First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Why the disguise?” Flo asked.

  “What’s the point?” Sam asked.

  Celia Montfort fluffed her blonde wig, smiled her secret smile.

  “Haven’t you ever wanted to?” she asked them all. “Everyone wants to. Walk away from yourself. Quit your job, desert wife or husband and family, leave your home and all your possessions, strip naked if that is possible, and move to another street, city, country, world, and become someone else. New name, new personality, new needs and tastes and dreams. Become someone entirely different, entirely new. It might be better or it might be worse, but it would be different. And you might have a chance, just a chance, in your new skin. Like being born again. Don’t you agree, Daniel?”

  “Oh yes,” he nodded eagerly. “I do agree.”

  “I don’t,” Sam said. “I like who I am.”

  “And I like who I am,” Flo said. “Besides, you can never change, really.”

  “Can’t you?” Celia asked lazily. “What a drag.”

  They argued the possibility of, personal change, essential change. Blank listened to the Mortons’ hooted denials and sensed the presence of an obscene danger: he was tempted to refute them, calmly, a cool, sardonic smile on his lips, by saying, “I have changed. I killed Frank Lombard.” He resisted the temptation, but toyed with the risk a moment, enjoying it. Then he contented himself with an unspoken, “I know something you don’t know,” and this childish thought, for reasons he could not comprehend, made them immeasurably dear to him.

  Eventually, of course, they were all talked out. Daniel served coffee, which they drank mostly in silence. At an unseen signal, Flo and Sam Morton rose to their feet, thanked Daniel for a pleasant evening, congratulated Celia Montfort on her impersonation, and departed. Blank locked and chained his door behind them.

  When he returned to the living room, Celia was standing. They embraced and kissed, his mouth sticking to the thick rouge on her lips. He felt her padded ass.

  “Shall I take it off?” she asked.

  “Oh no. I like it.”

  They emptied ashtrays, carried glasses to the kitchen sink.

  “Can you stay?” he asked.

  “Of course.”

  “Good.”

  She went into the bathroom. He moved around the apartment, checking windows, turning off lights, putting the iron bar on the hallway door. When he walked across the living room he saw his ghostly reflection jump from mirror to mirror, bits and pieces.

  When he came back into the bedroom she was sitting quietly on the bed, staring.

  “What do you want?” she asked, looking up at him.

  “Oh, leave the wig on,” he said quickly. “And the brassiere and girdle. Or whatever it is. You’ll want to take off the suit and blouse.”

  “And slip? And stockings?”

  “Yes.”

  “The pearls?”

  “No, leave them on. Would you like a robe? I have a silk robe.”

  “All right.”

  “Is it too warm in here?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ll turn down the heat. Are you sleepy?”

  “More tired than sleepy. The Mortons tire me. They never stop moving.”

  “I know. I showered this morning. Shall I shower now?”

  “No. Let me hold you.”

  “Naked?”

  “Yes.”

  Later, under a single light blanket, she held him, and through her silk robe he felt padded brassiere and girdle.

  “Mommy,” he said.

  “I know,” she murmured. “I know.”

  He curled up in her arms, began weeping quietly.

  “I’m trying,” he gasped. “I really am trying.”

  “I know,” she repeated. “I know.”

  The thought of fucking her, or attempting it, offended him, but he could not sleep.

  “Mommy,” he said again.

  “Turn over,” she commanded, and so he did.

  “Ahh,” she said. “There.”

  “Oh. Oh.”

  “Am I hurting you?”

  “Oh yes! Yes.”

  “Am I Gilda now?”

  “Yes. But she never would.”

  “More?”

  “Slowly. Please.”

  “What is my name?”

  “Celia.”

  “What?”

  “Gilda.”

  “What?”

  “Mommy.”

  “That’s better. Isn’t that better?”

  He slept, finally. It seemed to him he was awake a moment later.

  “What?” he said. “What is it?”

