“You’re spending a lot of money on this case, Mr. Langley.” He smiled, tossed a hand in the air, and strutted out, the debonair boulevardier.
After the door was locked behind him, the Captain returned to his study, determined to take up his task of writing out the complete reports of his investigation. But he faltered. Finally he gave it up; something was bothering him. He went into the kitchen. The pot of stew was on the cold range. Using a long-handled fork, he stood there and ate three pieces of luke-warm beef, a potato, a small onion, and two slices of carrot. It all tasted like sawdust but, knowing Mary’s cooking, he supposed it was good and the fault was his.
Later, at the hospital, he told Barbara what the problem was. She was quiet, almost apathetic, lying in her bed, and he wasn’t certain she was listening or, if she was, if she understood. She stared at him with what he thought were fevered eyes, wide and brilliant.
He told her everything that had happened during the day, omitting only the call from the bookseller about the Honey Bunch books. He wanted to surprise her with that. But he told her of Langley buying the ice ax and how he, Delaney, was convinced that a similar tool had been used in the Lombard and Gilbert attacks.
“I know what should be done now,” he said. “I already have Langley working on other places where an ice ax can be bought. He’ll be checking retailers, wholesalers, manufacturers and importers. It’s a big job for one man. Then I must try to get a copy of Outside Life’s mailing list. I don’t know how big it is, but it’s bound to be extensive. Someone’s got to go through it and pull the names and addresses of every resident of the Two-five-one Precinct. I’m almost certain the killer lives in the neighborhood. Then I want to get all the sales slips of Outside Life, for as many years as they’ve kept them, again to look for buyers of ice axes who live in the Precinct. And that checking and cross-checking will have to be done at every store where Langley discovers ice axes are sold. And I’m sure some of them won’t have mailing lists or itemized sales checks, so the whole thing may be a monumental waste of time. But I think it has to be done, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “No doubt of it. Besides, it’s your only lead, isn’t it?”
“The only one,” he nodded grimly. “But it’s going to take a lot of time.”
She looked at him a few moments, then smiled softly.
“I know what’s bothering you, Edward. You think that even with Mr. Langley and Calvin Case helping you, checking all the lists and sales slips will take too much time. You’re afraid someone else may be wounded or killed while you’re messing around with mailing lists. You’re wondering if perhaps you shouldn’t turn over what you have right now to Operation Lombard, and let Broughton and his five hundred detectives get on it. They could do it so much faster.”
“Yes,” he said, grateful that she was thinking clearly now, her mind attuned to his. “That’s exactly what’s worrying me. How do you feel about it?”
“Would Broughton follow up on what you gave him?”
“Chief Pauley sure as hell would. I’d go to him. He’s getting desperate now. And for good reason. He’s got
They were silent then. He came over to sit by her bedside and hold her hand. Neither spoke for several minutes.
“It’s really a moral problem, isn’t it?” she said finally.
He nodded miserably. “It’s my own pride and ambition and ego…And my commitment to Thorsen and Johnson, of course. But if I don’t do it, and someone else gets killed, I’ll have a lot to answer for.”
She didn’t ask to whom.
“I could help you with the lists,” she said faintly. “Most of the time I just lie here and read or sleep. But I have my good days, and I could help.”
He squeezed her hand, smiled sadly. “You can help most by telling me what to do.”
“When did you ever do what I told you to do?” she scoffed. “You go your own way, and you know it.”
He grinned. “But you help,” he assured her. “You sort things out for me.”
“Edward, I don’t think you should do anything immediately. Ivar Thorsen is deeply involved in this, and so is Inspector Johnson. If you go to Broughton, or even Chief Pauley, and tell them what you’ve discovered and what you suspect, they’re sure to ask who authorized you to investigate.”
“I could keep Thorsen and Johnson out of it. Don’t forget, I have that letter from the Commissioner.”
“But it would still be a mess, wouldn’t it? And Broughton would probably know Thorsen is involved; the two of you have been so close for so long. Edward, why don’t you have a talk with Ivar and Inspector Johnson? Tell them what you want to do. Discuss it. They’re reasonable men; maybe they can suggest something. I know how much this case means to you.”
“Yes,” he said, looking down, “it does. More every day. And when Thorsen went to the scene of the Gilbert attack, he was really spooked. He as much as said that this business of cutting Broughton down was small stuff compared to finding the killer. Yes, that’s the best thing to do. I’ll talk to Thorsen and Johnson, and tell them I want to go to Broughton with what I’ve got. I hate the thought of it-that shit! But maybe it has to be done. Well, I’ll think about it some more. I’ll try to see them tomorrow, so I may not be over at noon. But I’ll come in the evening and tell you how it all came out.”
“Remember, don’t lose your temper, Edward.”
“When did I ever lose my temper?” he demanded. “I’m always in complete control.”
They both laughed.
6
He shaved with an old-fashioned straight razor, one of a matched pair his father had used. They were handsome implements of Swedish steel with bone handles. Each morning, alternating, he took a razor from the worn, velvet-lined case and honed it lightly on a leather strop that hung from the inside knob of the bathroom door.
Barbara could never conceal her dislike of the naked steel. She had bought him an electric shaver one Christmas and, to please her, he had used it a few times at home. Then he had taken it to his office in the precinct house where, he assured her, he frequently used it for a “touch-up” when he had a meeting late in the afternoon or evening. She nodded, accepting his lie. Perhaps she sensed that the reason he used the straight razors was because they had belonged to his father, a man he worshipped.
Now, this morning, drawing the fine steel slowly and carefully down his lathered jaw, he listened to a news broadcast from the little transistor radio in the bedroom and learned, from a brief announcement, that Bernard Gilbert, victim of a midnight street attack, had died without regaining consciousness. Delaney’s hand did not falter, and he finished his shave steadily, wiped off excess lather, splashed lotion, powdered lightly, dressed in his usual dark suit, white shirt, striped tie, and went down to the kitchen for breakfast, bolstered and carried along by habit. He stopped in the study just long enough to jot a little note to himself to write a letter of condolence to Monica Gilbert.
He greeted Mary, accepted orange juice, one poached egg on unbuttered toast, and black coffee. They chatted about the weather, about Mrs. Delaney’s condition, and he approved of Mary’s plan to strip the furniture in Barbara’s sewing room of chintz slipcovers and send them all to the dry cleaner.
Later, in the study, he wrote a pencilled rough of his letter of condolence to Mrs. Gilbert. When he had it the way he wanted-admitting it was stilted, but there was no way of getting around
It was then almost 9:30, and he called the Medical Examiner’s office. Ferguson wasn’t in yet but was expected momentarily. Delaney waited patiently for fifteen minutes, making circular doodles on a scratch pad, a thin line that went around and around in a narrowing spiral. Then he called again and was put through to Ferguson.
“I know,” the doctor said, “he’s dead. I heard when I got in.”
“Did you get it?”
“Yes. The lump is on the way down now. The big problem in my life, Edward, is whether to do a cut-’em-up before lunch or after. I finally decided before is better. So I’ll probably get to him about eleven or eleven-
