The 1st Deadly Sin

“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.