both at the same time. All right?”
“Of course.”
“Be over in fifteen minutes.”
Then he called Barbara and told her he was bringing Monica Gilbert to meet her, the widow of the second victim. Barbara said of course. She was happy to talk to him and told him to hurry.
He had thought about it a long time-whether or not to bring the two women together. He recognized the dangers and the advantages. He didn’t want Barbara to think, even to suspect, that he was having a relationship- even an innocent relationship-with another woman while she, Barbara, was ill, confined to a hospital room, despite what she had said about his marrying again if anything happened to her. That was just talk, he decided firmly: an emotional outburst from a woman disturbed by her own pain and fears of the future. But Barbara would enjoy company-that he knew. She really did like people, much more than he did. He could tell her of a man arrested for molesting women-there was one crazy case: this nut would sneak into bedrooms out in Queens, always coming through unlocked windows, and he would kiss sleeping women and then run away. He never put his hands on them or injured them physically. He just kissed them. When he told Barbara about it, she gave a troubled sigh and said, “Poor fellow. How lonely he must have been.”-and her sympathies were frequently with the suspect, unless violence was involved.
Monica Gilbert needed a confidante as well. Her job was finished, her file complete. He wanted to continue giving her a feeling of involvement. So, finally, he had decided to bring them together.
It wasn’t a disaster, as he had feared, but it didn’t go marvelously well, as he had hoped. Both women were cordial, but nervous, guarded, reserved. Monica had brought Barbara a little African violet, not from a florist's shop but one she had nurtured herself. That helped. Barbara expressed her condolences in low tones on the death of Monica’s husband. Delaney stayed out of it, standing away from Barbara’s bed, listening and watching anxiously.
Then they began speaking about their children, exchanging photographs and smiling. Their talk became louder than sickroom tones; they laughed more frequently; Barbara touched Monica’s arm. Then he knew it was going to be all right. He relaxed, sat in a chair away from them, listening to their chatter, comparing them: Barbara so thin and fine, wasted and elegant, a silver sword of a woman. And Monica with her heavy peasant’s body, sturdy and hard, bursting with juice. At that moment he loved them both.
For awhile they leaned close, conversing in whispers. He wondered if they might be talking about women’s ailments, women’s plumbing-a complete mystery to him-or perhaps, from occasional glances they threw in his direction, he wondered if they might be discussing him, although what there was about him to talk about he couldn’t imagine.
It was almost an hour before Barbara held out a hand to him. He came over to her bedside, smiling at both of them.
“Daniel Blank?” Barbara asked.
He told them about the interviews with the bartender, with Handry, with Lipsky. He told them everything except his plan to be inside Blank’s apartment within two hours.
“Edward, it’s beginning to take form,” Barbara nodded approvingly. As usual, she went to the nub. “At least now you know he’s a mountain climber. I suppose the next step is to find out if he owns an ice ax?”
Delaney nodded. She would never even consider asking him how he might do this.
“Can’t you arrest him now?” Monica Gilbert demanded, “On suspicion or something?”
The Captain shook his head. “Not a chance,” he said patiently. “No evidence at all. Not a shred. He’d be out before the cell door was slammed behind him, and the city would be liable for false arrest. That would be the end of that.”
“Well, what can you do then? Wait until he kills someone else?”
“Oh…” he said vaguely, “there are things. Establish his guilt without a doubt. He’s just a suspect now, you know. The only one I’ve got. But still just a suspect. Then, when I’m sure of him, I’ll-well, at this moment I’m not sure what I’ll do. Something.”
“I’m sure you will,” Barbara smiled, taking Monica’s hand. “My husband is a very stubborn man. And he’s neat. He doesn’t like loose ends.”
