“Not at the moment.”
“Slim pickings,” the reporter said, sighing. “All right, let’s hear about this research you want.”
Edward X. Delaney took a folded sheet of typing paper from his inside jacket pocket, handed it across the table. Thomas Handry put on heavy, horn-rimmed glasses to read it. He read it twice. Then he raised his head to stare at the Chief.
“You say this has something to do with the Hotel Ripper?”
“It could.”
The reporter continued staring. Then …
“You’re nuts!” he burst out. “You know that?”
“It’s possible I am,” the Chief said equably.
“You really think … ?”
Delaney shrugged.
“Gawd!” Handry said in an awed voice. “What a story that would make. Well, if your game plan was to hook me, you’ve succeeded. I’ll get this stuff for you.”
“When?”
“Take me at least a week.”
“A week would be fine,” Delaney said.
“If I have it before, I’ll let you know.”
“I need all the numbers. Percentages. Rates.”
“All right, all right,” the reporter said crossly. “I know what you want; you don’t have to spell it out. But if it holds up, I get the story. Agreed?”
Delaney nodded, paid the bill, and both men rose.
“A nightcap at the bar?” the Chief suggested.
“Sure,” the reporter said promptly. “But won’t your wife be wondering what happened to you?”
“She’s taking a course tonight.”
“Oh? On what?”
“Assertiveness training.”
“Lordy, lordy,” Thomas Handry said.
He went over the dossiers on the three victims again and again. He was convinced there was something there, a connection, a lead, that eluded him.
Then, defeated, he turned his attention to the hotels in which the crimes had taken place, thinking there might be a common denominator there. But the three hotels had individual owners, were apparently just unexceptional midtown Manhattan hostelries with nothing about them that might motivate a criminal intent on revenge.
Then he reviewed again the timing of the killings. The first had occurred on a Friday, the second on a Thursday, the third on a Wednesday. There seemed to be a reverse progression in effect, for what possible reason Delaney could not conceive. But if the fourth killing happened on a Tuesday, it might be worth questioning.
He never doubted for a moment that there would be a fourth murder. He was furious that he was unable to prevent it.
Sergeant Abner Boone called regularly, two or three times a week. It was he who had informed Delaney that strawberry blond hairs had been found on the rug in the third victim’s hotel room. It had still not been decided whether or not to release this information to the media.
Boone also said that analysis of the bloody footprints on Jerome Ashley’s rug had confirmed the killer’s height as approximately five feet five to five feet seven. It had proved impossible to determine if the prints were made by a man or woman.
The sergeant reported that the scars on Ashley’s hands were the result of burns suffered when a greasy stove caught fire. Boone didn’t think there was any possible connection with the murder, and the Chief agreed.
Finally, the investigation into the possibility that all three murdered men were victims of the same disgruntled employee seeking vengeance had turned up nothing. There was simply no apparent connection between Puller, Wolheim, and Ashley.
“So we’re back to square one,” Boone said, sighing. “We’re still running the decoys every night in midtown, and Slavin is pulling in every gay with a sheet or reported as having worn a wig at some time or other. But the results have been zip. Any suggestions, Chief?”
“No. Not at the moment.”
“At the moment?” the sergeant said eagerly. “Does that mean, sir, that you may have something? In a while?”
Delaney didn’t want to raise any false hopes. Neither did he want to destroy Boone’s hope utterly.
“Well … possibly,” he said cautiously. “A long, long shot.”
“Chief, at this stage we’ll take anything, no matter how crazy. When will you know?”
“About two weeks.” Then, wanting to change the subject, he said, “You’re getting the usual tips and confessions, I suppose.”
“You wouldn’t believe,” the sergeant said, groaning. “We’ve even had four black nylon wigs mailed to us with notes signed: ‘The Hotel Ripper.’ But to tell you the truth, if we weren’t busy chasing down all the phony leads, we’d have nothing to do. We’re snookered.”
