First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “Can you have a drink with me tomorrow? Say about five o’clock?”

  “Well … sure. I guess so.”

  “Can you have the information by then?”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Fine. I’ll tell you about it then.” Delaney gave him the address of the chop house where he had lunched with Dr. Ferguson. “Is that all right, Handry?”

  “Sure. I’ll see what I can do. Trotsky and the mountain climber. Right?”

  “Right. See you tomorrow.”

  Delaney hurried out and got a cab on Second Avenue. He was at the hospital within fifteen minutes. When he gently opened the door of his wife’s room, he saw at once she was sleeping. He tiptoed over to the plastic armchair, switched off the floor lamp, then took off his overcoat. He sat down as quietly as he could.

  He sat there for two hours, hardly moving. He may have dozed off a few minutes, but mostly he stared at his wife. She was sleeping calmly and deeply. No one came into the room. He heard the corridor sounds dimly. Still he sat, his mind not so much blank as whirring, leaping, jumping about without order of connection: their children, Handry, Langley, Broughton, the Widow Zimmerman, the ice ax, Thorsen and Johnson, a driver’s license—a smear of thoughts, quick frames of a short movie, almost blending, looming, fading …

  At the end of the two hours he scrawled a message in his notebook, tore the page out, propped it on her bedside table. “I was here. Where were you? Love and violets. Ted.” He tiptoed from the room.

  He walked back to their home, certain he would be mugged, but he wasn’t. He went back into his study and resumed his readings of the histories, motives and methods of mass murderers. There was no one pattern.

  He put the books aside, turned off the study lights shortly after midnight. He toured the basement and street floor, checking windows and locks. Then he trudged upstairs to undress, take a warm shower, and shave. He pulled on fresh pajamas. The image of his naked body in the bathroom mirror was not encouraging. Everything—face, neck, breasts, abdomen, ass, thighs—seemed to be sinking.

  He got into bed, switched off the bedside lamp, and lay awake for almost an hour, turning from side to side, his mind churning. Finally he turned on the lamp, shoved his feet into wool slippers, went padding down to the study again. He dug out his list, the one headed “The Suspect.” Under the “Physical” column he had jotted “An athlete?” He crossed this out and inserted “A mountain climber?” At the bottom, under “Additional Notes,” he wrote “Possesses an ice ax?”

  It wasn’t much, he admitted. In fact, it was ridiculous. But when he turned out the study lights, climbed once more to the empty bedroom, and slid into bed, he fell asleep almost instantly.

  2

  “YOU DIDN’T GIVE ME much time,” Thomas Handry said, unlocking his attaché case. “I guessed you’d be more interested in the assassination itself rather than the political background, so most of the stuff I’ve got is on the killing.”

  “You guessed right,” Captain Delaney nodded. “By the way, I read all your articles on the Department. Pretty good, for an outsider.”

  “Thanks a whole hell of a lot!”

  “You want to write poetry, don’t you?”

  Handry was astonished, physically. He jerked back in the booth, jaw dropping, took off his Benjamin Franklin reading glasses.

  “How did you know that?”

  “Words and phrases you used. The rhythm. And you were trying to get inside cops. It was a good try.”

  “Well … you can’t make a living writing poetry.”

  “Yes. That’s true.”

  Handry was embarrassed. So he looked around at the paneled walls, leather-covered chairs, old etchings and playbills, yellowed and filmed with dust.

  “I like this place,” he said. “I’ve never been here before. I suppose it was created last year, and they sprayed dirt on everything. But they did a good job. It really does look old.”

  “It is,” Delaney assured him. “Over a hundred years. It’s not a hype. How’s your ale?”

  “Real good. All right, let’s get started.” He took handwritten notes from his attaché case and began reading rapidly.

