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?”
“I try not to.”
“I hope to Christ if I ever commit a crime you don’t come after me, Iron Balls.”
He sounded bitter.
After Handry left, Delaney sat at his study desk, staring again at the photo of Daniel Blank. The man was handsome, no doubt about it: dark and lean. His face seemed honed; beneath the thin flesh cover the bones of brow, cheeks and jaw were undeniably there. But the Captain could read nothing from that face: neither greed, passion, evil nor weakness. It was a closed-off mask, hiding its secrets.
On impulse, not bothering to analyze his own motive, he took out the Daniel G. Blank file, flipped through it until he found Blank’s phone number and dialed it. It rang four times, then:
“Hello?”
“Lou?” Delaney asked. “Lou Jackson?”
“No, I’m afraid you’ve got the wrong number,” the voice said pleasantly.
“Oh. Sorry.”
Delaney hung up. It was an agreeable voice, somewhat musical, words clearly enunciated, tone deep, a good resonance. He stared at the photo again, matching what his eyes saw to what his ears had heard. He was beginning, just beginning, to penetrate Daniel Blank.
He worked on his records and files till almost 11:00 p.m., then judged the time was right to call Charles Lipsky. He looked up the apartment house number and called from his study phone.
“Lobby,” a whiny voice answered.
“Charles Lipsky, please.”
“Yeah. Talking. Who’s this?” Delaney caught the caution, the suspicion in that thin, nasal voice. He wondered what doom the doorman expected from a phone call at this hour.
“Mr. Lipsky, my name is Miller, Ward M. Miller. Did your brother-in-law speak to you about me?”
“Oh. Yeah. He called.” Now Delaney caught a note of relief, of catastrophe averted or at least postponed.
“I was hoping we might get together, Mr. Lipsky. Just for a short talk.”
“Yeah. Well, listen…” Now the voice became low, conspiratorial. “You know I ain’t supposed to talk to anyone about the tenants. We got a very strict rule against that.”
Delaney recognized this virtuous reminder for what it was: a ploy to drive the price up.
“I realize that, Mr. Lipsky, and believe me, you don’t have to tell me a thing you feel you shouldn’t. But a short talk would be to our mutual advantage. You understand?”
“Well…yeah.”
“I have an expense account.”
“Oh, well, okay then.”
“And your name will be kept out of it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Absolutely. When and where?”
“Well, how soon do you want to make it?”
“As soon as possible. Wherever you say.”
“Well, I get off tomorrow morning at four. I usually stop by this luncheonette on Second and Eighty-fifth for coffee before I go home. It’s open twenty-four hours a day, but it’s usually empty at that hour except for some hackies and hookers.”
Delaney knew the place Lipsky referred to, but didn’t mention he knew it.
“Second Avenue and Eighty-fifth,” he repeated. “About four-fifteen, four-thirty tomorrow morning?”
“Yeah. Around there.”
“Fine. I’ll be wearing a black Homburg and a double-breasted black overcoat.”
“Yeah. All right.”
“See you then.”
Delaney hung up, satisfied. Lipsky sounded like a grifter, and penny ante at that. He jotted a note to have Thorsen check Department records to see if there was a sheet on Charles Lipsky. Delaney would almost bet there was.
He went immediately to bed, setting his alarm for 3:30 a.m. Thankfully, he fell asleep within half an hour, even as he was rehearsing in his mind how to handle Lipsky and what questions to ask.
The luncheonette had all the charm and ambience of a subway station. The walls and counter were white linoleum tiles, dulled with grease. Counter and table tops were plastic, scarred with cigarette burns. Chairs and counter stools were molded plastic, unpadded to reduce the possibility of vandalism. Rancid grease hung in the air like a wet sheet, and signs taped to the walls would have delighted a linguist: “Turky and all the tremens: $2.25.”
“Fryed Shrims-$1.85 with French pots and cold slaw.”
“Our eggs are strickly fresh.”
Down at the end of the counter, two hookers, one white, one black, both in orange wigs, were working on plates of steak and eggs, conversing in low voices as fast as they were eating. Closer to the door, three cabbies were drinking coffee, trading wisecracks with the counterman and the black short order cook who was scraping thick rolls of grease off the wide griddle.
Delaney was early, a few minutes after four. When he entered, talk ceased, heads swivelled to inspect him. Apparently he didn’t look like a holdup man; when he ordered black coffee and two sugared doughnuts, the other customers went back to their food and talk.
The Captain carried his coffee and doughnuts to a rear table for two. He sat where he could watch the door and the plate glass window. He didn’t remove his hat but he unbuttoned his overcoat. He sat patiently, sipping the