Delaney went back to his dossiers and finally he saw something he had missed. Something everyone had missed. It wasn’t a connection between the three victims, a common factor. That continued to elude him.
But it was something just as significant. At least he thought it might be. He checked it twice against his calendar, then went into the living room to consult one of his wife’s books.
When he returned to the study, his face was stretched. The expression was more grimace than grin, and when he made a careful note of his discovery, he realized he was humming tonelessly.
He wondered if he should call Sergeant Boone and warn him. Then he decided too many questions would be asked. Questions to which he did not have the answers.
Not that he believed a warning would prevent a fourth murder.
Thomas Handry called early on the morning of April 28th.
“I’ve got the numbers you wanted,” he said.
There was nothing in his voice that implied the results were Yes or No. Delaney was tempted to ask, right then and there. But he didn’t. He realized that, for some curious reason he could not analyze, he was more fearful of a Yes than a No.
“That’s fine,” he said, as heartily as he could.
“I didn’t have time to do any adding up,” Handry continued. “No compilation, no summary. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.”
“I will,” Delaney said. “Thank you, Handry. I appreciate your cooperation.”
“It’s my story,” the reporter reminded him.
The Chief wondered what that meant. Was it a story? Or just an odd sidebar to a completely different solution?
“It’s your story,” he acknowledged. “When and where can I get the research?”
There was silence a moment. Then:
“How about Grand Central Station?” Handry said. “At twelve-thirty. The information booth on the main concourse.”
“How about a deserted pier on the West Side at midnight?” Delaney countered.
The reporter laughed.
“No,” he said, “no cloak-and-dagger stuff. I have to catch a train and I’m jammed up here. Grand Central would be best.”
“So be it,” Delaney said. “At twelve-thirty.”
He was early, as usual, and wandered about the terminal. He amused himself by trying to spot the plainclothes officers on duty and the grifters plying their trade.
He recognized an old-time scam artist named Breezy Willie who had achieved a kind of fame by inventing a device called a “Grab Bag.” It was, apparently, a somewhat oversized black suitcase. But it had no bottom and, of course, was completely empty.
Breezy Willie would select a waiting traveler with a suitcase smaller than the Grab Bag, preferably a suitcase with blue, tan, or patterned covering. The traveler had to be engrossed in a book, timetable, or newspaper, not watching his luggage.
Willie would sidle up close, lower the empty shell of the Grab Bag over the mark’s suitcase, and pull a small lever in the handle. Immediately, the sides of the Grab Bag would compress tightly, clamping the suitcase within.
The con man would then lift the swag from the floor, move it ten or fifteen feet away and wait, reading his own newspaper. Willie never tried to run for it.
When the mark discovered his suitcase was missing, he’d dash about frantic
ally, trying to locate it. Breezy Willie would get only a brief glance. He looked legit, and his suitcase was obviously black, not the mark’s blue, tan, or patterned bag. When the excitement had died down, the hustler would stroll casually away.
The Chief moved close to Breezy Willie, whose eyes were busy over the top edge of his folded newspaper.
“Hullo, Willie,” he said softly.
The knave looked up.
“I beg your pardon, sir,” he said. “I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake. My name is—”
Then his eyes widened.
“Delaney!” he said. “This is great!”
He proffered his hand, which the Chief happily took.
“How’s business, Willie?” he asked.
“Oh, I’m retired now.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Going up to Boston to visit my daughter. She’s married, y’know, with three kids, and I figured I’d—”
“Uh-huh,” the Chief said.
He bent swiftly and picked up Breezy Willie’s Grab Bag with one finger under the handle. He swung the empty shell back and forth.
“Traveling light, Willie?” He laughed and set the Grab Bag down again. “Getting a little long in the tooth for the game, aren’t you?”
“That’s a fact,” the rascal said. “If it wasn’t for the ponies, I’d have been playing shuffleboard in Florida years ago. I heard you retired, Chief.”
