First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “I’ll make it fast. Did the doctors at Mother of Mercy tell you anything?”

  “Not much. As I told you, Gilbert was struck from the front, the wound about two inches above the normal hair line. The blow apparently knocked him backward, and the weapon was pulled free before he fell. As a result, the penetration is reasonably clean and neat, so I should be able to get a better profile of the wound than on the Lombard snuff.”

  “Good.” Delaney unfolded his paper. “Doctor, this is what I think the penetration profile will look like. It’s hard to tell from this, but the spike starts out as a square. Here, in this little drawing, are the dimensions, about an inch on each side. If I’m right, that should be the size of the outside wound, at scalp and skull. Then the square changes to a triangular pick, and tapers, and curves downward, coming to a sharp point.”

  “Is this your imagination, or was it traced from an actual weapon?”

  “It was traced.”

  “All right. I don’t want to know anything more. What are these?”

  “Four little saw teeth on the underside of the point. You may find some rough abrasions on the lower surface of the wound.”

  “I may, eh? The brain isn’t hard Cheddar, you know. You want me to work with this paper open on the table alongside the corpse?”

  “Not if Broughton’s man is there.”

  “I didn’t think so.”

  “Couldn’t you just take a look at it, doctor? Just in case?”

  “Sure,” Ferguson said, folding up the paper and sliding it into his hip pocket. “What else have you got?”

  “In this envelope is a folded packet of aluminum foil, and inside that is an envelope of wax paper, and inside that is a paper towel soaked in oil. Light machine oil.”

  “So?”

  “You mentioned there were traces of oil in the Lombard wound. You thought it was probably Lombard’s hair oil, but it was too slight for analysis.”

  “But Gilbert was bald—at least where he was hit he was bald.”

  “That’s the point. It couldn’t be hair oil. But I’m hoping there will be oil in the Gilbert wound. Light machine oil.”

  Ferguson pushed back in his swivel chair and stared at him. Then the doctor pulled his wool tie open, unbuttoned the neck of his flannel shirt.

  “You’re a lovely man, Edward,” he said, “and the best detective in town, but Gilbert’s wound was X-rayed, probed and flushed at Mother of Mercy.”

  “If there was any oil in it, there couldn’t be any now?”

  “I didn’t say that. But it sure as hell cuts down on your chances.”

  “What about the Olfactory Analysis Indicator?”

  “The OAI? What about it?”

  “How much do you know about it, doctor?”

  “About as much as you do. You read the last bulletin, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. Sort of inconclusive, wasn’t it?”

  “It surely was. The idea is to develop a sniffer not much larger than a vacuum cleaner. Portable. It could be taken to the scene of a crime, inhale an air sample, and either identify the odors immediately or store the air sample so it could be taken back to the lab and analyzed by a master machine. Well, they’re a long way from that right now. It’s a monstrous big thing at this point, very crude, but I saw an impressive demonstration the other day. It correctly identified nine smokes from fifteen different brands of cigarettes. That’s not bad.”

  “In other words, it’s got to have a comparison to go by? Like the memory bank in a computer?”

  “That’s right. Oh-ho. I see what you’re getting at. All right, Edward. Leave me your machine oil sample. I’ll try to get a reading on tissue, from Gilbert’s wound. But don’t count on it. The OAI is years away. It’s just an experiment now.”

  “I realize that. But I don’t want to neglect any possibility.”

  “You never did,” Dr. Ferguson said.

  “Should I wait around?”

  “No point in it. The OAI analysis will take three days at least. Probably a week. As far as your drawing goes, I’ll call you this afternoon or this evening. Will you be home?”

  “Probably. But I may be at the hospital. You could reach me there.”

  “How’s Barbara?”

  “Getting along.”

  Ferguson nodded, stood, took off his tweed jacket, hung it on a coat tree, began to shrug into a stained white coat.

  “Getting anywhere, Edward?” he asked.

  “Who the hell knows?” Captain Delaney grumbled. “I just keep going.”

  “Don’t we all?” the big man smiled.

  Delaney called Ivar Thorsen from a lobby phone. The answering service got back to him a few minutes later and said Mr. Thorsen was not available and would he please call again at three in the afternoon.