  “You were having a nightmare. You screamed. What was it?”

  “A dream,” he said, snuggling into her. “I had a bad dream.”

  “What did you dream?”

  “All confused.”

  He moved closer to her, his hands on cotton batting and sponge rubber.

  “Do you want me to do it again?” she asked.

  “Oh yes,” he said thankfully. “Please.”

  In the morning when he awoke, she was lying beside him, sleeping naked, having sometime during the night taken off her wig, robe, costume. But she still wore the pearls. He touched them. Then he moved stealthily down beneath the blanket until he was crouched, completely covered, and smelled her sweet warmth. He spread her gently. Then he drank from her, gulping from the fountain, greedy he, until he felt her come awake. Still he persisted, and she moved, reaching down under the blanket to press the back of his head. He groaned, almost swooning, fevered with the covered heat. He could not stop. Afterwards she licked his mouth.

  And still later, when they were dressed and at the kitchen table, she said, “You’ll do it again?”—more of a statement than a question.

  He nodded wordlessly, knowing what she meant, and beginning to comprehend the danger she represented.

  “From the front?” she asked. “Will you? And look into his eyes, and tell me?”

  “Difficult,” he said.

  “You can do it,” she said. “I know you can.”

  “Well …” He glowed. “It needs planning. And luck, of course.”

  “You make your own luck.”

  “Do I? Well. I’ll think about it. It’s an interesting problem.”

  “Will you do something for me?”

  “Of course. What?”

  “Come to me immediately afterwards.”

  He thought a moment.

  “Perhaps not immediately afterwards. But soon. That night. Will that do?”

  “I may not be home.”

  He was instantly suspicious. “Do you want to know the night? I don’t know that myself. And won’t.”

  “No, I don’t want to know the night, or the place. Just the week. Then I’ll stay home every night, waiting for you. Can you tell me the week?”

  “Yes. I’ll tell you that. When I’m ready.”

  “My love,” she said. “The eyes,” she said.

  6

  BERNARD GILBERT TOOK LIFE seriously—and he had a right to be mournful. Orphaned at an early age he had been schlepped around from uncle to aunt, cousin to cousin, six months at each, and always assured that the food he was eating, his bed, his clothes—all this came from the labor of his benefactors, at their expense.

  At the age of eight he was shining shoes on the street, then delivering for a deli, then waiting on tables, then selling little pieces of cloth, then bookkeeping in a third-rate novelty store. And all the time going to school, studying, reading books. All joylessly. Sometimes, when he had saved enough money, he went to a woman. That, too, was joyless. What could he do?

  Through high school, two miserable years in the army, City College, always working, sleeping four or five hours a night, studying, reading, making loans and paying them back, not really thinking of why? but obeying an instinct he could not deny. And suddenly, there he was, Bernard Gilbert, C.P.A., in a new black suit, a hard worker who was good with numbers. This was a life?

  There was a
spine in him. Hard work didn’t daunt him, and when he had to, he grovelled and shrugged it away. Much man. Not a swaggering, hairy-chested conqueror, but a survivor. A special kind of bravery; hope never died.

  It came in his 32nd year when a distant cousin unexpectedly invited him for dinner. And there was Monica. “Monica, I’d like you to make the acquaintance of Bernard Gilbert. He’s a C.P.A.”

  And so they were married, and his life began. Happy? You wouldn’t believe! God said, “Bernie, I’ve been shitting on you for 32 years. You can take it, and it’s time you deserve a break. Enjoy, kid, enjoy!”

  First of all, there was Monica. Not beautiful, but handsome and strong. Another hard worker. They laughed in bed. Then came the two children, Mary and Sylvia. Beautiful girls! And healthy, thank God. The apartment wasn’t much, but it was home. Home! His home, with wife and children. They all laughed.