They all laughed. Delaney glanced at his watch, saw he had to leave. He offered to take Monica Gilbert home, but she wanted to stay awhile and said she’d leave when it was time to pick up her girls at school. Delaney glanced at Barbara, realized she wanted Monica’s company a while longer. He kissed Barbara’s cheek, nodded brightly at both, lumbered from the room. Outside in the hall, adjusting his Homburg squarely atop his head, he heard a sudden burst of laughter from inside the room, quickly suppressed. He wondered if they could be laughing at him, something he had done or said. But he was used to people finding him amusing; it didn’t bother him.
He had never, of course, had any intention of taking a camera to Blank’s apartment. What would a photograph of an ice ax prove? But he did take a set of locksmith’s picks, of fine Swedish steel, fitted into individual pockets in a thin chamois case. Included in the set were long, slender tweezers. The case went into his inside jacket pocket. In the lefthand pocket he clipped a two-battery penlite. Into his overcoat pocket he folded a pair of thin black silk gloves. Barbara called them his “undertaker’s gloves.”
At 2:30, Captain Delaney walked steadily up the driveway, pushed through the lobby door. Lipsky saw him almost at once. His face was pale, sheeny with sweat. His hand dipped into his lefthand jacket pocket. Brainless idiot, Delaney thought mournfully. The whole idea had been to transfer the keys during a normal handshake. Well, it couldn’t be helped now…
He advanced, smiling, holding out his right hand. Lipsky grabbed it with a damp palm and only then realized the keys were gripped in his left fist. He dropped Delaney’s hand, transferred the keys, almost losing them in the process. Delaney plucked them lightly from Lipsky’s nerveless fingers. The Captain slid them into his overcoat pocket, still smiling slightly, and said, “Any trouble, give me three fast rings on the intercom.”
Lipsky turned even paler. It was a warning Delaney had deliberately avoided giving the doorman at the luncheonette; it might have queered the whole thing right then.
He sauntered slowly toward the elevator banks, turning left to face the cars marked 15–34. Two other people were waiting: a man flipping through a magazine, a woman with an overflowing Bloomingdale’s shopping bag. A door slid open on a self-service elevator; a young couple with a small child came out. Delaney hung back a moment, then followed the other two into the elevator. The man punched 16, the woman pushed 21-Blank’s floor. Delaney pressed 24.
Both men removed their hats. They rode up in silence. The magazine reader got off at 16. The woman with the shopping bag got off at 21. Delaney rode up to 24 and stepped out. He killed a few minutes pinpointing the direction of apartment H, assuming it was in the same location on every floor.
He came back to the elevators to push the Down button. Thankfully, the elevator that stopped for him a moment later was empty. He pushed 21, suddenly became aware of the soft music. He didn’t recognize the tune. The door opened at 21. He pushed the Lobby button, then stepped out quickly before the doors closed.
The 21st Floor corridor was empty. He took off his fleece-lined leather gloves, stuffed them in an overcoat pocket, pulled on his “undertaker’s gloves.” As he walked the carpeted corridor, he scraped soles and heels heavily, hoping to remove whatever mud or dog shit or dust or dirt that had accumulated, possibly to show up in Blank’s apartment. And he noted the peephole in every door.
He rang the bell of apartment 21-H twice, heard it peal quietly inside. He waited a few moments. No answer. He went to work.
He had no trouble with two of the keys, but the third lock, the police bar, took more time. His hands were so large that he could not slip his fingers inside the partly opened door to disengage the diagonal rod. He finally took the tweezers from his pick case and, working slowly and without panic, moved the bar up out of its slot. The door swung open.
He stepped inside, closed the door gently behind him but did not lock it. He moved through the apartment swiftly, opening closet doors, glancing inside, closing them. He peeked behind the shower curtain in the bathroom, went down on his knees to peer under the bed. When he was satisfied the apartment was unoccupied, he returned to the front door, locked it, set the police bar in place.
The next step was silly, but basic. But perhaps not so silly. He remembered the case of a dick two who had spent four hours tossing the wrong apartment. Delaney went looking for subscription magazines, letters…anything. He found a shelf of books on computer technology. Each one, on the front end paper, bore an engraved bookplate
