First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Round?” Langley cried, and the Captain was surprised at the little man’s expression.

  “Yes, round,” he repeated. “Why—is anything wrong?”

  “Is the surgeon certain of this? The roundness, I mean?”

  “No, he is not. But the wound was of such a nature that precise measurements and analysis were impossible. The surgeon had a feeling—just a guess on his part—that the spike that penetrated was triangular or square, and that the weapon became stuck in the wound, or the victim in falling forward, wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand, and that the killer then had to twist the weapon back and forth to free it. And this twisting motion, with a square or triangular spike, would result in—”

  “Ah-ha!” Langley shouted, slapping his thigh. “That’s exactly what happened! And the surgeon believes the spike could have been triangular or square?”

  “Believes it could have been—yes.”

  “Was,” Langley said definitely. “It was. Believe me, Captain. Do you know how many weapons there are with tapering round spikes that could cause the kind of wound you describe? I could name them on the fingers of one hand. You will find round spikes on the warclubs of certain Northwest Coast Indian tribes. There is a Tlingit warclub with a jade head that tapers to a point. It is not perfectly round, however. Thompson Indians used a warclub with a head of wood that was round and tapered: a perfect cone. The Tsimshian Indians used horn and bone, again round and tapered. Esquimo tribes used clubs with spikes of bone or narwhale or walrus tusks. Do you understand the significance of what I am saying, Captain?”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  “The materials used in weapons that had a cone spike were almost always natural materials that tapered naturally—such as teeth or tusks—or were soft materials, such as wood, that could be tapered to a cone shape easily. But now let’s move on to iron and steel. Early metal weapons were made by armorers and blacksmiths working with a hammer on a hot slug held on an anvil. It was infinitely easier and faster to fashion a flat spike, a triangular spike, or a square spike, than a perfect cone that tapered to a sharp point. I can’t recall a single halberd, partison or couteaux de brèche in the Metropolitan that has a round spike. Or any war hammer or war hatchet. I seem to remember a mace in the Rotterdam museum that had a round spike, but I’d have to look it up. In any event, early weapons almost invariably were fashioned with flat sides, usually triangular or square, or even hexagonal. A perfectly proportioned round spike was simply too difficult to make. And even after dies and stamping of iron and steel came into existence, the same held true. It is cheaper, faster, and easier to make blades and spikes with flatsides than round ones that taper to a point. I think your surgeon’s ‘guesses’ are correct. Using your famous ‘percentages.’ ”

  “Interesting,” Delaney nodded, “and exactly what I came to you for. But there’s another thing I should tell you. I don’t know what it means, if anything, but perhaps you will. The surgeon has a feeling that the sharp tip of the penetration was lower than the opening wound. You understand? It was not a straight, tapered penetration, but it curved gently downward. Maybe I should make a little drawing.”

  “Oh gosh,” Langley chortled, “that’s not necessary. I know exactly what you mean.” He leaped to his feet, rushed to a bookcase, ran his fingers over the bindings, grabbed out a big book, and hustled it back to the table. He turned to the List of Illustrations, ran his finger down, found what he was looking for, and flipped pages. “There,” he said. “Take a look at that, Captain.”

  Delaney stared. It was a one-handed club. The head had a hatchet blade on one side, a spike on the other. The spike was about an inch across at the head, tapered to a sharp point and, as it tapered, curved downward.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Iroquois tomahawk. Handle of ash. Those are feathers tied to the butt. The head is iron, probably cut out of a sheet of hot metal with shears or hammered out with a chisel and then filed sharp. White traders carried them and sold them for pelts.”

  “Are you suggesting …?”

  “Heavens, no. But note how that flat spike curves downward? I could show you that same curve in warclubs and war-axes and halberds of practically every nation, tribe, and race on earth. Very effective; very efficient. When you hack down on a man, you don’t want to hit his skull with a horizontal spike that might glance off. You want a spike that curves downward, pierces, penetrates, and kills.”

  “Yes,” Delaney said. “I suppose you do.”

