The 1st Deadly Sin (74 page)

“I’ll take your word for it,” Delaney grunted. “Now, the moment he’s down, one of you—I don’t care who it is—straddles his body, facing in the direction he was facing just before he bought it. And then—”

“And then we fire two or three shots from the Luger into the opposite wall,” Fernandez said rapidly. “Where the two of us was just standing.”

“Now you’re catching it,” the Captain said approvingly. “But it’s got to be done fast—so that if anyone hears the shots, it’s just a lot of shots, no pauses. No witness is going to remember how many shots were fired, when, or in what order. But just to play safe, the Luger should be fired into the opposite wall as soon as possible after you’ve iced him.”

“I’ve got it,” Fernandez smiled. “Two of three shots into the wall. Not too high. Like he really was firing at us.”

“Right. Splinter a couple of mirrors if you can. That opposite wall is full of mirrors. Then what do you do?”

“Easy,” Fernandez said. “Wipe the Luger clean. Put it in his hand and—”

“His
right
hand,” Delaney cautioned. “He’s right-handed. Don’t forget it.”

“I won’t forget it. The Luger gets wiped clean and put in his right hand.”

“Try it,” Delaney said, “but don’t get spooked if it doesn’t work. It’s tougher than you think to get a clunk’s hand to grip a gun—even a fresh clunk. lust make sure you get a couple of good prints on it. They probably won’t show on the wood grips, especially if they’re checkered, but put them on the metal. Anywhere. The gun can even be on the floor, near his right hand. But a couple of good prints are what we need. What do you do next?”

“Let’s see…” Fernandez thought deeply. He took a sip of his brandy. “Well, we’ve still got the keys to the guy’s apartment.”

“Right,” Delaney said promptly. “So your friend has got to go down to the lobby and slip the keys back to Lipsky. Tell him to leave Danny Boy’s apartment door open on the way out. Not open, but unlocked. And while he’s doing that, what are you doing?”

“Me? Well, I guess I could start tossing—”

“Forget it,” the Captain said. “Don’t touch a goddamn thing. The first thing you do is call me on Blank’s phone. I’ll be waiting for your call. I’ll collect a squad and be right over. But don’t do a thing until I get there. Don’t even sit down in a chair. Just stand there. If you get any flak from neighbors, just identify yourself, tell them more cops are on the way, and keep them out in the corridor. All right, I come in with a squad. You tell us what happened, and keep it as short as possible. I make the calls I have to make—the ME, lab, and so forth.
Then
we start a search, and
then
I’ll plant the oily rag, the cleaning tools, the extra Luger magazines, and so forth. I don’t know how I’ll carry them up there, but I’ll—”

“But why should
you
do it, Captain?” Fernandez protested. “We could take that stuff up there with us.”

Delaney grinned cynically. “In cases like this, it’s best that everyone be involved, as equally as possible. It’s insurance. That’s why I want you to make certain that both you and your friend feed Danny Boy the pills.”

The lieutenant puzzled over this. Then his face cleared. “Smart,” he nodded. “So no one talks, ever, and knows none of the others is going to spill.”

“Something like that,” Delaney agreed, not smiling. “Mutual trust. Now here’s the cover story: Operation Lombard determined that the weapon used in the four homicides was an ice ax. That’s a tool used by mountain climbers. Danny Boy is a mountain climber. There’s hard evidence for all this. We checked into purchasers of ice axes in the Two-five-one Precinct, where all the killings occurred, and you and your friend were given a list of ice ax owners to question. Just to put the icing on the cake, I’ll give you two or three names and addresses to check out before you get to Danny Boy. Then you say you identified yourselves as police officers, he let you in, and you asked to examine his ice ax. He said it was in his bedroom and went in there to get it. It’s really in the outside hall closet, but he went into the bedroom and came out with the Luger, blasting. But he missed. The two of you went for your sticks and iced him. How does it sound?”

The lieutenant shook his head admiringly. “You’re a wonder, Captain,” he said. “It sounds great, just great.”

“And, with any luck, while I’m planting the Luger equipment, I’ll turn up the evidence that will put the finger on Danny Boy but good. It was there a few weeks ago. If it’s still there, believe me, no one will ask any questions. But even if he’s destroyed it by now, it won’t make any difference. He’ll be wasted, and it’ll all be over.”

“Sounds perfect, Captain.”

