First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “No change. Still in a coma. They don’t hold out much hope.”

  She said all that in a flat monotone, not blinking, looking at him directly. He admired her control, knowing what it cost.

  Her thick black hair, somewhat oily, was combed back from a wide, smooth brow and fell almost to her shoulders. Her large eyes appeared blue-grey, and were her best feature. The nose was long but proportionate. All of her was big. Not so much big as assertive. She wore no makeup, had made no effort to pluck heavy eyebrows. She was, he decided, a complete woman, but he knew instinctively she would respond to soft speech and a gentle manner.

  “Mrs. Gilbert,” he said in a low voice, leaning forward to her, “I know you must have spent many hours with the police since the attack on your husband. This is an unofficial visit. I am not on active duty; I’m on leave of absence. But I was commander of this precinct for many years, and I wanted to express my regrets and sympathy personally.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “That’s very kind of you. I’m sure everything is being done …”

  “I assure you it is,” he said earnestly. “A great number of men are working on this case.”

  “Will they get the man who did it?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “They will. I promise you that.”

  She looked at him strangely a moment.

  “You’re not involved in the investigation?”

  “Not directly, no. But it did happen in my precinct. What was my precinct.”

  “Why are you on leave of absence?”

  “My wife is ill.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. You live in the neighborhood?”

  “Yes. Right next door to the precinct house.”

  “Well, then you know what it’s like around here—robberies and muggings, and you can’t go out at night.”

  “I know,” he nodded sympathetically. “Believe me, I know, and hate it more than you do.”

  “He never hurt anyone,” she burst out, and he was afraid she might weep, but she did not.

  “Mrs. Gilbert, will it upset you to talk about your husband?”

  “Of course not. What do you want to know?”

  “What kind of a man is he? Not his job, or his background—I’ve got all that. Just the man himself.”

  “Bernie? The dearest, sweetest man who ever lived. He wouldn’t hurt a fly. He worked so hard, for me and the girls. I know that’s all he thinks about.”

  “Yes, yes.”

  “Look around. Does it look like we’re rich?”

  Obediently he looked around. In truth it was a modest apartment: linoleum on the floor, inexpensive furniture, paper drapes. But it was clean, and there were some touches: a good hi-fi set, on one wall an original abstraction that had color and flash, a small wooden piece of primitive sculpture that had meaning.

  “Comfortable,” he murmured.

  “Paradise,” she said definitely. “Compared to what Bernie had and what I had. It’s not right, Captain. It’s just not right.”

  He nodded miserably, wondering what he could say to comfort her. There was nothing. So he got on with it, still speaking in a quiet, gentle voice, hoping to soothe her.

  “Mrs. Gilbert,” he asked, remembering Ferguson’s comment about the victim’s heart, “was your husband an active man?” Realizing he had used the past tense, he switched immediately to the present, hoping she hadn’t caught it. But the focus of her eyes changed; he realized she had, and he cursed himself. “I mean, is he active physically? Does he exercise? Play games?”

  She stared at him without answering. Then she leaned forward to pour him another cup of tea. The black dress left her arms bare; he admired the play of muscle, the texture of her skin.

  “Captain,” she said finally, “for a man not involved in the investigation, you’re asking a lot of unusual questions.”

  He realized then how shrewd she was. He could try lying to her, but was convinced she’d know.

  “Mrs. Gilbert,” he said, “do you really care how many men are working on this, or who they are, or what their motives are? The main thing is to catch the man who did it. Isn’t that true? Well, I swear to you, I want to find the man who struck down your husband more than you do.”

  “No!” she cried. “Not more than I do.” Her eyes were glittering now, her whole body taut. “I want the one who did it caught and punished.”

  He was astonished by her fury. He had thought her controlled, perhaps even phlegmatic. But now she was twanging, alive and fiery.

  “What do you want?” he asked her. “Vengeance?”

  Her eyes burned into his.

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I want. Vengeance. If I answer your questions, will it help me get it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Not good enough, Captain.”