  The bad memories faded. It all went away: the cruelties, the hand-me-down clothes, the insults and crawling. He began, just began, to understand joy. It was a gift, and he cherished it. Bernard Gilbert: a melancholy man with sunken cheeks always in need of a shave, stooped shoulders, puzzled eyes, thinning hair, a scrawny frame: a man who, if he had his life to live over again, would have been a violinist. Well …

  He had a good job with a large firm of accountants where his worth was recognized. In the last few years he had started to moon-light, doing the tax returns of self-employed people like doctors, dentists, architects, artists, writers. He made certain his employers knew about it; they didn’t object, since he was doing it on his own time and it didn’t conflict with their own commercial accounts.

  His private business grew. It was hard, putting in an eight-hour day and then coming home for another two- to four-hours’ work. But he talked it over with Monica—he talked everything over with Monica—and they agreed that if he stuck to it; maybe within five to ten years he might be able to cut loose and start his own business. It was possible. So Monica took a course in accounting, studied at home, and after awhile she could help him at night, in addition to cooking and cleaning and taking care of Mary and Sylvia. They were both hard workers, but they never thought of it, would have been surprised if someone had told them they worked hard. What else?

  So there they were in a third-floor walk-up on East 84th Street. It wasn’t a fancy apartment, but Monica had painted it nice, and there were two bedrooms and a big kitchen where Monica made matzoh brie like he couldn’t believe, it was so good, and a record player with all of Isaac Stern’s recordings, and a card table where he could work. It wasn’t luxury, he acknowledged, but he wasn’t ashamed of it, and sometimes they had friends or neighbors in and laughed. Sometimes they even went out to eat, with the children, at an expensive restaurant, and were very solemn, giggling inside.

  But the best times were when he and Monica would finish their night’s work, and would sit on the couch, after midnight, the children asleep, and they just were there, listening to Vivaldi turned down low, just together. He would have worked his ass off for the rest of his life for moments like that. And when Monica brushed her lips across his sunken cheek … Oh!

  He was thinking of moments like that when he got off the First Avenue bus. It wasn’t even midnight. Well, maybe a little later. He had been downtown, working on the books of a medical clinic. It was a possible new account, a good one and a big one. The meeting with the doctors had taken longer than he had expected. Patiently he explained to them what the tax laws said they could do and what they could not do. He felt he had impressed them. They said they’d discuss it and let him know within a week. He felt good about it, but resolved not to be too optimistic when he discussed it with Monica. In case …

  He turned into his own block. It had not yet been equipped with the new street lights, and far ahead, in the gloom, he saw a man walking toward him. Naturally, he was alerted—at that hour, in this city. But as they drew closer he saw the other man was about his age, well-dressed, coat flapping wide. He was striding along jauntily, left hand in his pocket, right arm swinging free.

  They came close. Bernard Gilbert saw the other man was staring at him. But he was smiling. Gilbert smiled in return. Obviously the man lived in the neighborhood and wanted to be friendly. Gilbert decided he would say, “Good-evening.”

  They were two steps apart, and he had said, “Good—” when the man’s right hand darted beneath the open flap of his coat and came out with something with a handle, something with a point, something that gleamed even in the dull street light.

  Bernard Gilbert never did say, “—evening.” He knew he halted and drew back. But the thing was in the air, swinging down. He tried to lift a defending arm, but it was too heavy. He saw the man’s face, handsome and tender, and there was no hate there, nor madness, but a kind of ardor. Something struck high on Bernard Gilbert’s forehead, slamming him down, and he knew he was falling, felt the crash of sidewalk against his back, wondered what had happened to his newfound joy, and heard God say, “Okay, Bernie, enough’s enough.”

  PART V

  1

  THREE TIMES A WEEK a commercial messenger arrived at Captain Delaney’s home with copies of the most recent Operation Lombard reports. Delaney noted they were becoming fewer and shorter, and Chief Pauley was sending his detectives back to recheck matters already covered: Lombard’s private life and political career; possible links with organized crime; any similar assaults or homicides in the 251st Precinct, neighboring precincts, and eventually all of Manhattan, then all of New York; and then queries to the FBI and the police departments of large cities asking for reports of homicides of a similar nature.