  “Leon Trotsky. Da-dah da-dah da-dah. One of the leaders of the Russian Revolution, and after. A theorist. Stalin drives him out of Russia, but still doesn’t trust him. Trotsky, even overseas, could be plotting. Trotsky gets to Mexico City. He’s suspicious, naturally. Very wary. But he can’t live in a closet. A guy named Jacson makes his acquaintance. It’s spelled two ways in newspaper reports: J-a-c-s-o-n and J-a-c-k-s-o-n. A white male. He visits Trotsky for at least six months. Friends. But Trotsky never sees anyone unless his secretaries and bodyguards are present. August twentieth, nineteen-forty, Jacson comes to visit Trotsky, bringing an article he’s written that he wants Trotsky to read. I couldn’t find what it was about. Probably political. Jacson is invited into the study. For the first time the secretaries aren’t notified. Jacson said later that Trotsky started reading the article. He sat behind his desk. Jacson stood at his left. He had a raincoat, and in the pockets were an ice ax, a revolver, and a dagger. He said—”

  “Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Delaney protested. “Jacson had an ice ax in his raincoat pocket? Impossible. It would never fit.”

  “Well, one report said it was in the raincoat pocket. Another said it was concealed by Jacson’s raincoat.”

  “ ‘Concealed.’ That’s better.”

  “All right, so Trotsky is reading Jacson’s article. Jacson takes the ice ax from under his raincoat, or out of the pocket, and smashes it down on Trotsky’s skull. Trotsky shrieks and throws himself on Jacson, biting his left hand. Beautiful. Then he staggers backward. The secretaries come running in and grab Jacson.”

  “Why the revolver and dagger?”

  “Jacson said they were to be used to kill himself after he killed Trotsky.”

  “It smells. Did Trotsky die then, in his study?”

  “No. He lived for about twenty-six hours. Then he died.”

  “Any mention of the direction of the blow?”

  “On top of Trotsky’s head, as far as I can gather. Trotsky was seated, Jacson was standing.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Jacson? Imprisoned. One escape try failed, apparently planned by the GPU. That’s what the Russian Secret Police was called then. I don’t know where Jacson is today, or even if he’s alive. There was a book published on Trotsky last year. Want me to look into it?”

  “No. It’s not important. Another ale?”

  “Please. I’m getting thirsty with all this talking.”

  They sat silently until another round of drinks was brought. Delaney was drinking rye and water.

  “Let’s get back to the weapon,” he said, and Handry consulted his notes.

  “I couldn’t locate a photo, but the wonderful old lady who runs our morgue, and who remembers everything, told me that a magazine ran an article on the killing in the 1950s and published a photo of the ice ax used, so apparently a photo does exist, somewhere.”

  “Anything else?”

  “It was the kind of ice ax used in mountain climbing. First, Jacson said he bought it in Switzerland. Now the testimony gets confused. Jacson’s mistress said she had never seen it in Paris or New York, prior to their trip to Mexico. Then Jacson said he liked mountaineering and had bought the ax in Mexico and used it when climbing—wait a minute; I’ve got it here somewhere—when climbing the Orizaba and Popo in Mexico. But then later it turned out that Jacson had lived in a camp in Mexico for awhile, and the owner’s son was an enthusiastic mountaineer. He and Jacson talked about mountain climbing several times. This son owned an ice ax, purchased four years previously. The day following the attack on Trotsky, and Jacson’s arrest, the camp owner went looking for his son’s ice ax, but it had disappeared. Confusing, isn’t it?”

  “It always is,” Delaney nodded. “But Jacson could have purchased the ax in Switzerland, Paris, New York, or stolen it in M
exico. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “Great,” Delaney sighed. “I didn’t know you could buy the damned thing like a candy bar. Was Jacson really a GPU agent?”

  “Apparently no one knows for sure. But the ex-chief of the Secret Service of Mexican Police says he was. Says it in a book he wrote about the case anyway.”

  “You’re sure Jacson hit Trotsky only once with the ice ax?”

  “That’s one thing everyone seems to agree on. One blow. You need anything else on this?”

  “Nooo. Not right now. Handry, you’ve done excellently in such a short time.”

