The 1st Deadly Sin

do was to take it from the start, the beginning, and remember everything his friend had done, every action, every movement.

He had first glimpsed him inside the lobby, talking to a doorman. Blank came outside, looked up at the sky, buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, started walking west. Nothing in all that.

He recalled it all again. The slow walk along Third Avenue, Blank’s stop outside the pet shop, the way-

Suddenly there was a car pulling up alongside Delaney at the curb. A dusty, four-door, dark blue Plymouth. Two men in the front seat in civilian clothes. But the near man, not the driver, turned a powerful flashlight on Delaney.

“Police,” he said. “Stop where you are, please.”

Delaney stopped. He turned slowly to face the car. He raised his arms slightly from his body, turned his palms outward. The man with the flashlight got out of the car, his right hand near his hip. His partner, the driver, dimly seen, was cuddling something in his lap. Delaney admired their competence. They were professionals. But he wondered, not for the first time, why the Department invariably selected three-year-old, dusty, four-door, dark blue Plymouths for their unmarked cars. Every villain on the streets could spot one a block away.

The detective with the flashlight advanced two steps, but still kept a long stride away from Delaney. The light was directly in the Captain’s eyes.

“Live in the neighborhood?” the man asked. His voice was dry gin, on the rocks.

“Yes,” the Captain nodded.

“Do you have identification?”

“Yes,” Delaney said. “I am going to reach up slowly with my left hand, open my overcoat, then my jacket. I am going to withdraw my identification from the inside right breast pocket of my jacket with my left hand and hand it to you. Okay?”

The detective nodded.

Delaney, moving slowly, meticulously, handed over his buzzer and ID card in the leather folder. It was a long reach to the detective. The flashlight turned down to the badge and photo, then up again to Delaney’s face. Then it was snapped off.

“Sorry, Captain,” the man said, no apology in his voice. He handed the leather back.

“You did just right,” Delaney said. “Operation Lombard?”

“Yeah,” the detective said, and asked no unnecessary questions. “You’ll be around awhile?”

“Until dawn.”

“We won’t roust you again.”

“That’s all right,” Delaney assured him. “What’s your name?”

“You’re not going to believe it, Captain, but it’s William Shakespeare.”

“I believe it,” Delaney laughed. “There was a football player named William Shakespeare.”

“You remember him?” the dick said with wonder and delight. “He probably had the same trouble I have. You should see the looks I get when I register at a motel with my wife.”

“Who’s your partner?”

The dick turned his flashlight on the driver. He was black, grinning. “A spook,” the man on the sidewalk said. “Loves fried chicken and watermelon. Sam Lauder.”

The black driver nodded solemnly. “Don’t forget the pork chops and collard greens,” he said in a marvelously rich bass voice.

“How long you two been partners?” Delaney asked.

“About a thousand years,” the driver called.

“Naw,” the sidewalk man said. “A year or two. It just seems like a thousand.”

They all laughed.

“Shakespeare and Lauder,” Delaney repeated. “I’ll remember. I owe you one.”

“Thanks, Captain,” Shakespeare said. He got back in the car; they drove away. Delaney was pleased. Good men.

But to get back to Dan…He resumed his pacing, the lobby never out of his glance for more than 30 seconds. It was quiet in there now. One doorman.

After the stop at the pet shop, Dan had crossed to the liquor store, presented his Christmas list, paid for his purchases, then sauntered home. So what was bugging Delaney? He reached into his inner overcoat pocket for a swig of brandy from the flask. Reached into his outer pocket for a bit of sandwich. Reached-

Ah. Ah. Now he had it.

Blank had been talking to a doorman inside the lobby when Delaney first spotted him. Unbuttoned black topcoat, left hand thrust into topcoat pocket. Then Dan had come out under the portico, buttoning up his topcoat, turning up the collar with his right hand. No action from the left hand so far-correct?

Then the stroll. Both hands jammed into topcoat pockets. The walk, the tail, the stop at the pet shop-all that was nothing. But now Delaney, from under the brim of his wooden Homburg, is observing Blank inside the liquor store. The right hand dips into the righthand topcoat pocket and comes out with a folded list. The right hand unfolds it on the counter. The right hand holds it out to the clerk. The clerk offers a Christmas-wrapped bottle of Scotch to Blank. Dan takes it in his right hand, inspects it, approves, hands it back to the clerk. Still no action from that left hand. It’s dead. Right hand goes back into the topcoat pocket. Out come a half-dozen Christmas cards to be taped to the gifts of liquor. The right hand comes out again with a wallet. The tape is run off. Money paid. The change goes back into the righthand pocket of the topcoat. Left hand, where are you?

Captain Delaney stopped, stood, remembering and suddenly laughing. It was so beautiful. The details always were. What man would carry his Christmas list, Christmas cards and wallet in the outer pocket of his topcoat? Answer: no man. Because Delaney owned a handsome, custom-made, uniform overcoat that had flapped slits just inside the pocket openings so that he could reach inside to equipment on his gun belt without unbuttoning the overcoat. During World War II he had a lined trench coat with the same convenience, and for his birthday in 1953, Barbara had given him an English raincoat with the identical feature; it could be raining cats and dogs, but you didn’t have to unbutton your coat, you just reached through those flapped slits for wallet, tickets, identification- whatever.

Sure. That’s how Dan had paid for his liquor purchase. He had reached through his topcoat pocket for the list in his jacket pocket. Through his topcoat pocket to take the wallet off his hip. Through his topcoat pocket to find, somewhere, in some jacket or trouser pocket, the addressed and sealed Christmas cards to be taped to the bottles he was sending. Beautiful.

Beautiful not because this was how Daniel G. Blank was sending Christmas gifts, but because this was how Danny Boy was killing men. Slit pockets. Left hand in pocket, through the slit, holding the ice ax handle. Coat unbuttoned. Right hand swinging free. Then, at the moment of meeting, the quick transfer of the ax to the right hand-that innocent, open, swinging right hand-and then the assault. It was slick. Oh God, was it slick.

Delaney continued his patrol. He knew, he knew, Blank would not come out again this night. But that was of no consequence. Delaney would parade until dawn. It gave him time to think things out.

Time to consider The Case of the Invisible Left Hand. What was the solution to that? Two possibilities, Delaney thought. One: The left hand was through the slit of the topcoat pocket and was actually holding the ax under the coat by its handle or leather loop. But the Captain didn’t think it likely. Dan’s coat had been open when Delaney first saw him in the brightly lighted lobby. Would he risk the doorman or another tenant glimpsing the ax beneath his open coat? From then on, the topcoat was buttoned. Why would Dan carry an ice ax beneath a buttoned coat? He obviously wasn’t on the prowl for a victim.

Possibility Two: The left hand was injured or incapacitated in some way. Or the wrist, arm, elbow, or shoulder. Danny Boy couldn’t use it normally and tucked it away into the topcoat pocket as a king of sling. Yes, that was it and it would be easy to check. Thomas Handry could do it in his interview or, better yet, when Delaney called Charles Lipsky tomorrow, he’d ask about any sign of injury to Blank’s left arm. The Captain planned to call Lipsky every day to ask if the doorman had been able to get the taxi license number of Dan’s dark, skinny girl friend.

All Delaney’s interest in a possible injury to Dan’s left arm was due, of course, to the evidence of a scuffle, a fight, at the scene of the most recent homicide. Albert Feinberg had made his killer bleed a few drops on the sidewalk. He might have done more.