The 1st Deadly Sin (59 page)

“Yes. Definitely. At noon.”

“Well, bring the cards and the list. You know where the list is, don’t you?”

“Bottom drawer of the secretary in the living room.”

“Detective!” she giggled. “Yes, that’s where it is. Bring the list and cards over at noon. I feel very good today. I’ll start writing them. I won’t try to do them all today, but I should have them finished up in two or three days, and they’ll get there in time.”

“Stamps?”

“Yes, I’ll need stamps. Get a roll of a hundred. A roll is easier to handle. I make such a mess of a sheet. Oh Edward, I’m sorry…I forgot to ask. Did you find anything in the old files?”

“I’ll tell you all about it when I see you at noon.”

“Does it look good?”

“Well…maybe.”

She was silent, then sighed. “I hope so,” she said. “Oh, how I hope so.”

“I do, too. Listen dear…what would you like for Christmas?”

“Do I have a choice?” she laughed. “I know what I’m going to get—perfume from any drugstore you find that’s open on Christmas Eve.”

He laughed too. She was right.

He hung up and glanced at his watch. It was a little past 9:00 a.m., later than he wanted it to be. He dug hurriedly through his pack of business cards and found the one he was looking for: Arthur K. Ames. Automobile Insurance.

Blank’s apartment house occupied an entire block on East 83rd Street. Delaney was familiar with the building and, standing across the street, looking up, thought again of how institutional it looked. All steel and glass. A hospital or a research center, not a place to live in. But people did, and he could imagine what the rents must be.

As he had hoped, men and women were still leaving for work. Two doormen were constantly running down the driveway to flag cabs and, even as he watched, a garage attendant brought a Lincoln Continental to the entrance, hopped out and ran back to the underground garage to drive up another tenant’s car.

Delaney walked resolutely up the driveway, turned right and walked down a short flight of steps to the underground garage. A light blue Jaguar came roaring by him, the garage man at the wheel. Delaney waited patiently at the entrance until the black attendant came trotting back.

“Good morning,” he said proffering his business card. “My name is Ames, of Cross-Country Insurance.”

The attendant glanced at the card. “You picked a bad time to sell insurance, man.”

“No, no,” Delaney said quickly, smiling. “I’m not selling anything. One of the cars we cover was involved in an accident with a nineteen-seventy-one Chevy Corvette. The Corvette took off. The car we cover was trashed. The driver’s in the hospital. Happened over on Third Avenue. We think the Corvette might be from the neighborhood, so I’m checking all the garages around here. Just routine.”

“A nineteen-seventy-one Corvette?”

“Yes.”

“What color?”

“Probably dark blue or black.”

“When did this happen?”

“Couple of days ago.”

“We got one Corvette. Mr. Blank. But it couldn’t be him. He hasn’t had his car out in weeks.”

“The police found glass at the scene and pieces of fiberglass from the left front fender.”

“I’m telling you it couldn’t be Mr. Blank’s Corvette. There’s not a scratch on it.”

“Mind if I take a look?”

“Help yourself,” the man shrugged. “It’s back there in the far corner, behind the white Caddy.”

“Thank you.”

The man took a phone call, hopped into a Ford station wagon, began to back out into the center of the garage so he could turn around. He was busy, which was why Delaney had picked this time. He walked slowly over to the black Corvette. The license number was Blank’s.

The door was unlocked. He opened it and looked in, sniffing. A musty, closed-window smell. There was an ice-scraper for the windshield, a can of defogger, a dusty rag, a pair of worn driving gloves. Between the two seats was tucked a gasoline station map that had been handled, unfolded and refolded several times. Delaney opened it far enough to look. New York State. With a route marked on it in heavy black pencil: from East 83rd Street, across town, up the West Side Highway to the George Washington Bridge, across to New Jersey, up through Mahwah into New York again, then north to the Catskill Mountains, ending at a town named Chilton. He reshuffled the map, put it back where he found it.

He closed the car door gently and started out. He met the attendant coming back.

“It sure wasn’t that car,” he smiled.

“I told you that, man.”

Delaney wondered if the attendant would mention the incident to Blank. He thought it likely, and he tried to guess what Blank’s reaction would be. It wouldn’t spook him but, if he was guilty, it might start him thinking. There was an idea there, Delaney acknowledged, but it wasn’t time for it…yet.