“No,” Delaney said, “it’s not perfect. There are some loose ends we’ll have to take care of. For instance, this friend of yours—I’ll have to meet him.”

“You already know him.”

“He’s in Operation Lombard?”

“Yes ”

“Good. That makes it easier. This was just a quick outline, lieutenant. The three of us will have to go over it again and again and again until we’ve got it just right and our timing set. Maybe we could even have a dry-run to work out any bugs, but essentially I think it’s a logical and workable plan.”

“I think it’s a winner, Captain. Can’t miss.”

“It can miss,” Delaney said grimly. “Anything can miss. But I think it’s worth a chance.”

“Then it’s on, Captain? Definitely?”

Delaney took a deep breath, came back to sit behind his desk again. He sat erect in his swivel chair, put his big hands flat on the desk top.

“Well…maybe not definitely,” he said finally. “I like it because it gives me another option, and I’m practically running out of those. I’ve got just one other idea that’s been percolating in my brain. I tell you what: Go ahead and get the Luger. Fire it, clean it, and bang it up a little. But don’t mention a word to your friend. If I decide to go ahead, I’ll let you know. Got it?”

“Sure,” Fernandez nodded. “I do what you said about the Luger but hold up on anything else until I get the word from you.”

“Exactly.”

They both rose to their feet. The lieutenant put out his hand; Delaney grasped it.

“Captain,” Lt. Fernandez said seriously, “I want to wish a Merry Christmas and a very happy New Year to you and yours. I hope Mrs. Delaney is feeling much better real soon.”

“Thank you, lieutenant,” Delaney said. “The very merriest of Christmases to you and your family, and I hope the New Year brings you everything you want. It’s a real pleasure working with you.”

“Thank you, Captain,” Fernandez said. “Likewise.” Delaney closed the door, came back into the study.

He sat down at his desk, wished he had a fresh Cuban cigar, and considered the plan he had discussed with Lt. Fernandez. It wasn’t foolproof; such plans never were. There was always the possibility of the unexpected, the unimagined: a scream from somewhere, a sudden visitor, a phone call. Danny Boy might even charge the two police officers, going right into their naked guns. He was capable of such insanity.

But essentially, Delaney decided, it was a logical and workable program. It was a solution. There were a lot of loose ends: how would he carry the Luger tools and cleaning equipment up to the apartment when he answered Fernandez’ call, where would he plant them (in the bedroom, obviously), what if the souvenirs were no longer taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer? A hundred questions would be asked, by newsmen and by his superiors. How had Operation Lombard determined that an ice ax was the weapon used in the four homicides? How had they latched onto Daniel Blank? There would be many, many such questions; he would have to anticipate them all and have his answers ready.

He looked at his watch. Almost 4:15; it was a long afternoon. He sighed, pulled himself to his feet, unlocked the study door to the living room, wandered in.

The two big transceivers were on plain pine planks, placed across sawhorses. A uniformed officer was seated in front of each instrument, hunched over a table microphone. A separate table, not as large, held the three new telephones. There was a uniformed officer on duty there, reading a paperback novel. Two men, stripped to their scivvies, were sleeping on cots alongside the wall. One was snoring audibly. Detective second grade Samuel Wilding—he was one of Blankenship’s assistants—was seated at a card table making notes on a chart. Delaney raised a hand to him.

He stood a moment near the radios, hands clasped behind his back. He was probably, he thought regretfully, making the operators nervous. But there was no answer for that.

The room was quiet. No, not quiet; except for the low snoring, it was absolutely silent. Late afternoon darkness crept through open drapes, and with it came a—what? A sweetness, Captain Delaney admitted, laughing at himself, but it was a kind of sweetness.

The uniformed men had taken off their blouses. They were working at their desks in sweaters or T-shirts, but still wearing gun belts. Only Detective Wilding wore a jacket, and his was summer-weight, with lapels. So what was it? Delaney wondered. Why the sweetness? It came, he decided, from men on duty, doing their incredibly boring jobs, enduring. The fraternity. Of what? (Delaney: “A friend? In the Department?” Fernandez: ((astonished)): “Of course in the Department. Who’s got any friends outside the Department?”) A kind of brotherhood.

A phone rang on the deal desk. The officer on duty put aside his paperback, picked up the ringing phone. “Barbara,” he said.

They had devised a radio and telephone code as simple and brief as they could make it. Not because Danny Boy might be listening in, but to keep away the short-wave nuts who tuned to police frequencies.

