First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “He’ll do it again.”

  Part IV

  1

  HE THOUGHT SHE WAS wearing a loose-fitting dress of black crepe with white cuffs. Then he saw the cuffs were actually bandages about both wrists. But he was so inflamed with what he wanted to tell her that he didn’t question the bandages, knowing. Instead, he merely held up before her eyes Frank Lombard’s driver’s license. She would not look at it, but took him by the arm and drew him slowly, step by step, to the upstairs room. Where he was impotent.

  “It’s all right,” she soothed. “I understand. Believe me, I understand and love you for it. I told you sex should be a ritual, a ceremony. But a rite has no consummation. It’s a celebration of a consummation. Do you understand? The ritual celebrates the climax but does not encompass it. It’s all right, my darling. Don’t think you’ve failed. This is best. That you and I worship the fulfillment—a continuing celebration of an unknowable finality. Isn’t that what prayer is all about?”

  But he was not listening to her, so livid was he with the need to talk. He snapped on that cruel overhead light and showed her the driver’s license and newspaper headlines, proving himself.

  “For you,” he said. “I did it for you.” Then they both laughed, knowing it was a lie.

  “Tell me everything,” she said. “Every detail. I want to know everything that happened.”

  His soft scrotum huddled in her hand, a dead bird.

  He told her, with pride, of the careful planning, the long hours of slow thought. His first concern, he said, had been the weapon.

  “Did I want a weapon that could be discarded?” he asked rhetorically. “I decided not, not to leave a weapon that might be traced to me. So I chose a weapon I would take with me when I left.”

  “To be used again,” she murmured.

  “Yes. Perhaps. Well … I told you I’m a climber. I’m not an expert; just an amateur. But I have this ice ax. It’s a tool of course, but also a very wicked weapon. All tempered steel. A hammer on one side of the head for pitons, and a tapered steel pick on the other. There are hundreds just like it. Also, it has a leather-wrapped handle and a rawhide thong hanging from the butt. Heavy enough to kill, but small and light enough to carry concealed. You know that coat I have with slits in the pockets, so that I can reach inside?”

  “Do I not!” she smiled.

  “Yes,” he smiled in reply. “I figured I could wear that coat, the front unbuttoned and hanging loose. My left hand would be through the slit, and I could carry the ice ax by the leather throng, dangling from my fingers but completely concealed. When the time came to use it, I could reach inside the unbuttoned coat with my right hand and take the ax by the handle.”

  “Brilliant,” she said.

  “A problem,” he shrugged. “I tried it. I practised. It worked perfectly. If I was calm and cool, unhurried, I could transfer the ax to my right hand in seconds. Seconds! One or two. No more. Then, after, the ax would disappear beneath my coat again. Held by my left hand through the pocket slit.”

  “Did you see his eyes?” she asked.

  “His eyes?” he said vaguely. “No. I must tell you this in my own way.”

  She leaned forward to put her lips on his left nipple; his eyes closed with pleasure.

  “I didn’t want to travel too far,” he said. “The farther I went, carrying the concealed ice ax, the greater the danger. It had to be in my own neighborhood. Near. Why not? The murder of a stranger. A crime without motive. What difference if it was next door or a hundred miles away? Who could connect me?”

  “Yes,” she breathed. “Oh yes.”

  He told her how he had walked the streets for three nights, seeking the lonely blocks, noting the lighting, remembering bus stops and subway stations, lobbies with doormen, deserted stretches of unattended stores and garages.

  “I couldn’t plan it. I decided it would have to be chance. Pure chance. ‘Pure.’ That’s a funny word, Celia. But it was pure. I swear to you. I mean, there was no sex connected with it. I mean, I didn’t walk around with an erection. I didn’t have an orgasm when I did it. Nothing like that. Do you believe me?”

  “Yes.”

  “It really was pure. I swear it. It was religious. I was God’s will. I know that sounds insane. But that’s how I felt. Maybe it is mad. A sweet madness. I was God on earth. When I looked at people on shadowed streets … Is he the one? Is he the one? My God, the power!”