  It was the first time Thorsen had not returned his call, and it bothered Delaney. It might be, of course, that the deputy inspector was in a meeting or on his way to a precinct house, but the Captain couldn’t shake a vague feeling of unease.

  He consulted his pocket notebook in which he had copied the address of Outside Life. He took a taxi to Spring Street, and when he got out of the cab, he spent a few minutes walking up and down the block, looking around. It was a section of grimy loft buildings, apparently mostly occupied by small manufacturers, printers, and wholesalers of leather findings. It seemed a strange neighborhood for Outside Life.

  That occupied the second and third floors of a ten-story building. Delaney walked up the stairs to the second floor, but the sign on the solid door said “Offices and Mailing. Store on third floor.” So he climbed another flight, wanting to look about before he talked to—to—He consulted his notebook again: Sol Appel, the owner.

  The “store” was actually one enormous, high-ceilinged loft with pipe racks, a few glass showcases, and with no attempts made at fashionable merchandizing. Most of the stock was piled on the floor, on unpainted wooden shelves, or hung from hooks driven into the whitewashed walls.

  As Langley had said, it was a fascinating conglomeration: rucksacks, rubber dinghies, hiking boots, crampons, dehydrated food, kerosene lanterns, battery-heated socks, machetes, net hammocks, sleeping bags, outdoor cookware, hunting knives, fishing rods, reels, creels, pitons, nylon rope, boating gear—an endless profusion of items ranging from five-cent fishhooks to a magnificent red, three-room tent with a mosquito-netted picture window, at $1,495.00.

  Outside Life seemed to have its devotees, despite its out-of-the-way location; Delaney counted at least 40 customers wandering about, and the clerks were busy writing up purchases. The Captain found his way to the mountaineering department and inspected pitons, crampons, web belts and harnesses, nylon line, aluminum-framed backpacks, and a wide variety of ice axes. There were two styles of short-handled axes: the one purchased by Langley and another, somewhat similar, but with a wooden handle and no saw-tooth serrations under the spike. Delaney inspected it, and finally found “Made in U.S.A.” stamped on the handle butt.

  He halted a scurrying clerk just long enough to ask for the whereabouts of Mr. Appel. “Sol’s in the office,” the departing clerk called over his shoulder. “Downstairs.”

  Delaney pushed open the heavy door on the second floor and found himself in a tiny reception room, walled with unfinished plywood panels. There was a door of clear glass leading to the open space beyond, apparently a combination warehouse and mailing room. In one corner of the reception room was a telephone operator wearing a wired headset and sitting before a push-pull switchboard that Delaney knew had been phased out of production years and years ago. Outside Life seemed to be a busy, thriving enterprise, but it was also obvious the profits weren’t going into fancy offices and smart decoration.

  He waited patiently until the operator had plugged and unplugged half-a-dozen calls. Finally, desperately, he said, “Mr. Appel, please. My name is—”

  She stuck her head through the opening into the big room beyond and screamed, “Sol! Guy to see you!”


  Delaney sat on the single couch, a rickety thing covered with slashed plastic. He was amused to note an overflowing ashtray on the floor. The single decoration in the room was a plaque on the plywood wall attesting to Mr. Solomon Appel’s efforts on behalf of the United Jewish Appeal.

  The glass door crashed back, and a heavy, sweating man rushed in. Delaney caught a confused impression of a round, plump face (the man in the moon), a well-chewed, unlit cigar, a raveled, sleeveless sweater of hellish hue, unexpectedly “mod” jeans of dark blue with white stitching and a darker stain down one leg, and Indian moccasins decorated with beads.

  “You from Benson & Hurst?” the man demanded, talking rapidly around his cigar. “I’m Sol Appel. Where the hell are those tents? You promised—”

  “Wait, wait,” Delaney said hastily. “I’m not from Benson & Hurst. I’m—”

  “Gatters,” the man said positively. “The fiberglass rods. You guys are sure giving me the rod—you know where. You said—”

  “Will you wait a minute,” Delaney said again, sighing. “I’m not from Gatters either. My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney. New York Police Department. There’s my identification.”

