“Perfect,” Delaney said to no one in particular.
He had planned his meeting with Monica Gilbert with his usual meticulous attention to detail, even to the extent of deciding to keep on his overcoat. It would make her think he could only stay a moment, he was rushed, working hard to convict her husband’s killer.
But when he arrived at 7:00 p.m., the children were still awake, but in their nightgowns, and he had to play with them, inspect their Christmas gifts, accept a cup of coffee. The atmosphere was relaxed, warm, pleasant, domestic-all wrong for his purpose. He was glad when Monica packed the girls off to bed.
Delaney went back to the living room, sat down on the couch, took out the single sheet of paper he had prepared, with the speech he wanted her to deliver.
She came in, looking at him anxiously.
“What is it, Edward? You seem-well, tense.”
“The killer is Daniel Blank.-There’s no doubt about it. He killed your husband, and Lombard, Kope, and Feinberg. He’s a psycho, a crazy.”
“When are you going to arrest him?”
“I’m not going to arrest him. There’s no evidence I can take into court. He’d walk away a free man an hour after I collared him.”
“I can’t believe it.”
“It’s true. We’re watching him, every minute, and maybe we can prevent another killing or catch him in the act. But I can’t take the chance.”
Then he told her of what he had been doing to smash Daniel Blank. When he described the Christmas Eve call as Frank Lombard, her face went white.
“Edward, you didn’t,” she gasped.
“Oh yes. I did. And it worked. The man is breaking apart. I know he is. A couple of more days, if I keep the pressure on, he’s going to crack wide open. Now here’s what I want you to do.”
He handed her the sheet of dialogue he had written out. “I want you to call him, now, at his home, identify yourself and ask him why he killed your husband.”
She looked at him with shock and horror. “Edward,” she choked, “I can’t do that.”
“Sure you can,” he urged softly. “It’s just a few words. I’ve got them all written down for you. All you’ve got to do is read them. I’ll be right here when you call. I’ll even hold your hand, if you want me to. It’ll just take a minute or so. Then it’ll all be over. You can do it.”
“I can’t, I
“He murdered your husband,” he said stonily.
“But even if-”
“And three other innocent strangers. Cracked their skulls with his trusty little ice ax and left them on the sidewalk with their brains spilling out.”
“Edward, please.”
“You’re the woman who wanted revenge, aren’t you? ‘Vengeance,’ you said. ‘I’ll do anything to help,’ you said. ‘Type, run errands, make coffee.’ That’s what you told me. A few words is all I want, spoken on the phone to the man who slaughtered your husband.”
“He’ll come after me. He’ll hurt the children.”
“No. He doesn’t hurt women and children. Besides, you’ll be tightly guarded. He couldn’t get close even if he tried. But he won’t. Monica? Will you do it?”
“Why me? Why must I do it? Can’t you get a policewoman-”
“To call him and say it’s you? That wouldn’t lessen any possible danger to you and the girls. And I don’t want any more people in the Department to know about this.”
She shook her head, knuckles clenched to her mouth. Her eyes were wet.
“Anything but this,” she said faintly. “I just can’t do it. I
He stood, looked down at her, his face pulled into an ugly smile,
“Leave it to the cops, eh?” he said in a voice he scarcely recognized as his own, “Leave it to the cops to clean up the world’s shit, and vomit, and blood. Keep your own hands clean. Leave it all to the cops. Just so long as you don’t know what they’re doing.”
“Edward, it’s so cruel. Can’t you see that? What you’re doing is worse than what he did. He killed because he’s sick and can’t help himself. But you’re killing him slowly and deliberately, knowing exactly what you’re doing, everything planned and-”
Suddenly he was sitting close beside her, an arm about her shoulders, his lips at her ear.
“Listen,” he whispered, “your husband was Jewish and you’re Jewish-right? And Feinberg, that last guy he chilled, was a Jew. Four victims; two Jews. Fifty percent. You want this guy running loose, killing more of your people? You want-”
She jerked away from under his arm, swung from the waist, and slapped his face, an open-handed smack that knocked his head aside and made him blink.
“Despicable!” she spat at him. “The most despicable man I’ve ever met!”
He stood suddenly, looming over her.
“Oh yes,” he said, tasting the bile bubbling up. “Despicable. Oh yes. But Blank, he’s a poor, sick lad-right? Right? Smashed your husband’s skull in, but it’s Be Nice to Blank Week. Right? Let me tell you-let me tell you-” He was stuttering now in his passion to get it out. “He’s dead. You understand that? Daniel G. Blank is a dead man. Right now. You think-you think I’m going to let him walk away from this just because the law…You think I’m going to shrug, turn away, and give up? I tell you, he’s
He stood there quivering with his anger, trying to draw deep breaths through his open mouth.
She looked up at him timidly. “What do you want me to say?” she asked in a small voice.
He sat beside her on the couch, holding her free hand, his ear pressed close to the phone she held so he could overhear the conversation. The script he had composed lay on her lap.
Blank’s phone rang seven times before he picked it up.
“Hello?” he said cautiously.
“Daniel Blank?” Monica asked, reading her lines. There was a slight quaver in her voice.
“Yes. Who is this?”
“My name is Monica Gilbert. I’m the widow of Bernard Gilbert. Mr. Blank, why did you kill Bernie? My children and I want-”
But she was interrupted by a wild scream, a cry of panic and despair that frightened both of them. It came wailing over the wire, loud enough to be painful in their ears, shrill enough to pierce into their hearts and souls and set them quivering. Then there was the heavy bumping of a dropped phone, a thick clatter.
Delaney took the phone from Monica’s trembling hand, hung it up gently. He stood, buttoned his overcoat, reached for his hat.
“Fine,” he said softly. “You did just fine.”
She looked at him.
“You’re a dreadful man,” she whispered. “The most dreadful man I’ve ever met.”
“Am I?” he asked. “Dreadful and despicable, all in one evening. Well…I’m a cop.”
“I never want to see you again, ever.”
“All right,” he said, saddened. “Good-night, and thank you.”
There were two uniformed men outside her apartment door. He showed them his identification, made certain they had their orders straight. Both had been given copies of Daniel Blank’s photo. Outside the house, two plainclothesmen sat in an unmarked car. One of them recognized Delaney, raised a hand in greeting. Fernandez had done an efficient job; he was good on this kind of thing.
The Captain shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets and, trying not to think of what he had done to Monica Gilbert, walked resolutely over to Blank’s apartment house and into the lobby. Thank God Lipsky wasn’t on