  Delaney admired Chief Pauley’s professional competence. The Chief had assembled a force of almost 500 detectives brought in from all over the city. Many of these men Delaney knew personally or by reputation, and they included assault specialists, weapons technicians, men familiar with the political jungle, and detectives whose success was based on their interrogative techniques.

  The result was nil: no angle, no handle, no apparent motive. Chief Pauley, in a confidential memo to Deputy Commissioner Broughton, had even suggested a possibility that Delaney himself had considered: the snuff had been committed by a policeman angered by Lombard’s public attacks on the efficiency of the Department. Pauley didn’t believe it.

  Captain Delaney didn’t either. A policeman would probably kill with a gun. But most career cops, who had seen mayors, commissioners, and politicians of all ranks come and go, would shrug off Lombard’s criticism as just some more publicity bullshit, and go about their jobs.

  The more Delaney pondered the killing, the more Operation Lombard reports he studied, the more firmly he became convinced that it was a motiveless crime. Not motiveless to the killer, of course, but motiveless to any rational man. Lombard had been a chance victim.

  Delaney tried to fill up his hours. He visited his wife in the hospital twice a day, at noon and in the early evening. He did some brief interrogations of his own, visiting Frank Lombard’s partner, his mother, and a few of his political associates. For these interviews Delaney wore his uniform and badge, risking Broughton’s wrath if he should somehow discover what Delaney was up to. But it was all a waste of time; he learned nothing of value.

  One evening, despairing of his failure to make any meaningful progress, he took a long pad of legal notepaper, yellow and ruled, and headed it “The Suspect.” He then drew a line down the center of the page. The lefthand column he headed “Physical,” the righthand column “Psychological.” He resolved to write down everything he knew or suspected about the killer.

  Under “Physical” he listed:

  “Probably male, white.”

  “Tall, probably over six feet.”

  “Strong and young. Under 35?”

  “Of average or good appearance. Possibly well-dressed.”

  “Very quick with good muscular coordination. An athlete?” Under “Psychological” he listed:

  “Cool, determined.”


  “Driven by unknown motive.”

  “Psychopath? Unruh type?”

  At the bottom of the page he made a general heading he called “Additional Notes.” Under this he listed:

  “Third person involved? Because of stolen license as ‘proof of homicide.’ ”

  “Resident of 251st Precinct?”

  Then he reread his list. It was, he admitted, distressingly skimpy. But just the act of writing down what he knew—or guessed, rather; he knew nothing—made him feel better. It was all smoke and shadows. But he began to feel someone was there. Someone dimly glimpsed …

  He read the list again, and again, and again. He kept coming back to the notation “Driven by unknown motive.”

  In all his personal experiences with and research on psychopathic killers he had never come across or read of a killer totally without motive. Certainly the motive might be irrational, senseless, but in every case, particularly those involving multiple murders, the killer had a “motive.” It might be as obvious as financial gain; it might be an incredible philosophical structure as creepy and cheap as an Eiffel Tower built of glued toothpicks.

  But however mad the assassin, he had his reasons: the slights of society, the whispers of God, the evil of man, the demands of political faith, the fire of ego, the scorn of women, the terrors of loneliness … whatever. But he had his reasons. Nowhere, in Delaney’s experience or in his readings, existed the truly motiveless killer, the quintessential evil man who slew as naturally and casually as another man lighted a cigarette or picked his nose.

  There was no completely good man alive upon this earth and, Delaney believed—hoped!—there was no completely evil man. It was not a moral problem; it was just that no man was complete, in any way. So the killer of Frank Lombard had crushed his skull for a reason, a reason beyond logic and sense, but for a purpose that had meaning to him, twisted and contorted though it might be.