“Well…no. But he did say there were several stores in New York that specialized in camping and mountain climbing equipment-axes, hatchets, crampons, special rucksacks, nylon rope and things of that sort. The stores must be listed somewhere. Probably in the Yellow Pages. Captain, can I stick with this?”
Delaney took two quick steps forward, clapped the little man on both arms.
“Can you?” he declaimed.
I just feel-I
He got Langley out of there, finally, bubbling with enthusiasm and plans of how he intended to trace the ice ax. Delaney nodded, smiled, agreeing to everything Langley said until he could, with decency, usher him out, lock the front door, and come back into the study. He paced up and down in front of his desk, hands shoved into hip pockets, chin on chest.
Then he grabbed up the telephone directory, looked up the number, and dialed Thomas Handry’s newspaper. The switchboard operator gave him the City Room where they told him Handry had left for the day. He asked for Handry’s home phone number, but they wouldn’t give it to him.
“Is it an unlisted number?” he asked.
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department,” the Captain said in his most pontifical tones. “I’m calling on official business. I can get Handry’s phone number from the telephone company, if you insist. It would save time if you gave it to me. If you want to check on me, call your man at Centre Street. Who is he- Slawson?”
“Slawson died last year.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good reporter.”
“Yes. Just a minute, Captain.”
The man came back and read off Handry’s home phone number. Delaney thanked him, hung up, waited a few seconds, then lifted the receiver again and dialed. No answer. He waited ten minutes and called again. Still no answer.
There wasn’t much in the refrigerator: half of that same baked ham he had had for lunch and some salad stuff. He sliced two thick slices of ham, then sliced a tomato and cucumber. He smeared mustard on the ham, and salad dressing on the rest. He ate it quickly, crunching on a hard roll. He glanced several times at his watch as he ate, anxious to get back to the hospital.
He slid plate and cutlery into the sink, rinsed his hands, and went back into his study to call Handry again. This time he got through.
“Hello?”
“Thomas Handry?”
“Yes.”
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“Oh. Hello, Captain. How are you?”
“Well, thank you. And you?”
“Fine. I heard you’re on leave of absence.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“I understand your wife is ill. Sorry to hear that. I hope she’s feeling better.”
“Yes. Thank you. Handry, I want a favor from you.”
“What is it, Captain?”
“First of all, I want some information on the murder of Leon Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty. I thought you might be able to get it from your morgue.”
“Trotsky in Mexico City in nineteen-forty? Jesus, Captain, that was before I was born.”
“I know.”
“What do you want?”
“Nothing heavy. Just what the newspapers of the time reported. How he was killed, who killed him, the weapon used. If there was a photograph of the weapon published, and you could get a photostat, that would help.”
“What’s this all about?”
“The second thing,” Delaney went on, ignoring the question, “is that I’d like the name and address of the best mountain climber in New York-the top man, or most experienced, or most skillful. I thought you might be able to get it from your Sports Desk.”
“Probably. Will you please tell me what the hell this is all about?”
“Can you have a drink with me tomorrow? Say about five o’clock?”
“Well…sure. I guess so.”
“Can you have the information by then?”
“I’ll try.”
“Fine. I’ll tell you about it then.” Delaney gave him the address of the chop house where he had lunched with Dr. Ferguson. “Is that all right, Handry?”
“Sure. I’ll see what I can do. Trotsky and the mountain climber. Right?”
“Right. See you tomorrow.”
Delaney hurried out and got a cab on Second Avenue. He was at the hospital within fifteen minutes. When he gently opened the door of his wife’s room, he saw at once she was sleeping. He tiptoed over to the plastic armchair, switched off the floor lamp, then took off his overcoat. He sat down as quietly as he could.
He sat there for two hours, hardly moving' He may have dozed off a few minutes, but mostly he stared at his wife. She was sleeping calmly and deeply. No one came into the room. He heard the corridor sounds dimly. Still he sat, his mind not so much blank as whirring, leaping, jumping about without order or connection: their children, Handry, Langley, Broughton, the Widow Zimmerman, the ice ax, Thorsen and Johnson, a driver’s license-a smear of thoughts, quick frames of a short movie, almost blending, looming, fading…
At the end of the two hours he scrawled a message in his notebook, tore the page out, propped it on her bedside table. “I was here. Where were you? Love and violets. Ted.” He tiptoed from the room.
He walked back to their home, certain he would be mugged, but he wasn’t. He went back into his study and resumed his readings of the histories, motives and methods of mass murderers. There was no one pattern.
He put the books aside, turned off the study lights shortly after midnight. He toured the basement and street floor, checking windows and locks. Then he trudged upstairs to undress, take a warm shower, and shave. He pulled on fresh pajamas. The image of his naked body in the bathroom mirror was not encouraging. Everything-face, neck, breasts, abdomen, ass, thighs-seemed to be sinking.
He got into bed, switched off the bedside lamp, and lay awake for almost an hour, turning from side to side, his mind churning. Finally he turned on the lamp, shoved his feet into wool slippers, went padding down to the study again. He dug out his list, the one beaded “The Suspect.” Under the “Physical” column he had jotted “An athlete?” He crossed this out and inserted “A mountain climber?” At the bottom, under “Additional Notes,” he wrote “Possesses an ice ax?”
It wasn’t much, he admitted. In fact, it was ridiculous. But when he turned out the study lights, climbed once more to the empty bedroom, and slid into bed, he fell asleep almost instantly.
2
“You didn’t give me much time,” Thomas Handry said, unlocking his attache case. “I guessed you’d be more interested in the assassination itself rather than the political background, so most of the stuff I’ve got is on the killing.”