  The two men sat in silence a few moments, staring at the color photo of the Iroquois tomahawk. How many had that killed, Delaney wondered, and then, leafing slowly through the book, was suddenly saddened by the effort, art, and genius that the human race had expended on killing tools, on powder and shot, sword and stiletto, bayonet and bludgeons, crossbow and Centurion tank, blowpipe and cannon, spear and hydrogen bomb. There was, he supposed, no end to it.

  But what was the need, or lust, behind all this interest, ingenuity, and vitality in the design and manufacture of killing tools? The lad with his slingshot and the man with his gun: both showing a dark atavism. Was killing then a passion, from the primeval slime, as valid an expression of the human soul as love and sacrifice?

  Suddenly depressed, Delaney rose to his feet and tried to smile at his host.

  “Mr. Langley,” he said brightly, “I thank you for a pleasant evening, a wonderful dinner, and for your kind cooperation. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

  Christopher Langley seemed as depressed as his guest. He looked up listlessly.

  “I haven’t helped, Captain, and you know it. You’re no closer to identifying the weapon that killed Frank Lombard than you were three hours ago.”

  “You have helped, sir,” Delaney insisted. “You’ve substantiated the surgeon’s impressions. You’ve given me a clearer idea of what to look for. In a case like this, every little bit helps.”

  “Captain …”

  “Yes, Mr. Langley?”

  “In this ‘private investigation’ of yours, the weapon isn’t the only thing. I know that. You’re going to interview people and check into past records and things like that. Isn’t that true?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, gosh, then you can only spend so much time trying to identify the weapon. Isn’t that so?”

  “Yes.”

  “Captain, let me do it. Please. Let me try.”

  “Mr. Langley, I can’t—”

  “I know you’re not on active duty. I know it’s a private investigation. You told me. But still … you’re trying. Let me help. Please. Look at me. I’m seventy. I’m retired. To tell you the truth, Captain, I’m sick of gourmet cooking. My whole life was … Oh God, what am I supposed to do—sit up here and wait to die? Captain, please, let me do something, something important. This man Lombard was murdered. That’s not right. Life is too precious.”

  “That’s what my wife said,” Delaney said wonderingly.

  “She knew,” Langley nodded, his eyes glistening now. “Let me do some work, some important work. I know weapons. You know that. I might be a help to you. Truly. Let me try.”

  “I don’t have any funds,” Delaney started. “I can’t—”

  “Forget it,” the old man waved him away. “This will cost nothing. I can pay for cabs and books, or whatever. But let me work. At an important job. You understand, Captain? I don’t want to just drift away.”

  The Captain stared, wondering if the ex-curator was prey to his own gloomy thoughts. Langley was far from being stupid, and how did an intelligent man justify a lifetime devoted to killing tools? Perhaps it was true, as he had said, that he was simply bored with retirement and wanted to work again. But his insistence on something “important,” “important” work, an “important” job led Delaney to wonder if the old man, his life drawing to a close, was not, in a sense, seeking a kind of expiation, or at least hungering to make a sunny, affirmative gesture after a career celebrating shadows and t
he bog.

  “Yes,” Captain Delaney said, clearing his throat. “I understand. All right. Fine. I appreciate that, sir. If I find out anything more relating to the weapon, I’ll make sure you know of it. Meanwhile, see what you can come up with.”

  “Oh!” Langley cried, effervescent again. “I’ll get on it right away. There are some things I want to check in my books tonight, and tomorrow I’ll go to the museums. Maybe I’ll get some ideas there. And to hardware stores. To look at tools. Captain, am I a detective now?”

  “Yes,” Delaney smiled. “You’re a detective.”

  He moved toward the door, and Langley scampered to get his coat and hat from the closet. He gave his unlisted phone number to the Captain, and Delaney carefully copied it into his pocket notebook. Langley unlocked the door, then leaned close.

  “Captain,” he whispered, “one final favor … When you go down the stairs, please try to tiptoe past the Widow Zimmerman’s door. I don’t want her to know I’m alone.”

