First Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  It was early in the evening. Was it 6:00 p.m.? It might be eight. He didn’t want to look at his watch bracelet. He wasn’t sure he could trust it. Perhaps it might not be his own faulty time sense; it might be his wristwatch running wild. Or time itself running wild.

  He picked up his phone. There was a curious, empty echo before he got a dial tone. He heard it ring. Someone picked up the phone. Then Blank heard two sharp clicks.

  “Mith Montforth rethidenth,” he heard Valenter say.

  “This is Daniel Blank. Is Miss Montfort in?”

  “Yeth, thir. I’ll call—”

  But then Daniel Blank heard a few more soft clicks, a strange hissing on the line. He hung up abruptly. Jesus! He should have known. He left the apartment immediately. What time was it? It didn’t matter.

  “He’s tapping my phone,” he said to Celia indignantly. “I definitely heard it. Definitely.”

  They were in that tainted room at the top of the house; city sounds came faintly. He told her he had followed her advice, had opened his mind to instinct, to all the primitive fears and passions that had come flooding in. He told her how he had been acting, the irrational fits and starts of his daily activities, and he told her about the clicks, hisses, and echo on the phone when he had called her.

  “Do you think I’m going mad?” he demanded.

  “No,” she said slowly, almost judiciously, “I don’t think so. I think that in the time I have known you, you have been moving from the man you were to the man you are to be. What that is, I don’t believe either of us know for sure. But it’s understandable that this growth be painful, perhaps even frightening. You’re leaving everything familiar behind you and setting out on a journey, a search, a climb, that’s leading … somewhere. Forget for a moment the man who has been following you and the phone call you received. These pains and dislocations have nothing to do with that. Dan, you’re being born again, and you’re feeling all the anguish of birth, being yanked from the safety of a warm womb into a foreign world. The wonder is that you’ve endured it as well as you have.”

  As usual, her flood of murmured words soothed and assured him; he felt as relaxed as if she was stroking his brow. She did make sense; it was true that he had changed since he met her, and was changing. The murders were part of it, of course—she was wrong to deny that—but they were not the cause but just one effect of the monumental upheaval inside him, something hot and bubbling there thrusting to the surface.

  They made love slowly then, with more tenderness than passion, more sweetness than joy. In the eerie light of that single orange bulb he leaned close to see her for the first time, microscopically.

  Her nipples, under his tongue’s urging, engorged and, peering close, he saw the flattened tops, with ravines and gorges, tiny, tiny, a topographic map. And threaded through the small breasts a network of bluish veins, tangled as a silken skein.

  Along the line of curved hip sprouted a Lilliputian wheat-field of surprisingly golden hairs, and more at the dimpled small of her back. These tender sprouts tickled dry and dusty on his tongue. The convoluted navel returned his stare in a lascivious wink. Inside, prying, he found a sharp bitterness that tingled.

  Far up beneath her long hair, at nape of neck, was swamp dampness and scent of pond lilies. He stared at flesh of leg and groin, so close his eyelashes brushed and she made a small sound. There was hard, shiny skin on her soles, a crumbling softness between her toes. It all became clear to him, and dear, and sad.

  They fenced with tongues—thrust, parry, cut—and then he was tasting creamy wax from her ear and in her armpits a sweet liquor that bit and melted on his lips like snow. Behind her knees more blue veins meandered, close to a skin that felt like suede and twitched faintly when he touched.

  He spread her buttocks; the rosebud glared at him, withdrawing and expanding—a time-motion film of a flower reacting to light and darkness. He put his erect penis in her soft palm, slowly guided her fingers to stroke; circle, gently probe the opening, their hands clasped so they might share. He touched his lips to her closed eyes, thought he might suck them out and gulp them down like oysters, seasoned with her tears.

  “I want you inside me,” she said suddenly, lay on her back, spread her knees wide, guided his cock up into her. She wrapped arms and legs about him and moaned softly, as if they were making love for the first time.

  But there was no love. Only a sweetness so sad it was almost unendurable. Even as they fucked he knew it was the sadness of departure; they would never fuck again; both knew it.