  “Yes, if you answer my questions it will help find the man who did this thing to your husband.”

  “Your husband” were the key words, as he had hoped they would be. She started talking.

  Her husband was physically weak. He had a heart murmur, arthritis of the left wrist, intermittent kidney pains, although examinations and X-rays showed nothing. His eyes were weak, he suffered from periodic conjunctivitis. He did not exercise, he played no games. He was a sedentary man.

  But he worked hard, she added in fierce tones; he worked so hard.

  Delaney nodded. Now he had some kind of answer to what had been bothering him: why hadn’t Bernard Gilbert made a response to a frontal attack, dodged or warded off the blow? It seemed obvious now: poor musculature, slow physical reactions, the bone-deep weariness of a man working up to and beyond his body’s capacity. What chance did he have against a “strong, young, cool, determined psychopath with good muscular coordination”?

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gilbert,” Captain Delaney said softly. He finished his tea, rose to his feet. “I appreciate your giving me this time, and I hope your husband makes a quick recovery.”

  “Do you know anything about his condition?”

  This time he did lie. “I’m sure you know more than I do. All I know is that he’s seriously injured.”

  She nodded, not looking at him, and he realized she already knew.

  She walked him to the door. The two delightful little girls came scampering out, stared at him, giggled, and pulled at their mother’s skirt. Delaney smiled at them, remembering Liza at that age. The darlings!

  “I want to do something,” she said.

  “What?” he asked, distracted. “I don’t understand.”

  “I want to do something. To help.”

  “You have helped.”

  “Isn’t there anything else I can do? You’re doing something. I don’t know what you’re up to, but I trust you. I really feel you’re trying to find who did it.”

  “Thank you,” he said, so moved. “Yes, I’m trying to find who did it.”

  “Then let me help. Anything! I can type, take shorthand. I’m very good with figures. I’ll do anything. Make coffee. Run errands. Anything!”

  He couldn’t trust himself to speak. He tried to nod brightly and smile. He left, closing the door firmly behind him.

  Out on the street the unmarked police car was still parked in the same position. He expected a wave. But one of the detectives was sleeping, his head thrown back, his mouth open. The other was marking a racing sheet. They didn’t even notice him. If they had been under his command he’d have reamed their ass out.

  5

  THE NEXT DAY STARTED well, with a call from a book dealer informing Captain Delaney that he had located two volumes of the original Honey Bunch series. The Captain was delighted, and it was arranged that the books would be mailed to him, along with the invoice.

  He took this unexpected find as a good omen, for like most policemen he was superstitious. He would tell others, “You make your own luck,” knowing this wasn’t exactly true; there was a good fortune that came unexpectedly, sometimes unasked, and the important thing was to recognize it when it came, for lu
ck wore a thousand disguises, including calamity.

  He sat at his study desk and reviewed a list of “Things to Do” he had prepared. It read:

  “Interrogate Monica Gilbert.

  “Calvin Case re ice ax.

  “Ferguson re autopsy.

  “Call Langley.

  “Honey Bunch.”

  He drew a line through the final item. He was about to draw a line through the first and then, for a reason he could not understand, left it open. He searched, and finally found the slip of paper Thomas Handry had given him, bearing the name, address and telephone number of Calvin Case. He realized more and more people were being drawn into his investigation, and he resolved to set up some kind of a card file or simple directory that would list names, addresses, and phone numbers of all the people involved.

  He considered what might be the best way to handle the Calvin Case interview. He decided against phoning; an unexpected personal visit would be better. Sometimes it was useful to surprise people, catch them off guard with no opportunity to plan their reaction.

  He walked over to Lexington Avenue, shoulders hunched against the raw cold, and took the IRT downtown. It seemed to him each time he rode the subway—his trips were rare—the graffiti covered more and more of interior and exterior surfaces of cars and platforms. Sexual and racist inscriptions were, thankfully, relatively rare, but spray cans and felt-tipped markers had been used by the hundreds for such records as: “Tony 168. Vic 134. Angie 127. Bella 78. Iron Wolves 127.” He knew these to be the first names of individuals and the titles of street gangs, followed by their street number—evidence: “I was here.”