  “Sure. I’m good. I admit it. Now let’s get to New York’s best mountain climber. Two years ago—about eighteen months, to be exact—that would have been an easy question to answer. Calvin Case, thirty-one, married, internationally recognized as one of the most expert, bravest, most daring mountaineers in the world. Then, early last year, he was the last man on the rope of a four-man team climbing the north wall of the Eiger. That’s supposed to be the most difficult climb in the world. The guy I spoke to on our Sports Desk said Everest is pure technology, but the north wall of the Eiger is pure guts. It’s in Switzerland, in case you’re wondering, and apparently it’s practically sheer. Anyway, this guy Calvin Case was tail-end Charlie on the rope. He either slipped or an outcrop crumbled or a piton pulled free; my informant didn’t remember the details. But he did remember that Case dangled, and finally had to cut himself loose from the others, and fell.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Yes. Incredibly, he wasn’t killed, but he crushed his spine. Now he’s paralyzed from the waist down. Bed-ridden. Can’t control his bladder or bowels. My man tells me he’s on the sauce. Won’t give any interviews. And he’s had some good offers for books.”

  “How does he live?”

  “His wife works. No children. I guess they get along. But anyway, I got another guy, active, who’s now the number one New York climber. But right now he’s in Nepal, preparing for some climb. Who do you want?”

  “Do I have a choice? I’ll take this Calvin Case. Do you have his address?”

  “Sure. I figured you’d want him. I wrote it down. Here.” He handed Delaney a small slip of paper. The Captain glanced at it briefly.

  “Greenwich Village,” he nodded. “I know that street well. A guy took a shot at me on a rooftop on that street, years ago. It was the first time I had ever been shot at.”

  “He didn’t hit?” Handry asked.

  “No,” Delaney smiled. “He didn’t hit.”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Kill him?”

  “Yes. Another ale?”

  “Well … all right. One more. You having another drink?”

  “Sure.”

  “But I’ve got to go to the john first. My back teeth are floating.”

  “That door over there, in the corner.”

  When Handry came back, he slid into the booth and asked, “How did you know I want to write poetry?”

  Delaney shrugged. “I told you. Just a guess. Don’t be so goddamned embarrassed about it. It’s not shameful.”

  “I know,” Handry said, looking down at the table, moving his glass around. “But still … All right, Captain, now you talk. What the hell is this all about?”

  “What do you think it’s about?”

  “You ask me for a run-down on Trotsky, killed with an ice ax. A mountaineer’s tool. Then you ask me for the name of the top mountain climber in New York. It’s something to do with mountain climbing, obviously. The ice ax is the main thing. What’s it all about?”

  Delaney, knowing he would be asked, had carefully considered his answers. He had prepared three possible replies, of increasing frankness, still not certain how far he could trust the reporter. But now that Handry had made the Trotsky-ice ax-mountain climbing connection, he went directly to his second reply.

  “I am not on active duty,” he acknowledged. “But Frank Lombard was killed in my precinct. You may think it’s silly, but I consider that my responsibility. The Two-five-one Precinct is my home. So I’m conducting what you might call an unofficial investigation. Operation Lombard is handling the official investigation. I’m sure you know that. Whatever I do, whatever I ask you to do, is outside the Department. As of the date of my leave of absence, I have no official standing. Whatever you do for me is a personal favor—you to me.”

  Thomas Handry stared at him a long moment. Then he poured himself a full glass of ale and drained off half of it. He set the glass down, a white foam mustache on his upper lip.

  “You’re full of shit,” he informed Captain Edward X. Delaney.

  “Yes,” Delaney nodded miserably. “That’s true. I think Lombard was killed with an ice ax. That’s why I asked you for background on Trotsky and mountain climbers. That’s all I’ve got. I asked you to look into it because I trust you. All I can promise you is first whack at the story—if there is a story.”

  “Do you have a staff?”

  “A staff? No, I don’t have a staff. I have some people helping me, but they’re not in the Department. They’re civilians.”

  “I’ll get the story? Exclusively?”

  “You’ll get it. If there is a story.”

  “I could get a story published right now. Leave-of-absence police captain personally investigating a murder in his old precinct. Harmonicas and violins. ‘I want revenge,’ states Captain Edward X. Delaney. Is that what you want?”