“That’s right, Willie.”
“But just the same,” Breezy Willie said thoughtfully, “I think I’ll mosey over to Penn Station. I may visit my daughter in Baltimore, instead.”
“Good idea,” Delaney said, smiling.
They shook hands again and the Chief watched the scalawag depart. He wished all the bad guys were as innocuous as Breezy Willie. The jolly old pirate abhorred violence as much as any of his victims.
Then he spotted Thomas Handry striding rapidly toward him. The reporter was carrying a weighted Bloomingdale’s shopping bag.
“I like your luggage,” Delaney said, as Handry came up.
“It’s all yours,” he said, handing it over. “About five pounds of photocopies. Interesting stuff.”
“Oh?”
Handry glanced up at the big clock.
“I’ve got to run,” he said. “Believe it or not, I’m interviewing an alleged seer up in Mt. Vernon. She says she saw the Hotel Ripper in a dream. He’s a six-foot-six black with one eye, a Fu Manchu mustache, and an English accent.”
“Sounds like a great lead,” Delaney said.
The reporter shrugged. “We’re doing a roundup piece on all the mediums and seers who think they know what the Hotel Ripper looks like.”
“And no two of them agree,” the Chief said.
“Right. Well, I’ve got a train to catch.” He hesitated, turned back, gestured toward the bag. “Let me know what you decide to do about all this.”
“I will,” Delaney said, nodding. “And thank you again.”
He watched Handry trot away, then picked up the shopping bag and started out of the terminal. He hated carrying packages especially shopping bags. He thought it might be a holdover from his days as a street cop: a fear of being encumbered, of not having his hands free.
It was a bright, blowy spring day, cool enough for his putty-colored gabardine topcoat, a voluminous tent that whipped about his legs. He paused a moment to set his homburg more firmly. Then he set out again, striding up Vanderbilt to Park Avenue.
He turned his thoughts resolutely away from what he was carrying and its possible significance. He concentrated on just enjoying the glad day. And the city.
It was his city. He had been born here, lived here all his life. He never left without a sensation of loss, never returned without a feeling of coming home. It was as much domicile as his brownstone; New Yorkers were as much family as his wife and children.
He saw the city clear. He did not think it paradise, nor did it daunt him. He knew its glories and its lesions. He accepted its beauties and its ugliness, its violence and its peace. He understood its moods and its fancies. He was grateful because the city never bored.
There he was, trundling north on Park Avenue, sunlight splintering off glass walls, flags snapping, men and women scuttling about with frowning purpose. He felt the demonic rhythm of the city, its compulsive speed and change. It was always going and never arriving.
The city devoured individuals, deflated the lofty, allowed dreams to fly’ an instant before bringing them down. New York was the great leveler. Birth, life, and death meant no more than a patched pothole or a poem. It was simply there, and the hell with you.
Edward X. Delaney wouldn’t have it any other way.
He had made no conscious decision to walk home, but as block followed block, he could not surrender. He looked about eagerly, feeding his eyes. Never before had the city seemed to him so shining and charged. It had the excitement and fulfillment of a mountaintop.
And the women! What a joy. Men wore clothes; women wore costumes. There they were, swirling and sparkling, with wind-rosied cheeks, hair flinging back like flame. Monica had called him an old fogy, and so he was. But young enough, by God, to appreciate the worth of women.
He smiled at them all, toddlers to gammers. He could not conceive of a world without them, and gave thanks for having been lucky enough to have found Barbara, and then Monica. What a weasel life it would have been without their love.
Treading with lightened step, he made his way uptown, glorying in the parade of womankind. His face seemed set in an avuncular grin as he saw and loved them all, with their color and brio, their strut and sway.
Look at that one coming toward him! A princess, not much older than his stepdaughter Sylvia. A tall, smashing beauty with flaxen hair down to her bum. A face unsoiled by time, and a body as pliant and hard as a steel rod.
