“No,” Delaney said, “it’s not perfect. There are some loose ends we’ll have to take care of. For instance, this friend of yours-I’ll have to meet him.”
“You already know him.”
“He’s in Operation Lombard?”
“Yes ”
“Good. That makes it easier. This was just a quick outline, lieutenant. The three of us will have to go over it again and again and again until we’ve got it just right and our timing set. Maybe we could even have a dry-run to work out any bugs, but essentially I think it’s a logical and workable plan.”
“I think it’s a winner, Captain. Can’t miss.”
“It can miss,” Delaney said grimly. “Anything can miss. But I think it’s worth a chance.”
“Then it’s on, Captain? Definitely?”
Delaney took a deep breath, came back to sit behind his desk again. He sat erect in his swivel chair, put his big hands flat on the desk top.
“Well…maybe not definitely,” he said finally. “I like it because it gives me another option, and I’m practically running out of those. I’ve got just one other idea that’s been percolating in my brain. I tell you what: Go ahead and get the Luger. Fire it, clean it, and bang it up a little. But don’t mention a word to your friend. If I decide to go ahead, I’ll let you know. Got it?”
“Sure,” Fernandez nodded. “I do what you said about the Luger but hold up on anything else until I get the word from you.”
“Exactly.”
They both rose to their feet. The lieutenant put out his hand; Delaney grasped it.
“Captain,” Lt. Fernandez said seriously, “I want to wish a Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you and yours. I hope Mrs. Delaney is feeling much better real soon.”
“Thank you, lieutenant,” Delaney said. “The very merriest of Christmases to you and your family, and I hope the New Year brings you everything you want. It’s a real pleasure working with you.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Fernandez said. “Likewise.” Delaney closed the door, came back into the study.
He sat down at his desk, wished he had a fresh Cuban cigar, and considered the plan he had discussed with Lt. Fernandez. It wasn’t foolproof; such plans never were. There was always the possibility of the unexpected, the unimagined: a scream from somewhere, a sudden visitor, a phone call. Danny Boy might even charge the two police officers, going right into their naked guns. He was capable of such insanity.
But essentially, Delaney decided, it was a logical and workable program. It was a solution. There were a lot of loose ends: how would he carry the Luger tools and cleaning equipment up to the apartment when he answered Fernandez’ call, where would he plant them (in the bedroom, obviously), what if the souvenirs were no longer taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer? A hundred questions would be asked, by newsmen and by his superiors. How had Operation Lombard determined that an ice ax was the weapon used in the four homicides? How had they latched onto Daniel Blank? There would be many, many such questions; he would have to anticipate them all and have his answers ready.
He looked at his watch. Almost 4:15; it was a long afternoon. He sighed, pulled himself to his feet, unlocked the study door to the living room, wandered in.
The two big transceivers were on plain pine planks, placed across sawhorses. A uniformed officer was seated in front of each instrument, hunched over a table microphone. A separate table, not as large, held the three new telephones. There was a uniformed officer on duty there, reading a paperback novel. Two men, stripped to their scivvies, were sleeping on cots alongside the wall. One was snoring audibly. Detective second grade Samuel Wilding-he was one of Blankenship’s assistants-was seated at a card table making notes on a chart. Delaney raised a hand to him.
He stood a moment near the radios, hands clasped behind his back. He was probably, he thought regretfully, making the operators nervous. But there was no answer for that.
The room was quiet. No, not quiet; except for the low snoring, it was absolutely silent. Late afternoon darkness crept through open drapes, and with it came a-what? A sweetness, Captain Delaney admitted, laughing at himself, but it was a kind of sweetness.
The uniformed men had taken off their blouses. They were working at their desks in sweaters or T-shirts, but still wearing gun belts. Only Detective Wilding wore a jacket, and his was summer-weight, with lapels. So what was it? Delaney wondered. Why the sweetness? It came, he decided, from men on duty, doing their incredibly boring jobs, enduring. The fraternity. Of what? (Delaney: “A friend? In the Department?” Fernandez: ((astonished)): “Of course in the Department. Who’s got any friends outside the Department?”) A kind of brotherhood.
A phone rang on the deal desk. The officer on duty put aside his paperback, picked up the ringing phone. “Barbara,” he said.
They had devised a radio and telephone code as simple and brief as they could make it. Not because Danny Boy might be listening in, but to keep away the short-wave nuts who tuned to police frequencies.
“Danny Boy”-Daniel G. Blank.
“Barbara”-the command post in Delaney’s home.
“White House”-Blank’s apartment house.
“Factory”-the Javis-Bircham Building.
“Castle”-the East End Avenue townhouse.
“Bulldog One”-the phony Con Ed van on the street outside the White House. It was Lt. Fernandez’ command post.
“Bulldog Two, Three, Four, etc”-code names for Fernandez’ unmarked cars and spooks on foot.
“Tiger One”-the man watching the Montfort townhouse. “Tiger Two” and “Tiger Three” were the street men sweeping the neighborhood.
Other than that, the Operation Lombard investigators used their actual names in transmissions, keeping their calls, in compliance with frequently repeated orders, informal and laconic.
When the phone rang, the officer who answered it said “Barbara.” Then he listened awhile, turned to look at Detective Wilding. “Stryker at the Factory,” he reported. “Danny Boy has his coat and hat on, looks like he’s ready to leave.” Stryker was the undercover man planted at Javis-Bircham. He was a tabulating clerk-and a good one-in Blank’s department.
Detective Wilding nodded. He turned to a man at the radio. “Alert Bulldog Three.” He looked at Delaney. “Okay for Stryker to cut out?”
The Captain nodded. The detective called to the man on the phone, “Tell Stryker he can take off. Report back the day after Christmas.”
The officer spoke into the phone, then grinned. “That Stryker,” he said to everyone listening. “He doesn’t want to take off. He says they’ve got an office party going, and he ain’t going to miss it.”
“The greatest cocksman in the Department,” someone said. The listening men broke up. Captain Delaney smiled thinly. He leaned forward to hear one of the radio operators say, “Bulldog Three from Barbara. Got me?”
“Yes. Very nice.” It was a bored voice.
“Danny Boy on his way down.”
“Okay.”
There was a quiet wait of about five minutes. Then: “Barbara from Bulldog Three. We’ve got him. Heading east on Forty-sixth Street. A yellow cab. License XB sixty-one-dash-forty-nine-dash-three-dash-one. Got it?”
“XB sixty-one-dash-forty-nine-dash-three-dash-one.”
“Right on.”
It was all low key; it was routine. The logs were kept carefully, and the 24-hour Time-Habit Charts were marked in. But nothing was happening.
Delaney stalked back into his study, put on his glasses, drew his yellow pad toward him. He jotted two lists. The first consisted of five numbered items:
1. Garage attendant.
2. Bartender at Parrot.
3. Lipsky.
4. Mortons.