  He got off at 14th Street and walked west and south, looking about him constantly, noting how this section had changed and was changing since he had been a dick two in this precinct and thought he might leave the world a better place than he found it. Now if he left it no worse, he’d be satisfied.

  The address was on West 11th Street, just off Fifth Avenue. The rents here, Delaney knew, were enormous, unless Case was fortunate enough to have a rent-controlled apartment. The house itself was a handsome old structure in the Federal style. All the front windows had white-painted boxes of geraniums or ivy on the sills. The outside knob and number plate were polished brass. The garbage cans had their lids on; the entryway had been swept. There was a little sign that read “Please curb your dog.” Under it someone had written, “No shit?”

  Calvin Case lived in apartment 3-B. Delaney pushed the bell and leaned down to the intercom. He waited, but there was no answer. He pushed the bell again, three long rings. This time a harsh masculine voice said, “What the hell. Yes?”

  “Mr. Calvin Case?”

  “Yes. What do you want?”

  “My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney. Of the New York Police Department. I’d like to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “What about?” The voice was loud, slurred, and the mechanics of the intercom made it raucous.

  “It’s about an investigation I’m conducting.”

  There was silence. It lasted so long that Delaney was about to ring again when the door lock buzzed, and he grabbed the knob hastily, opened the door, and climbed carpeted steps to 3-B. There was another bell. He rang, and again he waited for what he thought was an unusually long time. Then another buzzer sounded. He was startled and did nothing. When you rang the bell of an apartment door, you expected someone to inquire from within or open the door. But now a buzzer sounded.

  Then, remembering the man was an invalid, and cursing his own stupidity, Delaney rang again. The answering buzz seemed long and angry. He pushed the door open, stepped into the dark hallway of a small, cluttered apartment. Delaney shut the door firmly behind him, heard the electric lock click.

  “Mr. Case?” he called.

  “In here.” The voice was harsh, almost cracked.

  The captain walked through a littered living room. Someone slept in here, on a sofa bed that was still unmade. There were signs of a woman’s presence: a tossed nightgown, a powder box and makeup kit on an end table, lipsticked cigarette butts, tossed copies of “Vogue” and “Bride.” But there were a few plants at the windows, a tall tin vase of fresh rhododendron leaves. Someone was making an effort.

  Delaney stepped through the disorder to an open door leading to the rear of the apartment. Curiously, the door frame between the cluttered living room and the bedroom beyond had been fitted with a window shade with a cord pull. The shade, Delaney guessed, could be pulled down almost to the floor, shutting off light, affording some kind of privacy, but not as sound-proof as a door. And, of course, it couldn’t be locked.

  He ducked under the hanging shade and looked about the bedroom. Dusty windows, frayed curtains, plaster curls from the ceiling, a stained rag rug, two good oak dressers with drawers partly open, newspapers and magazines scattered on the floor. And then the bed, and on the opposite wall a shocking big stain as if someone had thrown a full bottle, watched it splinter and the contents drip down.

  The smell was … something. Stale whiskey, stale bedclothes, stale flesh. Urine and excrement. There was a tiny log of incense smoking in a cast iron pot; it made things worse. The room was rotting. Delaney had smelled odors more ferocious than this—was there a cop who had not?—but it never got easier. He breathed through his mouth and turned to the man in the bed.

  It was a big bed, occupied at some time in the past, Delaney imagined, by Calvin Case and his wife. Now she slept on the convertible in the living room. The bed was surrounded, by tables, chairs, magazine racks, a telephone stand, a wheeled cart with bottles and an ice bucket, on the floor an open bedpan and plastic “duck.” Tissues, a half-eaten sandwich, a sodden towel, cigarette and cigar butts, a paperback book with pages torn out in a frenzy, and even a hard-cover bent and partly ripped, a broken glass, and … and everything.