She strode directly up to him and stopped, blocking his way. She looked up at him with a sweet, melting smile.
“Wanna fuck, Pop?” she said.
The roiling was too much; he hadn’t the wit to reply. He crossed to the other side of Park Avenue, lumbering now, his big feet in heavy, ankle-high shoes slapping the pavement. He climbed tiredly into the first empty cab that came along and went directly home, clutching the Bloomingdale’s shopping bag.
Later, he was able to regain some measure of equanimity. He admitted, with sour amusement, that the brief encounter with the young whore had been typical of the city’s habit of dousing highfalutin’ dreams and romantic fancies with a bucketful of cold reality tossed right in the kisser.
He ate a sandwich of cold corned beef and German potato salad on dill-flavored rye bread while standing over the sink. He drank a can of beer. Resolution restored, he carried Handry’s research into the study and set to work.
At dinner that night, he asked Monica what her plans were for the evening.
“Going out?” he said casually.
She smiled and covered one of his hands with hers.
“I’ve been neglecting you, Edward,” she said.
“You haven’t been neglecting me,” he protested, although he thought she had.
“Well, anyway, I’m going to stay home tonight.”
“Good,” he said. “I want to talk to you. A long talk.”
“Oh-oh,” his wife said, “that sounds serious. Am I being fired?”
“Nothing like that,” he said, laughing. “I just want to discuss something with you. Get your opinion.”
“If I give you my opinion, will it change yours?”
“No,” he said.
The living room of the Delaney home was a large, high-ceilinged chamber dominated by a rather austere fireplace and an end wall lined with bookshelves framing the doorway to the study. The room was saved from gloom by the cheerfulness of its furnishings.
It was an eclectic collection that appeared more accumulated than selected. Chippendale cozied up to Shaker; Victorian had no quarrel with Art Deco. It was a friendly room, the old Persian
carpet time-softened to subtlety.
Everything had the patina of hard use and loving care. The colors of drapes and upholstery were warm without being bright. Comfort created its own style; the room was mellow with living. Nothing was intended for show; wear was on display.
Delaney’s throne was a high-back wing chair covered in burnished bottle-green leather and decorated with brass studs. Monica’s armchair was more delicate, but just as worn; it was covered with a floral-patterned brocade that had suffered the depredations of a long-departed cat.
The room was comfortably cluttered with oversized ashtrays, framed photographs, a few small pieces of statuary, bric-a-brac, and one large wicker basket that still held a winterly collection of pussy willows, dried swamp grasses, and eucalyptus.
The walls held an assortment of paintings, drawings, cartoons, posters, etchings, and maps as varied as the furniture. No two frames alike; nothing dominated; everything charmed. And there always seemed room for something new. The display inched inexorably to the plaster ceiling molding.
That evening, dinner finished, dishes done, Monica moved to her armchair, donned half-glasses. She picked up knitting needles and an Afghan square she had been working on for several months. Delaney brought in all his dossiers and the Handry research. He dropped the stack of papers alongside his chair.
“What’s all that?” Monica asked.
“It’s what I want to talk to you about. I want to try out a theory on you.”
“About the Hotel Ripper?”
“Yes. It won’t upset you, will it?”
“No, it won’t upset me. But it seems to me that for a cop not on active duty, you’re taking a very active interest.”
“I’m just trying to help out Abner Boone,” he protested. “This case means a lot to him.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, peering at him over her glasses. “Well … let’s hear it.”
“When the first victim, George T. Puller, was found with his throat slashed at the Grand Park Hotel in February, the men assigned to the case figured it for a murder by a prostitute. It had all the signs: An out-of-town salesman is in New York for a convention, has a few drinks, picks up a hooker on the street or in a bar. He takes her to his hotel room. They have a fight. Maybe he won’t pay her price, or wants something kinky, or catches her pinching his wallet. Whatever. Anyway, they fight and she kills him. It’s happened a hundred times before.”
Third Deadly Sin Page 21