  “No. What do you want?”

  “To be in on it. Okay, Captain? Just to know what’s going on. You can use me as much as you want. I’m willing. But I want to know what you’re up to.”

  “It may be nothing.”

  “Okay, it’s nothing. I’ll take the gamble. A deal?”

  “You won’t publish anything without my go-ahead?”

  “I won’t.”

  “I trust you, Handry.”

  “The hell you do. But you’ve got no choice.”

  3

  IT WAS A FAINT dream. He followed a man down a misted street. Not a man, really, but something there, a bulk, in the gilded gloom. Like the night when Frank Lombard was killed: orange light and soft rain.

  The figure stayed ahead of him, indecipherable, no matter how fast he moved to see what it was he chased. He never closed. He felt no fear nor panic; just a need, a want for the shadow moving through shadows.

  Then there was a ringing; not the siren of a squad car or the buffalo whistle of a fire engine, but the ringing of an ambulance, coming closer, louder; he drifted up from sleep and fumbled for the telephone.

  Before he could identify himself he recognized Dorfman’s voice.

  “Captain?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dorfman. There’s been an assault on East Eighty-fourth. About halfway between First and Second. Sounds like the Lombard thing. A man tentatively identified as Bernard Gilbert. He’s not dead. They’re waiting for the ambulance now. I’m on my way.”

  “Did you call Chief Pauley?”

  “Yes.”

  “Good.”

  “You want to meet me there?”

  “No. You can handle it. Go by the book. Where they taking him?”

  “Mother of Mercy.”

  “Thank you for calling, lieutenant.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Then he switched on the light, stepped into slippers, pulled on a robe. He went down to the study, flipping wall switches as he went, and finally lighted the lamp on his desk. The house was cold and damp; he pulled his overcoat on over his bathrobe. Then he consulted his desk calendar: 22 days since the Frank Lombard homicide. He made careful note of this on a fresh sheet of paper, then called Deputy Inspector Thorsen’s answering service. He left his name and number.

  Thorsen called him in minutes, sounding sleepy but not angry.

  “What is it, Edward?”

  “I’m calling from my home, but it’s important. There’s been a Lombard-type assault in the
Two-five-one. Eighty-fourth Street. A man tentatively identified as Bernard Gilbert. He’s still alive. They’re taking him to Mother of Mercy. That’s all I’ve got.”

  “Jesus,” Thorsen breathed. “Sounds like you were right.”

  “No comfort in that. I can’t go over there.”

  “No. That wouldn’t be wise. Is it certain it’s a Lombard-type thing?”

  “I told you all I know.”

  “All right, assuming it is, what will Broughton do now?”

  “If the wound is similar to the one that killed Lombard, Chief Pauley will try to establish a link between Lombard and this Bernard Gilbert. If he can’t, and I don’t believe he will, unless it’s pure coincidence, he’ll realize they were both chance victims, and he’s faced with a crazy. Then he’ll check every mental institution in a five-state area. He’ll have men checking private doctors and psychiatrists and recently released inmates. He’ll pull in every known nut in the city for questioning. He’ll do what he has to do.”

  “Do you think it’ll work?”

  “No. Broughton has had about five hundred dicks working for him. Figure each detective has a minimum of three or four snitches on his wire. That means about two thousand informers, all over the city, and they’ve come up with zilch. If there was a crazy running wild—a crazy with a record—someone would know about it, or notice something weird, or hear some talk. Our man is new. Probably no record. Probably normal-appearing. I’ve already got him on my list as a good appearance, possibly well dressed.”

  “What list?”

  Delaney was silent a moment, cursing his lapse. That list was his.

  “A stupid list I made out of things I suspect about the guy. It’s all smoke. I don’t know anything.”

  Now Thorsen was silent a moment. Then …

  “I think maybe you and Johnson and I better have a meeting.”

  “All right,” Delaney said glumly.

  “And bring your list.”

  “Can it wait until I see the reports on this Bernard Gilbert assault?”

  “Sure. Anything I can do?”

  “Will you have a man at the scene—or involved in the investigation?”