  She was quickly slick, inside and out; they grappled to hold tight. He spurted with a series of great, painful lunges and, stunned, he continued to make the motions long after he was drained and surfeited. He could not stop his spasm, had no desire to, and felt her come again.

  She looked at him through half-opened eyes, glazed; he thought she felt what he did: the defeat of departure. In that moment he knew she had told. She had betrayed him.

  But he smiled, smiled, smiled, kissed her closed mouth, went home early. He took a cab because the darkness frightened him.

  If it was a day of departure and defeat for Daniel Blank, it was a day of arrival and triumph for Captain Edward X. Delaney. He dared not feel confident, lest he put the whammy on it, but it did seem to be coming together.

  Paper work in the morning: requisitions, reports, vouchers—the whole schmear. Then over to the hospital to sit awhile with Barbara, reading to her from “Honey Bunch: Her First Little Garden.” Then he treated himself to a decent meal in one of those west side French restaurants: coq au vin with a half-bottle of a heavy burgundy to help it along. He paid his bill and then, on the way out, stopped at the bar for a Kirsch. He felt good.

  It was good; everything was good. He had no sooner returned to his home when Blankenship came in to display Danny Boy’s Time-Habit Pattern. It was very erratic indeed: Arrived at the Factory at 11:30 a.m. Skipped lunch completely. Took a long zigzag walk along the docks. Sat on a wharf for almost an hour—“Just watching the turds float by” according to the man tailing him. Report from Stryker: He had taken Mrs. Cleek to lunch, and she told him she had found Danny Boy weeping in his office, and he had told her there had been a death in the family. Danny Boy returned to the White House at 2:03 p.m.

  “Fine,” the Captain nodded, handing the log back to Blankenship. “Keep at it. Is Fernandez on?”

  “Comes on at four, Captain.”

  “Ask him to stop by to see me, will you?”

  After Blankenship left, Delaney closed all the doors to his study, paced slowly around the room, head bowed. “A death in the family.” That was nice. He paused to call Monica Gilbert and ask if he could come over to see her that evening. She invited him for dinner but he begged off; they arranged that he would come over at 7:00 p.m. He told her it would only be for a few minutes; she didn’t ask the reason. Her girls were home from school during the holiday week so, she explained, she hadn’t been able to visit Barbara as much as she wanted to, but would try to get there the following afternoon. He thanked her.

  More pacing, figuring out options and possibilities. He walked into the radio room to tell Blankenship to requisition four more cars, two squads and two unmarked, and keep them parked on the street outside, two men in each. He didn’t want to think of the increase in manpower that entailed, and went back into his study to resume his pacing. Was there anything he should have done that he had not? He couldn’t think of anything, but he was certain there would be problems he hadn’t considered. No help for that.

  He took out his plan and, alongside the final three items, worked out a rough time schedule. He was still fiddling with it when Lt. Jeri Fernandez knocked and looked in.

  “Want me, Captain?”

  “Just for a minute, lieutenant. Won’t take long. How’s it going?”

  “Okay. I got a feeling things are beginning to move. Don’ ask me how I know. Just a feeling.”

  “I hope you’re right. I’ve got another j
ob for you. You’ll have to draw more men. Get them from wherever you can. If you have any shit with their commanders, tell them to call me. It’s a woman—Monica Gilbert. Here’s her address and telephone number. She’s the widow of Bernard Gilbert, the second victim. There was a guard on her right after he was iced, so there may be a photo of her in the files and some Time-Habit reports. I want a twenty-four hour tap on her phone, two men in an unmarked car outside her house, and two uniformed men outside her apartment door. She’s got two little girls. If she goes out with the girls, both the buttons stick with them, and I mean close. If she goes out alone, one man on her and one on the kids. Got all that?”

  “Sure, Captain. A tight tail?”

  “But I mean tight. Close enough to touch.”

  “You think Danny Boy’ll try something?”

  “No, I don’t. But I want her and her children covered, around the clock. Can you set it up?”

  “No sweat, Captain. I’ll get on it right away.”

  “Good. Put your first men on at eight tonight. Not before.”