  “Oh yes. Darling, oh yes.”

  He was so tender with her in that awful room … so tender. And then, the memory of the two times he had been unfaithful to his wife … He had enjoyed both adventures; both women had been his wife’s superior in bed. But he had not loved her the less for that. Instead, unaccountably, his infidelity had increased his affection for and kindness toward his wife. He touched her, kissed her, listened to her.

  And now, telling this woman of murder, he felt the same thaw: not increased sexuality but heightened sweetness because he had a new mistress. He touched Celia’s cheek, kissed her fingertips, murmured, saw to her comfort, and in all things acted the gentle and parfait lover, loving her the more because he loved another most.

  “It was not someone else doing it,” he assured her. “You’ve read these stories where the killer blames it on someone else. Another him. Someone who took over, controlled his mind and guided his hand. It was nothing like that. Celia, I have never had such a feeling of being myself. You know? It was a sense of oneness, of me. Do you understand?”

  “Oh yes. And then?”

  “I hit him. We smiled. We nodded. We passed, and I transferred the ax to my right hand. Just as I had rehearsed. And I hit him. It made a sound. I can’t describe it. A sound. And he fell forward so heavily that it pulled the ax out of my hand. I didn’t know that might happen. But I didn’t panic. Jesus, I was cool. Cold! I bent down and twisted the ax to pull it free. Tough. I had to put my foot on the back of his neck and pull up on the ax with both hands to free it. I did that. I did it! And then I found his wallet and took his driver’s license. To prove to you.”

  “You didn’t have to do that.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “Yes. You did.”

  They both laughed then, and rolled on the soiled bed, holding.

  He tried, again, to enter into her and did not succeed, not caring, for he had already surpassed her. But he would not tell her that since she knew. She took his penis into her mouth, not licking or biting, but just in her mouth: a warm communion. He was hardly conscious of it; it did not excite him. He was a god; she was worshipping.

  “One other thing,” he said dreamily. “When, finally, on the night, I looked down the street and saw him walking toward me through that orange glow, and I thought yes, now, he is the one, I loved him so much then, loved him.”

  “Loved him? Why?”

  “I don’t know. But I did. And respected him. Oh yes. And had such a sense of gratitude toward him. That he was giving. So much. To me. Then I killed him.”

  2

  “GOOD-MORNING, CHARLES,” DANIEL called, and the doorman whirled around, shocked by the friendly voice and pleasant smile. “Looks like a sunny day today.”

  “Oh. Yes sir,” Lipsky said, confused. “Sunny day. That’s what the paper said. Cab, Mr. Blank?”

  “Please.”

  The doorman went down to the street, whistled up a taxi, rode it back to the apartment house entrance. He got out and held the door open for Daniel.

  “Have a good day, Mr. Blank.”

  “You too, Charles,” and handed him the usual quarter. He gave the driver the address of the Javis-Bircham Building.

  “Go through the park, please. I know it’s longer but I’ve got time.”

  “Sure.”

  “Looks like a nice sunny day today.”

  “That’s what the radio just said,” the driver nodded. “You sound like you feel good today.”

  “Yes,” Blank smiled. “I do.”

  “Morning, Harry,” he said
to the elevator starter. “A nice sunny morning.”

  “Sure is, Mr. Blank. Hope it stays like this.”

  “Good-morning, Mrs. Cleek,” Blank said to his secretary as he hung away his hat and coat. “Looks like it’s going to be a beautiful day.”

  “Yes sir. I hope it lasts.”

  “It will.” He looked at her closely a moment. “Mrs. Cleek, you seem a bit pale. Are you feeling all right?”

  She blushed with pleasure at his concern. “Oh yes, Mr. Blank, I feel fine.”

  “How’s that boy of yours?”

  “I got a letter from him yesterday. He’s doing very well. He’s in a military academy, you know.”

  Blank didn’t, but nodded. “Well, you do look a bit weary. Why don’t you plan on taking a few Fridays off? It’s going to be a long winter. We all need relaxation.”

  “Why … thank you very much, Mr. Blank. That’s very kind of you.”