“Danny Boy”—Daniel G. Blank.

“Barbara”—the command post in Delaney’s home.

“White House”—Blank’s apartment house.

“Factory”—the Javis-Bircham Building.

“Castle”—the East End Avenue townhouse.

“Bulldog One”—the phony Con Ed van on the street outside the White House. It was Lt. Fernandez’ command post.

“Bulldog Two, Three, Four, etc”—code names for Fernandez’ unmarked cars and spooks on foot.

“Tiger One”—the man watching the Montfort townhouse. “Tiger Two” and “Tiger Three” were the street men sweeping the neighborhood.

Other than that, the Operation Lombard investigators used their actual names in transmissions, keeping their calls, in compliance with frequently repeated orders, informal and laconic.

When the phone rang, the officer who answered it said “Barbara.” Then he listened awhile, turned to look at Detective Wilding. “Stryker at the Factory,” he reported. “Danny Boy has his coat and hat on, looks like he’s ready to leave.” Stryker was the undercover man planted at Javis-Bircham. He was a tabulating clerk—and a good one—in Blank’s department.

Detective Wilding nodded. He turned to a man at the radio. “Alert Bulldog Three.” He looked at Delaney. “Okay for Stryker to cut out?”

The Captain nodded. The detective called to the man on the phone, “Tell Stryker he can take off. Report back the day after Christmas.”

The officer spoke into the phone, then grinned. “That Stryker,” he said to everyone listening. “He doesn’t want to take off. He says they’ve got an office party going, and he ain’t going to miss it.”

“The greatest cocksman in the Department,” someone said. The listening men broke up. Captain Delaney smiled thinly. He leaned forward to hear one of the radio operators say, “Bulldog Three from Barbara. Got me?”

“Yes. Very nice.” It was a bored voice.

“Danny Boy on his way down.”

“Okay.”

There was a quiet wait of about five minutes. Then: “Barbara from Bulldog Three. We’ve got him. Heading east on Forty-sixth Street. A yellow cab. License XB sixty-one—dash—forty-nine—dash—three—dash—one. Got it?”

“XB sixty-one—dash—forty-nine—dash—three—dash—one.”

“Right on.”

It was all low key; it was routine. The logs were kept carefully, and the 24-hour Time-Habit Charts were marked in. But nothing was happening.

Delaney stalked back into his study, put on his glasses, drew his yellow pad toward him. He jotted two lists. The first consisted of five numbered items:

1.    Garage attendant.

2.    Bartender at Parrot.

3.    Lipsky.

4.    Mortons.

5.    Horvath at J-B.

The second list came slower, over a period of almost an hour. It finally consisted of four numbered items.

Delaney put it aside, rose, lumbered back into the living room. He went directly to Detective Samuel Wilding.

“When’s Blankenship coming back on?” he demanded.

“Tomorrow at noon, Captain. We’re splitting up because of Christmas.”

Delaney nodded. “Tell him, or leave a note for him, that I want to be informed immediately of any change in Danny Boy’s Time-Habit pattern. Got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Informed immediately,” the Captain repeated.

He marched through to his dining room and up to the lone man of Detective sergeant MacDonald’s squad on duty. The man looked up, startled.

“When’s MacDonald due back?” Delaney asked.

“Tomorrow at four in the afternoon, Captain. We’re splitting—”

“I know, I know,” Delaney said testily. “Christmas. I want to leave a message for him.” The duty officer took up a pad and waited, pencil in hand. “Tell him I want a photograph of Detective Kope.”

The officer’s pencil hesitated.

“Kope? The guy who got chilled?”

“Detective third grade Roger Kope, homicide victim,” Delaney said grimly. “I need a photograph of him. Preferably with his family. A photograph of the entire Kope family. Got that?”

He looked down at the officer’s pad. It was covered with squiggles.

“You know shorthand?” he asked.

“Yes, sir. I took a course.”

“Very good. It’s valuable. I wish I knew it. But I guess I’m too old to learn now.”

He started to explain to the officer that MacDonald would do best to send a man for the photo who had known Kope, who had been a friend of the family. But he stopped. The sergeant was an old cop; he’d know how to handle it.

He tramped back into his study, closed the doors. He looked at his watch. Almost 7:00 p.m. It was time. He looked at the list on his desk, then dialed the number of Daniel G. Blank. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. He walked back into the living room, over to the radio operator keeping the log.