  Fernandez nodded. “Captain …”

  “Yes?”

  “The Luger’s almost ready.”

  “Fine. Any problems?”

  “Nope, not a one.”

  “You spending any money on this?”

  “Money?” Fernandez looked at him incredulously. “What money? Some guys owed me some favors.”

  Delaney nodded. Fernandez opened the hallway door to depart, and there was a man standing there, his arm bent, knuckles raised, about to knock on the Captain’s door.

  “Captain Delaney?” the man asked Fernandez.

  The lieutenant shook his head, jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the Captain, stepped around the newcomer and disappeared.

  “I’m Captain Edward X. Delaney.”

  “My name is William T. Willow, Detective lieutenant. I believe you wanted to consult me.”

  “Oh yes,” Delaney said, rising from his chair. “Please come in, lieutenant, and close the door behind you. Thank you for coming up. Please sit down over there. Sergeant MacDonald tells me you’re the best man in your field.”

  “I agree,” Willow said, with a sweet smile.

  Delaney laughed. “How about a drink?” he asked. “Anything?”

  “You don’t happen to have a glass of sherry, do you, Captain?”

  “Yes, I do. Medium dry. Will that be all right?”

  “Excellent, thank you.”

  The Captain walked over to his liquor cabinet, and while he poured the drink, he inspected the handwriting expert. A queer bird. The skin and frame of a plucked chicken, and clad in a hairy tweed suit so heavy Delaney wondered how the man’s frail shoulders could support it. On his lap was a plaid cap, and his shoes were over-the-ankle boots in a dark brown suede. Argyle socks, wool Tattersall shirt, woven linen tie secured with a horse’s head clasp. Quite a sight.

  But Willow’s eyes were washed blue, lively and alert, and his movements, when he took the glass of sherry from Delaney, were crisp and steady.

  “Your health, sir,” the lieutenant said, raising his glass. He sipped. “Harvey’s,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  “And very good, too. I would have been up sooner, Captain, but I’ve been in court.”

  “That’s all right. No rush about this.”

  “What is it?”

  Delaney searched in his top desk drawer, then handed Willow the photo Thomas Handry had delivered, with the inscription on the back: “With all best wishes. Daniel G. Blank.”

  “What can you tell me about the man who wrote this?”

  Detective lieutenant William T. Willow didn’t even glance at it. Instead, he looked at the Captain with astonishment.

  “Oh dear,” he said, “I’m afraid there’s been a frightful misunderstanding. Captain, I’m a QD man, not a graphologist.”

  Pause.

  “What’s a QD man?” Delaney asked.

  “Questioned Documents. All my work is with forgeries or suspected forgeries, comparing one specimen with another.”

  “I see. And what is a graphologist?”

  “A man who allegedly is able to determine character, personality, and even physical and mental illness from a man’s handwriting.”

  “ ‘Allegedly’,” Delaney repeated. “I gather you don’t agree with graphologists?”

  “Let’s just say I’m an agnostic on the matter,” Willow smiled his sweet smile. “I don’t agree and I don’t disagree.”

  The Captain saw the sherry glass was empty. He rose to refill it, and left the bottle on the little table alongside Willow’s elbow. Then the Captain sat down behind his desk again, regarded the other man gravely.

  “But you’re familiar with the theories and practice of graphology?”

  “Oh my yes, Captain. I read everything on the subject of handwriting analysis, from whatever source, good and bad.”

  Delaney nodded, laced his fingers across his stomach, leaned back in his swivel chair.

  “Lieutenant Willow,” he said dreamily, “I am going to ask a very special favor of you. I am going to ask you to pretend you are a graphologist and not a QD man. I am going to ask you to inspect this specimen of handwriting and analyze it as a graphologist would. What I want is your opinion. I do not want a signed statement from you. You will not be called upon to testify. This is completely unofficial. I just want to know what you think—putting yourself in the place of a graphologist, of course. It will go no further than this room.”

  “Of course,” Willow said promptly. “Delighted.”