  “Just let me know in advance and arrange for someone from the pool to fill in. That’s a pretty dress.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Blank,” she repeated, dazed. “Your coffee is on your desk, and a report came down from upstairs. I put it next to your coffee.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “Oh, I didn’t read it, sir. It’s sealed and confidential.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Cleek. I’ll buzz when I want to do letters.”

  “Thank you again, Mr. Blank. For the days off, I mean.”

  He smiled and made a gesture. He sat down at his bare table and sipped coffee, staring at the heavy manila envelope from the president’s office, stamped CONFIDENTIAL. He didn’t open it, but taking his plastic container of coffee walked to the plate glass windows facing west.

  It was an extraordinarily clear day, the smog mercifully lifted. He could see tugboats on the Hudson, a cruise liner putting out to sea, traffic on the Jersey shore, and blue hills far away. Everything was bright and glittering, a new world. He could almost peer into a distant future.

  He drained his coffee and looked into the plastic cup. It was white foam, stained now, and of the consistency of cottage cheese. It bulged in his grip and felt of soap. He flicked on his intercom.

  “Sir?” Mrs. Cleek asked.

  “Would you do me a favor?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “On your lunch hour—well, take your usual hour, of course, but then take some more time—grab a cab over to Tiffany’s or Jensen’s—someplace like that—and buy me a coffee cup and saucer. Something good in bone China, thin and white. You can buy singles from open stock. If it’s patterned, pick out something attractive, something you like. Don’t be afraid to spend money.”

  “A coffee cup and saucer, sir?”

  “Yes, and see if you can find a spoon, one of those small silver French spoons. Sometimes they’re enameled in blue patterns, flowered patterns. That would be fine.”

  “One coffee cup, one saucer, and one spoon. Will that be all, sir?”

  “Yes—no. Get the same thing for yourself. Get two sets.”

  “Oh, Mr. Blank, I couldn’t—”

  “Two sets,” he said firmly. “And Mrs. Cleek, from now on when the commissary delivers my coffee, will you pour it into my new cup and leave it on my desk that way?”

  “Yes, Mr. Blank.”

  “Keep track of what you spend, including cab fares there and back. I’ll pay you personally. This is not petty cash.”

  “Yes, Mr. Blank.”

  He clicked off and picked up the president’s envelope, having no great curiosity to open it. He searched the outside. Finally, sighing, he tore open the flap and scanned the two-sheet memo swiftly. It was about what he had expected, considering the lack of zeal in his prospectus. His suggestion of having AMROK II compute the ratio between editorial and advertising in all Javis-Bircham magazines was approved to this extent: it would be tried on an experimental basis on the ten magazines listed on the attached page, and would be limited to a period of six months, after which time a production management consultant would be called in to make an independent evaluation of the results.

  Blank tossed the memo aside, stretched, yawned. He couldn’t, he realized, care less. It was a crock of shit. Then he picked up the memo again and wandered out of the office.

  “I’ll be in the Computer Room,” he said as he passed Mrs. Cleek’s desk. She gave him a bright, hopeful smile.

  He went through the nonsense of donning the sterile white skull cap and duster, then assembled Task Force X-l about the stainless steel table. He passed around the second sheet of the president’s memo, deeming it wise, at this time, not to tell them of the experimental nature and limited duration of the project.

  “We’ve got the go-ahead,” he said, with what he hoped they would think was enthusiasm. “These are the magazines we start with. I want to draw up a schedule of priorities for programming. Any ideas?”

  The discussion started at his left and went around the table. He listened to all of them, watching their pale, sexless faces, not hearing a word that was said.

  “Excellent,” he said occasionally. Or, “Very good.” Or, “I’ll take a raincheck on that.” Or, “Well … I don’t want to say no, but …” It didn’t make any difference: what they said or what he said. It had no significance.

  Significance began, I suppose, when my wife and I separated. Or when she wouldn’t wear the sunglasses to bed. Oh, it probably began much sooner, but I wasn’t aware of it. I was aware of the glasses, the masks. And then, later, the wigs, the exercises, the clothes, the apartment … the mirrors. And standing naked in chains. I was aware of all that. I mean, I was conscious of it.

