“I think so. Can you get Johnson?”
“He’s here now.”
Then Delaney became aware of the tone of the man’s voice, the tightness, urgency.
“I’ve got to see you,” the Captain said. “The sooner the better.”
“Yes,” Thorsen agreed. “Can you come over now?”
“Your office or home?”
“Home.”
“I’ll take a cab,” Captain Delaney told him. “About twenty minutes, at the most.”
He hung up, then said, “Fuck ’em all,” in a loud voice. But he went into the kitchen, found a paper shopping bag in the cabinet under the sink, brought it back to the study. In it he placed the three hammers and the can of machine oil-all his “physical evidence.” Then he set out.
Mrs. Thorsen met him at the door, took his coat and hat and hung them away. She was a tall silver-blonde almost gaunt, but with good bones and the most beautiful violet eyes Delaney had ever seen. They chatted a few moments, and he asked about Barbara. He mumbled something.
“Have you eaten tonight, Edward?” she asked suddenly. He tried to think, not remembering, then shook his head. “I’m making some sandwiches. Ham-and-cheese all right? Or roast beef?”
“Either or both will be fine, Karen.”
“And I have some salad things. In about an hour or so. The others are in the living room-you know where.”
There were three men in the room, all seated. Thorsen and Inspector Johnson rose and came forward to shake his hand. The third man remained seated; no one offered to introduce him.
This man was short, chunky, swarthy, with a tremendous mustache. His hands lay flat on his knees, and his composure was monumental. Only his dark eyes moved, darting, filled with curiosity and a lively intelligence.
It was only after he was seated that Delaney made him: Deputy Mayor Herman Alinski. He was a secretive, publicity-shy politico, reputed to be the mayor’s trouble-shooter and one of his closest confidants. In a short biographical sketch in the
“Drink, Edward?” Thorsen asked. “Rye highball?” Delaney looked around. Thorsen and Johnson had glasses. Alinski did not.
“Not right now, thank you. Maybe later.”
“All right. Karen is making up some sandwiches for us. Edward, you said you had something important for us. You can talk freely.”
Again Delaney became conscious of the tension in Thorsen’s voice, and when he looked at Inspector Johnson, the big black seemed stiff and grim.
“All right,” Delaney said. “I’ll take it from the top.”
He started speaking, still seated, and then, in a few moments, rose to pace around the room, or pause with his elbow on the mantel. He thought and spoke better, he knew, on his feet, and could gesture freely. None of the three men interrupted, but their heads or eyes followed him wherever he strode.
He began with Lombard’s death. The position of the body. His reasons for thinking the killer had approached from the front, then whirled to strike Lombard down from behind. The shape and nature of the wound. Oil in the wound. The missing driver’s license. His belief that it was taken as evidence of the kill. Then Langley, his expertise, and the discovery of the bricklayers’ hammer which led to the rock hounds’ hammer which led to the ice ax.
At this point he unpacked his shopping bag and handed around the tools. The three men examined them closely, their faces expressionless as they tested edges with thumbs, hefted the weight and balance of the tools.
Delaney went on: the Bernard Gilbert attack. The missing ID card. His belief that the assailant was psychopathic. A resident of the 251st Precinct. And would kill again. The information supplied by Handry: the Trotsky assassination and the name of Calvin Case. Then the interview with Case. The oil on the ice ax heads. He handed around the can of oil.
He had them now, and the three were leaning forward intently, Thorsen and Johnson neglecting their drinks, the Deputy Mayor’s sharp eyes darting and glittering. There wasn’t a sound from them.
Delaney told them about the interview with Sol Appel at Outside Life. The mailing list and itemized sales checks. Then he related how he had traced a profile of the ice ax head. How he had given that and a sample of machine oil to the surgeon who did the autopsy on Gilbert. How the profile on the wound checked out. How the oil would be analyzed on the OAI.
“Who did the post?” Inspector Johnson asked.
Alinski’s head swivelled sharply, and he spoke for the first time. “Post?” he asked. “What’s post?”
“Post-mortem,” Delaney explained. “I promised to keep the surgeon’s name out of it.”
“We could find out,” Alinski said mildly.
“Of course,” the Captain said, just as mildly. “But not from me.”
That seemed to satisfy Alinski. Thorsen asked how much Delaney had told the surgeon, had told Langley, Handry, Case, Mrs. Gilbert, Sol Appel.
Only as much as they needed to know, Delaney assured him. They knew only that he was engaged in a private investigation of the deaths of Lombard and Gilbert, and they were willing to help.
“Why?” Alinski asked.
Delaney shrugged. “For reasons of their own.” There was silence for a few minutes, then Alinski spoke softly:
“You have no proof, do you, Captain?”
Delaney looked at him in astonishment.
“Of course not. It’s all smoke, all theory. I haven’t told you or shown you a single thing that could be taken into court at this time.”
“But you believe in it?”
“I believe in it. For one reason only-there’s nothing else to believe in. Does Operation Lombard have anything better?”
The three men turned heads to stare wordlessly at each other. Delaney could tell nothing from their expressions.
“That’s really why I’m here,” he said, addressing Thorsen. “I want to turn-”
But at that moment there was a kicking at the door; not a knocking, but three sharp kicks. Thorsen sprang up, stalked over, opened the door and relieved his wife of a big tray of food.
“Thank you dear,” he smiled.
“There’s plenty more of everything,” she called to the other men. “So don’t be polite if you’re hungry; just ask.”
Thorsen put the loaded tray on a low cocktail table, and they clustered around. There were ham-and-cheese sandwiches, roast beef sandwiches, chunks of tomato, radishes, dill pickles, slices of Spanish onions, a jar of hot mustard, olives, potato chips, scallions.
They helped themselves, all standing, and Thorsen mixed fresh drinks. This time Delaney had a rye and water, and Deputy Mayor Alinski took a double Scotch.
Unwilling to sacrifice the momentum of what he had been saying, and the impression he had obviously made on them, Delaney began talking again, speaking between bites of his sandwich and pieces of scallion. This time he looked at Alinski as he spoke.
“I want to turn over everything I’ve got to Chief Pauley. I admit it’s smoke, but it’s a lead. I’ve got three or four inexperienced people who can check sources of the ax and the Outside Life mailing list and sales checks. But Pauley’s got five hundred dicks and God knows how many deskmen if he needs them. It’s a question of time. I think Pauley should take this over; he can do it a lot faster than I can. It might prevent another kill, and I’m convinced there will be another, and another, and another, until we catch up with this nut.”
The other three continued eating steadily, sipping their drinks and looking at him. Once Thorsen started to speak, but Alinski held up a hand, silencing him. Finally the Deputy Mayor finished his sandwich, wiped his fingers on a paper napkin, took his drink back to his chair. He sat down, sighed, stared at Delaney.