Back in his study, he looked up Chilton in his world atlas. All it said was “Chilton, N.Y. Pop.: 3,146.” He made a note about Chilton and added it to the Daniel Blank file. He looked at his watch. It wasn’t quite ten, but close enough. He called Handry at his office.

“Captain? Sorry. No soap.”

“Well…it was a long shot. Thank you very much for—”

“Hey, wait a minute. You give up too easily. We got other files of people. For instance, the sports desk keeps a file of living personalities and so does the theatre and arts section. Could your boy be in either?”

“Maybe in the sports file, but I doubt it.”

“Well, can you tell me
anything
about him?”

“Not much. He lives in an expensive apartment house and drives an expensive car, so he must be loaded.”

“Thanks a lot,” Handry sighed. “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. If I have something, I’ll call you. If you don’t hear from me, you’ll know I didn’t turn up a thing. Okay?”

“Yes. Sure. Fine,” Delaney said heavily, feeling this was just a polite kiss-off.

He got over to the hospital as Barbara’s noon meal was being served and he watched, beaming, as she ate almost all of it, feeding herself. She really was getting better, he told himself happily. Then he showed her the Christmas cards he had purchased, in three different price ranges; the most expensive for their “important” friends and acquaintances, the least expensive for—well, for people. And the twenty cards left over from last year, the list, the stamps.

Then he told her about Daniel Blank, stalking about the room, making wide gestures. He told her the man’s history, what he had been able to dig up, what he suspected.

“What do you think?” he asked finally, eager for her opinion.

“Yes,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe. But you’ve really got nothing, Edward. You know that.”

“Of course.”

“Nothing definite. But certainly worth following up. I’d feel a lot better if you could tie him up with an ice ax purchase.”

“I would too. But right now he’s all I’ve got.”

“Where do you go from here?”

“Where? Checking out everything. Charles Lipsky. The Parrot, where he had that fight. Trying to find out who he is and what he is. Listen, dear, I won’t be over this evening. Too much to do. All right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Are you sticking to your diet?”

“Sure,” he said, patting his stomach. “I’m up only three pounds this week.”

They laughed, and he kissed her on the lips before he left. Then they kissed again. Soft, clinging, wanting kisses.

He clumped down to the lobby, dug out his pocket notebook, looked up the number. Then he called Calvin Case from the lobby booth.

“How you coming?”

“All right,” Case said. “I’m still working on the general mountaineering equipment sales checks, pulling those in the Two-five-one Precinct.”

Delaney was amused at Case’s “Two-five-one Precinct.” His amateur was talking officialese.

“Am I doing any good?” Case wanted to know.

“You are,” Delaney assured him. “I’ve got a lead. Name is Daniel Blank. Know him?”

“What’s it?”

“Blank. B-l-a-n-k. Daniel G. Ever hear of him?”

“Is he a climber?”

“I don’t know. Could be.”

“Hey, Captain, there’re two hundred thousand climbers in the country and more every year. No, I don’t know any Daniel G. Blank. What does the G. stand for?”

“Gideon. All right, let me try this one on you: Ever hear of Chilton? It’s a town in New York.”

“I know. Up in the Catskills. Sleepy little place.”

“Would a mountain climber go there?”

“Sure. Not Chilton itself, but about two miles out of town is a state park. A small one, but nice. Benches, tables, barbecues—crap like that.”

“What about climbing?”

“Mostly for hiking. There are some nice outcrops. There’s one good climb, a monolith. Devil’s Needle. It’s a chimney climb. As a matter of fact, I left two pitons up there to help whoever came after me to crawl out onto the top. I used to go up there to work out.”

“Is it an easy climb?”

“Easy? Well., .it’s not for beginners. I’d say an intermediate climb. If you know what you’re doing, it’s easy. Does that help?”

“At this point everything helps.”

Back home, he added the information Calvin Case had given him about Chilton and the Devil’s Needle to the Daniel Blank file. Then he checked the address of The Parrot in Blankenship’s report. He went through his pack of business cards, found one that read: “Ward M. Miller. Private Investigations. Discreet—Reliable—Satisfaction Guaranteed.” He began to plan his cover story.