  Sol Appel didn’t even glance at it. He raised his hands above his head, palms outward, in mock surrender.

  “I give up,” he said. “Whatever it was, I did it. Take me away. Now. Please get me out of this nuthouse. Do me a favor. Jail will be a pleasure.”

  “No, no,” Delaney laughed. “Nothing like that. Mr. Appel, I wanted—”

  “You’re putting on a dance? A dinner? You want a few bucks? Of course. Why not? Always. Any time. So tell me—how much?”

  He was already reaching for his wallet when Delaney held out a restraining hand and sighed again.

  “Please, Mr. Appel, it’s nothing like that. I’m not collecting for anything. All I want is a few minutes of your time.”

  “A few minutes? Now you’re really asking for something valuable. A few minutes!” He turned back to the opened glass door. “Sam!” he screamed. “You, Sam! Get the cash. No check. The cash! You understand?”

  “Is there any place we can talk?” the Captain asked.

  “We’re talking, aren’t we?”

  “All right,” Delaney said doubtfully, glancing at the switchboard operator. But she was busy with her cords and plugs. “Mr. Appel, your name was given to me by Calvin Case, and I—”

  “Cal!” Appel cried. He stepped close and grabbed Delaney’s overcoat by the lapels. “That dear, sweet boy. How is he? Will you tell me?”

  “Well … he’s—”

  “Don’t tell me. He’s on the booze. I know. I heard. I wanted him back. ‘So you can’t walk,’ I told him. ‘Big deal. You can think. No? You can work. No?’ That’s the big thing—right, Captain—uh, Captain—”

  “Delaney.”

  “Captain Delaney. That’s Irish, no?”

  “Yes.”

  “Sure. I knew. The important thing is to work. Am I right?”

  “You’re right.”

  “Of course I’m right,” Sol Appel said angrily. “So any time he wants a job, he’s got it. Right here. We can use him. Tell him that. Will you tell him that?” Suddenly Appel struck his forehead with the heel of his hand. “I should have been to see him,” he groaned. “What kind of schmuck am I? I’m really ashamed. I’ll go to see him. Tell him that, Chief Delaney.”

  “Captain.”

  “Captain. Will you tell him that?”

  “Yes, certainly, if I speak to him again. But that isn’t the—”

  “You’re taking up a collection for him? You’re making a benefit, Captain? It will be my pleasure to take a table for eight, and I’ll—”

  Delaney finally got him calmed down, a little, and seated on the plastic couch. He explained he was involved in an investigation, and the cigar-chomping Sol Appel asked no questions. Within five minutes Delaney had discovered that Outside Life had a mailing list of approximately 30,000 customers who were sent Summer and Winter catalogues. The mailings were done with metal addressing plates and printed labels. There was also a typed master list, and Sol Appel would be happy to provide a copy for Captain Delaney whenever he asked.

  “I assure you, it’ll be held in complete confidence,” the Captain said earnestly.

  “Who cares?” Appel shouted. “My competitors can meet my prices? Hah!”

  Delaney also learned that Outside Life kept sales checks for seven years. They were stored in cardboard cartons in the basement of the loft building, filed by month and year.

  “Why seven years?” he asked.

  “Who the hell knows?” Appel shrugged. “My father—God rest his soul—he only died last year—I should live so long—Mike Appel—a mensch. You know what a mensch is, Captain?”

  “Yes. I know. My father was an Irish mensch.”

  “Good. So he told me, ‘Sol,’ he said a hundred times, ‘always keep the copies of the sales checks for seven years.’ Who the hell knows why? That’s the way he did it, that’s the way I do it. Taxes or something; I don’t know. Anyway, I keep them seven years. I add this year’s, I throw the oldest year’s away.”

  “Would you let me go through them?”

  “Go through them? Captain, there’s got to be like a hundred thousand checks there.”

  “If I have to, can I go through them?”

  “Be my guest. Sarah!” Sol Appel suddenly screamed. “You, Sarah!”

  An elderly Jewish lady thrust her head through the switchboard operator’s window.

  “You called, Sol?” she asked.