  6

  THE HOME OF THE late Frank Lombard was on a surprisingly pastoral street in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn. There were trees, lawns, barking dogs, shrieking children. The house itself was red brick, two stories high, its ugliness hidden in a tight cloak of ivy that was still green and creeped to the eaves.

  There was an asphalt driveway leading to a two-car garage. There were four cars, bumper to bumper, on the driveway, and more in front of the house, two double-parked. Captain Delaney observed all this from across the street. He also observed that one of the double-parked cars was a three-year-old, four-door Plymouth, and had the slightly rusted, slightly dusty, nondescript appearance of an unmarked police car. Two men in civilian clothes were in the front seat.

  Delaney approved of a guard being stationed for the protection of the widow, Mrs. Clara Lombard. It was very possible, he thought, there was also a personal guard inside the house; Chief Pauley would see to that. Now the problem was, if Delaney went through with his intention to interview the widow, would one of the cops recognize him and report to Broughton that Captain Delaney had been a visitor.

  The Captain pondered this problem a few minutes on the next corner, still watching the Lombard home. While he stood, hands shoved deep in his civilian overcoat pockets, he saw two couples leave the house, laughing, and another car double-park to disgorge two women and a man, also laughing.

  Delaney devised a cover story. If the guards made him, and he was eventually braced by Broughton, he would explain that because the homicide occurred in his precinct, he felt duty-bound to express his condolences to the widow. Broughton wouldn’t buy it completely; he’d be suspicious and have the widow checked. But that would be all right; Delaney did feel duty-bound to express his condolences, and would.

  As he headed up the brick-paved walk to the door, he heard loud rock music, screams of laughter, the sound of shattering glass. It was a party, and a wild one.

  A man answered his ring, a flush-faced, too-handsome man wearing not one, but two pinkie rings.

  “Come in come in come in,” he burbled, flourishing his highball glass and slopping half of it down the front of his hand-tailored, sky-blue silk suit. “Always room for one more.”

  “Thank you,” Delaney said. “I’m not a guest. I just wanted to speak to Mrs. Lombard for a moment.”

  “Hey, Clara!” the man screamed over his shoulder. “Get your gorgeous ass out here. Your lover is waiting.”

  The man leered at Delaney, then plunged back into the dancing, drinking, laughing, yelling mob. The Captain stood patiently. Eventually she came weaving toward him.

  A zoftig blonde who reminded him of Oscar Wilde’s comment about the widow “whose hair turned quite gold from grief.” She overflowed an off-the-shoulder cocktail dress that seemed capable of standing by itself, so heavily encrusted was it with sequins, rhinestones, braid, a jeweled peacock brooch and, unaccountably, a cheap tin badge, star-shaped, that said “Garter Inspector.” She looked down at him from bleary eyes.

  “Yeah?”

  “Mrs. Clara Lombard?”

  “Yeah.”

  “My name is Delaney, Captain Edward X. Delaney. I am the former commanding officer of the—”

  “Jesus,” she breathed. “Another cop. Haven’t I had enough cops?”

  “I would like to express my condolences on the death—”

  “Five,” she said. “Or six times. I lost count. What the hell is it now? Can’t you see I’ve got a houseful of people? Will you stop bugging me?”

  “I just wanted to tell you how sorry I—”

  “Thanks a whole hell of a lot,” she said disgustedly. “Well, screw all of you. This is a going-away party. I’m shaking New York, and the whole lot of you can go screw.”

  “You’re leaving New York?” he asked, amazed that Broughton would let her go.

  “That’s right, buster. I’ve sold the house, the cars, the furniture—everything. By Saturday I’ll be in sunny, funny Miami and starting a new life. A brand new life. And then you can all go screw yourselves.”

  She turned away and went rushing back to her party. Delaney replaced his hat, walked slowly down to the corner. He watched the traffic, waiting for the light to change. Cars went rushing by, and the odd thing that had nagged him since his reading of the Operation Lombard reports whisked into his mind, as he knew it would. Eventually.