  From an inner pocket he whipped out an unusual pair of glasses: prescription spectacles with an additional pair of magnifying glasses hinged to the top edge. The lieutenant shoved on the glasses, flipped down the extra lenses. He held the Daniel Blank inscription so close it was almost touching his nose.

  “Felt-tipped pen,” he said immediately. “Too bad. You lose the nuances. Mmm. Uh-huh. Mmm. Interesting, very interesting. Captain, does this man suffer from constipation?”

  “I have no idea,” Delaney said.

  “Oh, my, look at this,” Willow said, still peering closely at Blank’s handwriting. “Would you believe … Sick, sick, sick. And this … Beautiful capitals, just beautiful.” He looked up at the Captain. “He grew up in a small town in middle America—Ohio, Indiana, Iowa—around there?”

  “Yes.”

  “He’s about forty, or older?”

  “Middle-thirties.”

  “Well … yes, that could be. Palmer Method. They still teach it in some schools. Goodness, look at that. This is interesting.”

  Suddenly he jerked off his glasses, tucked them away, half-rose to his feet to flip the photo of Blank onto Delaney’s desk, then settled back to pour himself another glass of sherry.

  “Schizoid,” he said, beginning to speak rapidly. “On one side, artistic, sensitive, imaginative, gentle, perceptive, outgoing, striving, sympathetic, generous. The capitals are works of art. Flowing. Just blooming. On the other side, lower case now, tight, very cold, perfectly aligned: the mechanical mind, ordered, disciplined, ruthless, without emotion, inhuman, dead. It’s very difficult to reconcile.”

  “Yes,” Delaney said. “Is the man insane?”

  “No. But he’s breaking up.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “His handwriting is breaking up. Even with the felt-tipped pen you can see it. The connections between letters are faint. Between some there are no connections at all. And in his signature, that should be the most fluid and assured of anyone’s handwriting, he’s beginning to waver. He doesn’t know who he is.”

  “Thank you very much, Lieutenant Willow,” Captain Delaney said genially. “Please stay and finish your drink. Tell me more about handwriting analysis—from a graphologist’s point of view, of course. It sounds fascinating.”

  “Oh yes,” the bird-man said, “it is.”

  Later that evening Delaney went into the living room to inspect th
e log. Danny Boy had returned to the White House at 2:03 p.m. At 5:28 p.m., he had called the Princess in the Castle, hung up abruptly after speaking only a few minutes and then, at 5:47 p.m., had taken a cab to the Castle. He was still inside as of that moment, reported by Bulldog Three.

  Delaney went over to the telephone desk.

  “Did you get a tape of Danny Boy’s call to the Castle at five twenty-eight?”

  “Yes, sir. The man on the tap gave it to us over the phone. Spin it?”

  “Please.”

  He listened to Daniel Blank talking to the lisping Valenter. He heard the clicks, hisses, and echo they were feeding onto the tapped line. He smiled when Blank slammed down his phone in the middle of the conversation.

  “Perfect,” Delaney said to no one in particular.

  He had planned his meeting with Monica Gilbert with his usual meticulous attention to detail, even to the extent of deciding to keep on his overcoat. It would make her think he could only stay a moment, he was rushed, working hard to convict her husband’s killer.

  But when he arrived at 7:00 p.m., the children were still awake, but in their nightgowns, and he had to play with them, inspect their Christmas gifts, accept a cup of coffee. The atmosphere was relaxed, warm, pleasant, domestic—all wrong for his purpose. He was glad when Monica packed the girls off to bed.

  Delaney went back to the living room, sat down on the couch, took out the single sheet of paper he had prepared, with the speech he wanted her to deliver.

  She came in, looking at him anxiously.

  “What is it, Edward? You seem—well, tense.”

  “The killer is Daniel Blank. There’s no doubt about it. He killed your husband, and Lombard, Kope, and Feinberg. He’s a psycho, a crazy.”

  “When are you going to arrest him?”

  “I’m not going to arrest him. There’s no evidence I can take into court. He’d walk away a free man an hour after I collared him.”

  “I can’t believe it.”

  “It’s true. We’re watching him, every minute, and maybe we can prevent another killing or catch him in the act. But I can’t take the chance.”