  What was happening to me—is happening to me—is that I am feeling my way—feeling: that’s a good word—feeling in the sense of emotion rather than the tactile sense—feeling my way to a new perception of reality. Before that, before the sunglasses, I perceived and reasoned in a masculine, in-line way, vertical, just like AMROK II. And now … and now I am discovering and exploring a feminine, horizontal perception of reality.

  And what that requires is to deny cold order—logical, intellectual order, that is—and perceive a deeper order, glimpsing it dimly now, somewhere, an order much deeper and broader because … The order I have known up to now has been narrow and restricted, tight and disciplined. But it cannot account for … for all.

  This feminine, horizontal perception applies to breadth, explaining the apparent illogic and seeming madness of the universe—well, this perception does not deny science and logic but offers something more—an emotional consciousness of people and of life.

  But is it only emotional? Or is it spiritual? At least it demands a need to accept chaos—a chaos outside the tight, disciplined logic of men and AMROK II, and seeks a deeper, more fundamental order and logic and significance within that chaos. It means a new way of life: the truth of lies and the reality of myths. It demands a whole new way to perceive a—

  No, that’s not right. Perception implies a standing aside and observing. But this new world I am now in requires participation and sharing. I must strip myself naked and plunge—if I hope to know the final logic. If I have the courage …

  Courage … When I told Celia of the power I felt when selecting my victim, and the love I had for him when he was selected—all that was true. But I didn’t mention the fear—fear so intense it was all I could do to control my bladder. But isn’t that part of it? I mean emotion—feeling. And from emotion to a spiritual exaltation, just as Celia is always speaking of ceremony and ritual and the beauty of evil. That is her final logic. But is it mine? We shall see. We shall see.

  I must open myself, to everything. I grew in a tiled house of Lalique glass and rock collections. Now I must become warm and tender and accept everything in the universe, good and evil, the spread and the cramped. But not just accepting. Because then I’d be a victim. I must plunge to the heart of life and let its heat sear me. I must be moved.

  To experience reality, not merely to
perceive it: that is the way. And the final answer may be dreadful to divine. But if I can conquer fear, and kill, and feel, and learn, I will bring a meaning out of the chaos of my new world, give it a logic few have ever glimpsed before, and then I’ll know.

  Is there God?

  3

  HE PULLED THAT BRASS plunger, standing at her teak door, grasping the bundle of long-stemmed roses, blood-colored, and feeling as idiotic and ineffectual as any wooer come to call upon his lady-love with posies, vague hope, a vapid smile.

  “Good-afternoon, Valenter.”

  “Good-afternoon, thir. Do come in.”

  He was inside, the door closed behind him, when the tall, pale houseman spoke in tones Daniel was certain were a burlesque, a spoof of sadness. That long face fell, the muddy eyes seemed about to leak, the voice was suited for a funeral chapel.

  “Mither Blank, I am thorry to report Mith Montfort hath gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?”

  “Called away unexthpectedly. She athked me to prethent her regreth.”

  “Oh shit.”

  “Yeth thir.”

  “When will she be back? Today?”

  “I do not know, thir. But I thuthpect it may be a few dayth.”

  “Shit,” Blank repeated. He thrust the flowers at Valenter. “Put these in some water, will you? Maybe they’ll last long enough for her to see them.”

  “Of courth, thir. Mather Tony ith in the thtudy and would like you to join him, thir.”

  “What? Oh. All right.”

  It was a Saturday noon. He had imagined a leisurely lunch, perhaps some shopping, a visit to the Mortons’ Erotica, which was always crowded and entertaining on a Saturday afternoon. And then, perhaps, a movie, a dinner, and then … Well, anything. Things went best, he decided, when they weren’t too rigidly programmed.

  The boy languished on the tufted couch—a beauty!

  “Dan!” he cried, holding out a hand.

  But Blank would not cross the room to touch that languid palm. He sat in the winged armchair and regarded the youth with what he believed was amused irony. The roses had cost twenty dollars.