  In the interview with the victim’s mother, Mrs. Sophia Lombard, she had stated he never drove over from Brooklyn because he couldn’t find parking space near her apartment; he took the subway.

  Delaney retraced his steps, and this time the outside guards stared at him. He rang the bell of the Lombard home again. The widow herself threw open the door, a welcoming smile on her puffy face—a smile that oozed away as she recognized Delaney.

  “Jesus Christ, you again?”

  “Yes. You said you’re selling your car?”

  “Not car—cars. We had two of them. And forget about getting a bargain; they’re both sold.”

  “Your husband—your late husband drove a car?”

  “Of course he drove a car. What do you think?”

  “Where did he usually carry his driver’s license, Mrs. Lombard?”

  “Oh God,” she shouted, and immediately the pinkie-ringed man was at her shoulder.

  “Wassamatta, honey?” he inquired. “Having trouble?”

  “No trouble, Manny. Just some more police shit. In his wallet,” she said to Delaney. “He carried his driver’s license in his wallet. Okay?”

  “Thank you,” Delaney said humbly. “I’m sorry to bother you. It’s just that the license wasn’t in his wallet when we found him.” He refrained from mentioning that she had stated nothing was missing from the wallet. “It’s probably around the house somewhere.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said impatiently.

  “If you come across it while you’re packing, will you let us know? We’ve got to cancel it with the State.”

  “Sure, sure. I’ll look, I’ll look.”

  He knew she wouldn’t. But it didn’t make any difference; she’d never find it.

  “Anything else?” she demanded.

  “No, nothing. Thank you very much, Mrs. Lombard, for your kind cooperation.”

  “Go screw yourself,” she said, and slammed the door in his face.

  He went back to his home and methodically checked the inventory of personal effects taken from the body of Frank Lombard, and Mrs. Sophia Lombard’s statement about her son’s visiting habits. Then he sat a long time in the growing darkness. Once he rose to mix a weak rye highball and sat nursing that, sipping slowly and still thinking.

  Finally he pulled on his overcoat and hat again and went out to find a different phone booth. He had to wait almost fifteen minutes before Deputy Inspector Ivar Thorsen got back to him, a period during which three would-be phone users turned away in disgust. One of them kicked the phone booth in anger before he left.

  “Edward?” Thorsen asked.

  “
Yes. I’ve got something. Something I don’t think Broughton has.”

  He heard Thorsen’s swift intake of breath.

  “What?”

  “Lombard was a licensed driver. He owned two cars. His wife has sold them, incidentally. She’s leaving town.”

  “So?”

  “She says he carried his driver’s license in his wallet. That makes sense. The percentages are for it. The license wasn’t in the wallet when it was found. I checked the inventory.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “No one would kill for a driver’s license,” Thorsen said finally. “You can buy a good counterfeit for fifty bucks.”

  “I know.”

  “Identification?” Thorsen suggested. “A hired killer. He takes the license to prove to his employer he really did hit Lombard.”

  “What for? It was in all the papers the next day. The employer would know the job had been done.”

  “Jesus, that’s right. What do you think? Why the driver’s license?”

  “Identification maybe.”

  “But you just said—”

  “Not a hired killer. I have two ideas. One, the killer took the license as a souvenir, a trophy.”

  “That’s nuts, Edward.”

  “Maybe. The other idea is that he took the license to prove to a third party that he had killed. Not killed Lombard, but killed someone, anyone. If the stories were in the papers, and the killer could present the victim’s driver’s license, that would prove he was the killer.”

  The silence was longer this time.

  “Jesus, Edward,” Thorsen said finally. “That’s wild.”

  “Yes. Wild.” (And suddenly he remembered a sex killing he had investigated. The victim’s eyelids had been stitched together with her own hairpins.)

  Thorsen came on again: “Edward, are you trying to tell me we’re dealing with a crazy?”

  “Yes. I think so. Someone like Whitman, Speck, Unruh, the Boston Strangler, Panzram, Manson. Someone like that.”

  “Oh God.”

  “If I’m right, we’ll know soon enough.”

  “How will we know?”