not things, and so he was pleased.
The interview with Thomas Handry was ticklish. Delaney told him only as much as he felt Handry should know, believing the reporter was intelligent enough to fill in the gaps. For instance, he told Handry that both Lombard and Gilbert had been killed with the same weapon-had
Delaney took complete responsibility for his own investigation, made no mention of Thorsen, Johnson, Alinski or Broughton. He said he was concerned because the crimes had occurred in his precinct, and he felt a personal responsibility. Handry looked up from his notebook to stare at Delaney a long time, but made no comment. Delaney told him he was convinced the killer was a psychopath, that Lombard and Gilbert were chance victims, and that the murderer would slay again. Handry wrote it all down and, thankfully, didn’t inquire why Delaney didn’t take what he had to Operation Lombard.
Their big argument involved when Handry could publish. The reporter wanted to go at once with what he had been told; the Captain wanted him to hold off until he got the go-ahead from him, Delaney. It developed into a shouting match, louder and louder, about who had done more for whom, and who owed whom what. Finally, realizing simultaneously how ridiculous they sounded, they dissolved into laughter, and the Captain mixed fresh drinks. They came to a compromise; Handry would hold off for two weeks. If he hadn’t received the Captain’s go- ahead by then, he could publish anything he liked, guess at anything he liked, but with no direct attribution to Delaney.
His biggest disappointment during this period came when he happily, proudly brought Barbara the two Honey Bunch books he had received in the mail. She was completely rational, apparently in flaming good health. She inspected the books, and gave a mirthful shout, looking at him and shaking her head.
“Edward,” she said, “what on
He was about to remind her she had requested them, then suddenly realized she obviously didn’t remember. He hid his chagrin.
“I thought you’d like them,” he smiled. “Just like the ones you sent to Liza.”
“Oh, you’re such an old dear,” she said, holding up her face to be kissed.
He leaned over the hospital bed eagerly, hoping her cheerfulness was a presage of recovery. When he left, the two books were alongside her bed, on the floor. When he returned the next day, one was opened, spread, pages down, on her bedside table. He knew she had been reading it, but he didn’t know if this was a good sign or a bad sign. She made no reference to the book, and he didn’t either.
So his days were spent mostly on plans, programs, meetings, interviews, and there was absolutely no progress to report when he called Thorsen twice a week. Having assigned his amateur “staff” their tasks, he called each of them every other day or so, not to lean on them, but to talk, assure them of the importance of what they were doing, answer their questions, and just let them know that he was there, he knew it would take time, and not to become discouraged. He was very good at this, because he liked these people, and he knew or sensed their motives for helping him.
But when all his plans and programs were in progress, when all his amateurs were busy at their tasks, he found himself with nothing to do. He went back through his own notes and reports, and found the suggestions about a mountain climbers’ magazine, an association or club of mountain climbers, a mention to check the local library on withdrawals of books on mountaineering.
Then he came across his list. “The Suspect.” He had not made an addition to it in almost six weeks. He looked at his watch. He had returned from his evening visit to the hospital; it was almost 8:00 p.m. Had he eaten? Yes, he had. Mary had left a casserole of shrimp, chicken, rice, and little pieces of ham. And walnuts. He didn’t like the walnuts, but he picked them out, and the rest was good.
He called Calvin Case.
“Captain Edward X. Delaney here. How are you?”
“Okay.”
“And your wife?”
“Fine. What’s on your mind?”
“I’d like to talk to you. Now. It’s not about the sales checks. I know you’re working away at them. It’s something else. If I can find a cab, I could be at your place in half an hour.”
“Sure. Come ahead. I’ve got something great to show you.”
“Oh? I’ll be right down.”
Evelyn Case met him at the door. She was flushed, happy, and looked about 15 years old, in faded jeans, torn sneakers, one of her husband’s shirts tied about her waist. Unexpectedly, she went up on her toes to kiss his cheek.
“Well!” he said. “I thank you.”
“We’re working on the sales checks, Captain,” she said breathlessly. “Both of us. Every night. And Cal taught me what the stock numbers mean. And sometimes I come home during my lunch hour and help him.”
“Good,” he smiled, patting her shoulder. “That’s fine. And you look just great.”
“Wait till you see Cal!”
The apartment was brighter now, and smelled reasonably clean. The windows of Case’s bedroom were washed, there were fresh paper drapes, a pot of ivy on his cart, a new rag rug on the floor.
But the cartons of Outside Life sales checks were everywhere, stacked high against walls in the hallway, living room, bedroom. Delaney had to thread his way through, walking sideways in a few places, sidling through the open bedroom doorway from which, he noted, the window shade had been removed.
“Hi,” Calvin Case called, gesturing around. “How do you like this?”
He was waving at an incredible contraption, a framework of two-inch iron pipe that surrounded his bed and hung over it, like the bare bones of a canopy. And there were steel cables, weights, handles, pulleys, gadgets.
Delaney stared in astonishment. “What the hell
Case laughed pleased at his wonderment.
“Sol Appel gave it to me. He came up to see me. The next day a guy showed up to take measurements. A few days later three guys showed up with the whole thing and just bolted it together. It’s a gym. So I can exercise from the waist up. Look at this…”
He reached up with both hands, grabbed a trapeze that hung from wire cables. He pulled his body off the bed. The clean sheet dropped away to his waist. His naked torso was still flaccid, soft muscles trembling with his effort. He let go, let himself fall back onto the bed.
“That’s all,” he gasped. “So far. But strength is coming back. Muscle tone. I can feel it. Now look at this…”
Two handles hung above his head. They were attached to steel cables that ran over pulleys on the crossbar above him. The cables ran down over the length of the bed, across pulleys on the lower crossbar, and then down. They were attached to stainless steel weights.
“See?” Case said, and demonstrated by pulling the handles down to his chest alternately: right, left, right, left. “I’m only raising the one-pound weights now,” he admitted. “But you can add up to five pounds on each cable.”
“And when he started he couldn’t even raise the one-pound weights,” Evelyn Case said eagerly to Captain Delaney. “Next week we’re going to two-pound weights.”
“And look at this,” Case said, showing what appeared to be a giant steel hairpin hanging from his pipe cage. “It’s for your grip. For biceps and pectorals.”
He grasped the hairpin in both hands and tried to squeeze the two arms together, his face reddening. He barely moved them.
“That’s fine,” Delaney said. “Just fine.”
“The best thing is this,” Case said, and showed how a steel arm was hinged to swing out sideways from the gym. “I talked to the guys who put this thing together. They’re from some physical therapy outfit that specializes in stuff like this. Well, they sell a wheelchair with a commode built into it. I mean, you sit on a kind of a potty seat. You wheel yourself around, and when you’ve got to shit, you shit. But Jesus Christ, you’re mobile. I’m too heavy for Ev to lift me into a chair like that, but when I get my strength back, I’ll be able to move this bar out and swing onto