He was still thinking it out an hour later, so deeply engrossed with the deception he was plotting that the phone must have rung several times without his being aware of it. Then Mary, who had picked up the hall extension, came in to tell him Mr. Handry was on the phone.

“Got him,” Handry said.

“What?”

“I found him. Your Daniel G. Blank.”

“Jesus Christ!” Delaney said excitedly. “Where?”

Handry laughed. “Our business-finance keeps a personality file, mostly on executives. They get tons of press releases and public relations reports every year. You know, Joe Blow has been promoted from vice president to executive vice president, or Harry Hardass has been hired as sales manager at Wee Tots Bootery, or some such shit. Usually it’s a one-page release with a small photo, a head-and-shoulders shot. You know what the business desk calls that stuff?”

“What?”

“The ‘Fink File.’ And if you got a look at those photos, you’d understand why. You wouldn’t believe! They print about one out of every ten releases they get, depending on the importance of the company. Anyway, that’s where I found your pigeon. He got a promotion a couple of years ago, and there’s a photo of him and a few paragraphs of slush.”

“Where does he work?”

“Ohhh no,” Handry said. “You haven’t a bloody chance. I’ll have a Xerox made of the release and a copy of the photo. I’ll bring them up to your place tonight if you’ll tell me why you’re so interested in Mr. Blank. It’s the Lombard thing, isn’t it?”

Delaney hesitated. “Yes,” he said finally.

“Blank a suspect?”

“Maybe.”

“If I bring the release and photo tonight, will you tell me about it?”

“There isn’t much to tell.”

“Let me be the judge of that. Is it a deal?”

“All right. About eight or nine.”

“I’ll be there.”

Delaney hung up, exultant. Information
and
a photo! He knew from experience the usual sequence of a difficult case.

The beginning was long, slow, muddled. The middle began to pick up momentum, pieces coming together, fragments fitting. The end was usually short, fast, frequently violent. He judged he was in the middle of the middle now, the pace quickening, parts clicking into place. It was all luck. It was all fucking luck.

The Parrot was no worse and no better than any other ancient Third Avenue bar that served food (steak sandwich, veal cutlet, beef stew; spaghetti, home fries, peas-and-carrots; apple pie, tapioca pudding, chocolate cake). With the growth of high-rise apartment houses, there were fewer such places every year.

As he had hoped, the tavern was almost empty. There were two men wearing yellow hardhats drinking beer at the bar and matching coins. There was a young couple at a back table, holding hands, dawdling over a bottle of cheap wine. One waiter at this hour. One bartender.

Delaney sat at the bar, near the door, his back to the plate glass window. He ordered a rye and water. When the bartender poured it, the Captain put a ten-dollar bill on the counter.

“Got a minute?” he asked.

The man looked at him. “For what?”

“I need some information.”

“Who are you?”

Delaney slid the “Ward M. Miller—Private Investigations” business card across the bar. The man picked it up and read it, his lips moving. He returned the card.

“I don’t know nothing,” he said.

“Sure you do,” the Captain smiled genially. He placed the card atop the ten-dollar bill. “It’s a matter of public record. Last year there was a fight in here. A guy kicked the shit out of a faggot. Were you on duty that night?”

“I’m on duty every night. I own the joint. Part of it anyways.”

“Remember the fight?”

“I remember. How come you know about it?”

“I got a friend in the Department. He told me about it.”

“What’s it got to do with me?”

“Nothing. I don’t even know your name, and I don’t want to know it. I’m interested in the guy who broke the other guy’s jaw.”

“That sonofabitch!” the bartender burst out. “That guy should have been put away and throw away the key. A maniac!”

“He kicked the faggot when he was down?”

“That’s right. In the balls. He was a wild man. It took three of us to pull him away. He would have killed him. I came close to sapping him. I keep a sawed-off pool cue behind the bar. He was a raving nut. How come you’re interested in him?”

“Just checking up. His name is Daniel Blank. He’s about thirty-six, thirty-seven—around there. He’s divorced. Now he’s got the hots for this young chick. She’s nineteen, in college. This Blank wants to marry her, and she’s all for it. Her old man is loaded. He thinks this Blank smells. The old man wants me to check him out, see what I can dig up.”

“The old man better kick his kid’s tail or get her out of the country before he lets her marry Blank. That guy’s bad news.”