  “Tell him ‘No’!” Appel screamed, and the lady nodded and withdrew.

  Now that Delaney wanted to leave, Appel wouldn’t let him depart. He shook his hand endlessly and talked a blue streak …

  “Go up to the store. Pick out anything you like. Have them call me before you pay. You’ll get a nice discount, believe me. You know, you Irish and us Jews are much alike. We’re both poets—am I right? And who can talk these days? The Irish and the Jews only. You need a cop, you find an Irishman. You need a lawyer, you find a Jew. This stuff I sell, you think I understand it? Hah! For me, I go camping on Miami Beach or Nassau. You float on the pool there in this plastic couch with a nice, tall drink and all around these girlies in their little bitty bikinis. That, to me, is outside life. Captain, I like you. Delaney—right? You in the book? Sure, you’re in the book. Next month, a Bar-Mitzvah for my nephew. I’ll call you. Bring nothing, you understand? Nothing! I’ll go see Calvin Case. I swear I’ll go. You’ve got to work. Sarah! Sarah!”

  Delaney finally got out of there, laughing aloud and shaking his head, so that people he passed on the stairway looked at him strangely. He didn’t think Appel would remember to invite him to the Bar-Mitzvah. But if he did, Delaney decided he would go. How often do you meet a live man?

  Well, he had found out what he wanted to know—and, as usual, it wasn’t as bad as he had feared or as good as he had hoped. He walked west on Spring Street and, suddenly, pierced by the odor of frying sausage and peppers, he joined a throng of Puerto Ricans and blacks at an open luncheonette counter and had a slice of sausage pizza and a glass of sweet cola, resolutely forgetting about his diet. Sometimes …

  He took two subways and a bus back to his home. Mary was having coffee in the kitchen, and he joined her for a cup, telling her he had already eaten lunch, but not saying what it was.

  “Whatever it was, it had garlic in it,” she sniffed, and he laughed.

  He worked in his study until 3:00 p.m., bringing his reports up to date. The file of his own investigation was becoming pleasingly plump. It was nowhere near as extensive as the Operation Lombard reports, of course, but still, it had width to it now, it had width.

  At 3:00 p.m., he called Deputy Inspector Thorsen. This time the answering service operator asked him to hold while she checked. She was back on again in a few minutes and told him Thorsen asked him to call again at seven in the evening. Delaney hung up, now convince
d that something was happening, something was awry.

  He put the worry away from him and went back to his notes and reports. If “The Suspect” was indeed a mountain climber—and Delaney believed he was—weren’t there other possible leads to his identity other than the mailing list of Outside Life? For instance, was there a local or national club or association of mountain climbers whose membership list could be culled for residents of the 251st Precinct? Was there a newsletter or magazine devoted to mountaineering with a subscription list that could be used for the same purpose? What about books on mountain climbing? Should Delaney inquire at the library that served the 251st Precinct and try to determine who had withdrawn books on the subject?

  He jotted down notes on these questions as fast as they occurred to him. Mountain climbing was, after all, a minor sport. But could you call it a sport? It really didn’t seem to be a pastime or diversion. It seemed more of a—of a—well, the only word that came to his mind was “challenge.” He also thought, for some reason, of “crusade,” but that didn’t make too much sense, and he resolved to talk to Calvin Case about it, and carefully made a note to himself to that effect.

  Finally, almost as a casual afterthought, he came back to the problem that had been nagging him for the past few days, and he resolved to turn over everything he had to Broughton and Chief Pauley. They could follow through much faster than he could, and their investigation might, just might, prevent another death. He would have liked to stick to it on his own, but that was egotism, just egotism.

  He was writing out a detailed report of his meeting with Sol Appel when the desk phone rang. He lifted the receiver and said absently, “Hello.”

  “ ‘Hello’?” Dr. Sanford Ferguson laughed. “What the hell kind of a greeting is that—‘Hello?’ Whatever happened to ‘Captain Edward X. Delaney here’?”

  “All right. Captain Edward X. Delaney here. Are you bombed?”

  “On my way, m’lad. Congratulations.”

  “You mean the drawing was accurate?”