began blowing smoke, trying out scenarios on each other.

  “I worked a case—” they both said at the same time. Then both stopped, and both laughed.

  “You first,” Chief Delaney said.

  “It wasn’t much, sir,” Boone said. “This was just after I made dick three. The precincts had their own detective squads then, and I was working the Two-oh. There was this fancy jewelry shop on Broadway, mostly good antique stuff, and the guy was losing stock. Regularly. Maybe one or two pieces a week. There was just him and his wife in the store, so we figured it had to be boosting. There was no cleaning guy, no signs of forced entry. We put on an inside stakeout, a man in the backroom looking through a peephole while customers were in the store. But no one was lifting. A real mindblower. One day this jeweler is on the Fifth Avenue bus, going downtown, and he sees this beautiful young twist sitting across from him. And she’s wearing one of his missing pieces. He said it had to be; it was a brooch of rubies shaped like a rose. He said it was Victorian, and he didn’t think there was another in the world like it. Anyway, he played it smart and didn’t say anything to the young twist, but he followed her home, and then he called us. Well, to make a long story short, we found out the ruby brooch had been a gift to the young twist from her boyfriend. And where did he get it? From the jeweler’s wife. Can you believe it? The boyfriend was a real nogoodnik, a gigolo-type, and was playing the old lady along for what he could get from her. I had to tell the jeweler; not the easiest thing I’ve ever done. But the point I’m trying to make is this: if it hadn’t been for the chance meeting of the jeweler and the young twist on that Fifth Avenue bus, I doubt if we’d ever have broken it, until that jeweler was picked clean, down to the bare walls. It was an accident, a one-in-a-million break.”

  Delaney nodded. “My story is something like that, but the break was due more to the bad guy’s stupidity than to accident. This was an extortion thing. The guy wasn’t asking for much: five hundred in small bills. Peanuts considering the rap he was risking. He’d write these letters demanding the five hundred bucks or he’d throw acid on the mark’s wife or kids. Nice. God knows how many paid up before one of the victims had the sense and balls to call us. And would you b
elieve it, the extortion letter had been sent by metered mail. I guess the nut figured to save postage by mailing the letter from the office where he worked. We went to the postal inspectors, and it took one day to locate the meter from the number on the postmark, and a four-day stakeout to nab the guy who put the letter through the meter. He was trying it again. I remember he said he needed the money because he was studying at Delehanty—this was when they had civil-service courses—on how to get into the Police Academy. I don’t think he ever made it. Well, you’re figuring we’ll get a break by chance, and I’m hoping for the same thing, but maybe from the stupidity of the killer.”

  Abner Boone grinned at him.

  “Chief, that’s figuring we’re smarter than the bad guys.”

  “Any time you start doubting that, sergeant,” Edward X. Delaney said seriously, “you better get into another line of work.”

  11

  ON TUESDAY MORNING, THE Chief sat in Boone’s car outside the Delaney brownstone, listening to the sergeant report on his unsuccessful efforts to jog the memories of detectives who worked the original Maitland investigation.

  “A cipher,” Boone said gloomily. “They all say everything they saw, heard, or learned was in their reports. I’m afraid we draw zilch on this, Chief.”

  “I still think it was a good idea,” Delaney said stubbornly. “Anyone left to contact?”

  “Two,” the sergeant said. “I’ll try them tonight. One’s just back from vacation, and the other’s on a stakeout, and his loot won’t tell me where. Down to Simon’s office now?”

  “Sure,” Delaney said. “First we’ll see if a corridor door—” He stopped suddenly, and said, “Wait a minute.”

  He got out of the car and went back into the house, into the kitchen. Monica was sitting on a high stool near the counter, sipping a third cup of morning coffee, making out her day’s shopping list, and listening to WQXR on the kitchen transistor. She looked up when he came in.