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  Then he looked directly at the man in the bed.

  The soiled sheet, a surprising blue, was drawn up to the chin. All Delaney saw was a square face, a square head. Uncombed hair was spread almost to the man’s shoulders. The reddish mustache and beard were squarish. And untrimmed. Dark eyes burned. The full lips were stained and crusted.

  “Calvin Case?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department. I’m investigating the death—the murder—of a man we believe—”

  “Let’s see your badge.”

  Delaney stepped closer to the bed. The stench was sickening. He held his identification in front of Case’s face. The man hardly glanced at it. Delaney stepped back.

  “We believe the man was murdered with an ice ax. A mountain climber’s ax. So I came—”

  “You think I did it?” The cracked lips opened to reveal yellowed teeth: a death’s head grin.

  Delaney was shocked. “Of course not. But I need more information on ice axes. And as the best mountain climber—you’ve been recommended to me—I thought you might be—”

  “Fuck off,” Calvin Case said wearily, moving his heavy head to one side.

  “You mean you won’t cooperate in finding a man who—”

  “Be gone,” Case whispered. “Just be gone.”

  Delaney turned, moved away two steps, stopped. There was Barbara, and Christopher Langley, and Monica Gilbert, and all the peripheral people: Handry and Thorsen and Ferguson and Dorfman, and here was this … He took a deep breath, hating himself because even his furies were calculated. He turned back to the cripple on the soiled bed. He had nothing to lose.

  “You goddamned cock-sucking mother-fucking son-of-a-bitch,” he said steadily and tonelessly. “You shit-gutted ass-licking bastard. I’m a detective, and I detect you, you punky no-ball frigger. Go ahead, lie in your bed of crap. Who buys the food? Your wife—right? Who tries to keep a home for you? Your wife—right? Who empties your shit and pours your piss in the toilet? Your wife—right? And you lie there and soak up whiskey. I could smell you the minute
I walked in, you piece of rot. It’s great to lie in bed and feel sorry for yourself, isn’t it? You corn-holing filth. Go piss and shit in your bed and drink your whiskey and work your wife to death and scream at her, you crud. A man? Oh! You’re some man, you lousy ass-kissing turd. I spit on you, and I forget the day I heard your name, you dirt-eating nobody. You don’t exist. You understand? You’re no one.”

  He turned away, almost out of control, and a woman was standing in the bedroom doorway, a slight, frail blonde, her hair brushing the window shade. Her face was blanched; she was biting on a knuckle.

  He took a deep breath, tried to square his shoulders, to feel bigger. He felt very small.

  “Mrs. Case?”

  She nodded.

  “My name is Edward X. Delaney, Captain, New York Police Department. I came to ask your husband’s help on an investigation. If you heard what I said, I apologize for my language. I’m very sorry. Please forgive me. I didn’t know you were there.”

  She nodded dumbly again, still gnawing her knuckle and staring at him with wide blue eyes.

  “Good-day,” he said and moved to pass her in the doorway.

  “Captain,” the man in the bed croaked.

  Delaney turned back. “Yes?”

  “You’re some bastard, aren’t you?”

  “When I have to be,” Delaney nodded.

  “You’ll use anyone, won’t you? Cripples, drunks, the helpless and the hopeless. You’ll use them all.”

  “That’s right. I’m looking for a killer. I’ll use anyone who can help.”

  Calvin Case used the edge of his soiled blue sheet to wipe his clotted eyes clear.

  “And you got a big mouth,” he added. “A biiig mouth.” He reached to the wheeled cart for a half-full bottle of whiskey and a stained glass. “Honey,” he called to his wife, “we got a clean glass for Mister Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department?”

  She nodded, still silent. She ran out, then came back with two glasses. Calvin Case poured a round, then set the bottle back on the cart. The three raised glasses in a silent toast, although what they were drinking to they could not have said.