There was a moment’s silence.
“Well…no sir. I believe Mr. Langley has an unlisted number.”
“Could you tell me what it is? I’m a personal friend.”
“I’m sorry, sir. We cannot reveal that information.”
He was tempted to say, “This is Captain Edward X. Delaney, New York Police Department, and this is official business.” Or, he could easily get the number from the phone company, as an official police inquiry. But then he thought better of it. The fewer people who knew of his activities, the better.
“My name is Edward Delaney,” he said. “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to call Mr. Langley at the number you have, tell him I called, and if he wishes to contact me, he can reach me at this number.” He then gave her the phone number of the 251st Precinct.
“Yes sir,” she said. “I can do that.”
“Thank you.”
He hung up, wondering what percentage of his waking hours was spent on the telephone, trying to complete a call, or waiting for a call. He sat patiently, hoping Langley was in. He was: Delaney’s desk phone rang within five minutes.
“Delaney!” Christopher Langley cried in his remarkably boyish voice (the man was pushing 70). “Gosh, I asked for Lieutenant Delaney and your operator said it was Captain Delaney now. Congratulations! When did that happen?”
“Oh, a few years ago. How are you, sir?”
“Physically I’m fine but, gee, I’m bored.”
“I heard you had retired.”
“Had to do it, you know. Give the young men a chance—eh? The first year I dabbled around with silly things. I’ve become a marvelous gourmet cook. But my gosh, how many Caneton a l'Orange can you make? Now I’m bored, bored, bored. That’s why I was so delighted to hear from you.”
“Well, I need your help, sir, and was wondering if you could spare me a few hours?”
“As long as you like, dear boy, as long as you like. Is it a big caper?”
Delaney laughed, knowing Langley’s fondness for detective fiction.
“Yes sir. A very big caper. The biggest. Murder most foul.”
“Oh gosh,” Langley gasped. “That’s marvelous! Captain, can you join me for dinner tonight? Then afterwards we can have brandy and talk and you can tell me all about it and how I can help.”
“Oh I couldn’t put you to that—”
“No trouble at all!” Langley cried. “Gee, it’ll be wonderful seeing you again, and I can demonstrate my culinary skills for you.”
“Well…” Delaney said, thinking of his evening visit to Barbara, “it will have to be a little later. Is nine o’clock too late?”
“Not at all, not at all! I much prefer dining at a late hour. As soon as I hang up, I’ll dash out and do some shopping.” He gave Delaney his home address.
“Fine,” the Captain said. “See you at nine, sir.”
“Gosh, this is keen!” Langley said. “We’ll have frogs’ legs sauteed in butter and garlic, petite pois with just a hint of bacon and onion, and gratin de pommes de terre aux anchois. And for dessert, perhaps a creme plombieres pralinee. How does that sound to you?”
“Fine,” Delaney repeated faintly. “Just fine.”
He hung up. Oh God, he thought, there goes my diet, and wondered what happened when sauteed frogs’ legs met broiled kidney.
A young woman was walking toward Central Park, between Madison and Fifth Avenues, pushing a baby carriage. Suddenly a wooden rod, about nine inches long, was projecting from her breast. She slumped to her knees, falling forward, and only the fast scramble of a passerby prevented the baby carriage from bouncing into Fifth Avenue traffic.
Delaney, who was then a detective lieutenant working out of Homicide East (as it was then called) arrived on the scene shortly after the woman died. He joined the circle of patrolmen and ambulance attendants staring down incredulously at the woman with the wooden spike driven through her breast, like some modern vampire.
Within an hour they had the missile identified as a quarrel from a crossbow. Delaney went up to the Arms and Armor Department of the Metropolitan Museum of Art, seeking to learn more about crossbows, their operation, range, and velocity of the bolts. That was how he met Christopher Langley.
From the information supplied by the assistant curator, Delaney was able to solve the case, to his satisfaction at least, but it was never prosecuted. The boy responsible, who had shot the bolt at a stranger from a townhouse window across the street, was the son of a wealthy family. They got him out of the country and into a school in Switzerland. He had never returned to the United States. The District Attorney did not feel Delaney’s circumstantial evidence was sufficiently strong to warrant extradition proceedings. The case was still carried as open.
But Delaney had never forgotten Christopher Langley’s enthusiastic cooperation, and his name was added to the detective’s “expert file.” Delaney frequently recalled a special memory of the skinny little man. Langley was showing him through a Museum gallery, deserted except for a grinning guard who evidently knew what to expect.
Suddenly the assistant curator plucked a two-handed sword from the wall, a XVI Century German sword as long as he was tall, and fell into a fighting stance. The blade whirled about his head in circles of flashing steel. He chopped, slashed, parried, thrust.
“That’s how they did it,” he said calmly, and handed the long sword to Delaney.
The detective took it, and it almost clattered to the floor. Delaney estimated its weight as thirty pounds. The wiry Christopher Langley had spun it like a feather.
When he opened the door to his apartment on the fifth floor of a converted brownstone on East 89th Street, he was exactly as Delaney remembered him. In another age he would have been called a fop or dandy. Now he was a well-preserved, alert, exquisitely dressed 70-year-old bachelor with the complexion of a maiden and a small yellow daisy in the lapel of his grey flannel Norfolk jacket.
“Captain!” he said with pleasure, holding out both hands. “Gosh, this is nice!”
It was a small, comfortable apartment the ex-curator had retired to. He occupied the entire top floor: living room, bedroom, bath, and a remarkably large kitchen. There was a glass skylight over the living room which, Delaney was glad to see, had been fitted with a guard of iron bars.
Langley took his hat and overcoat and hung them away.
“Not in uniform tonight, Captain?”
“No. As a matter of fact, I am not on active duty. I’m on leave of absence.”
“Oh?” Langley asked curiously. “For long?”
“I don’t know.”
“Well…do sit down. There—that’s a comfortable chair. Now what can I bring you? Cocktail? Highball?”
“Oh, I don’t—”
“I have a new Italian aperitif I’m trying for the first time. It’s quite dry. Very good on the rocks with a twist of lemon.”
“Sounds fine. Are you having one?”
“Of course. Just take me a minute.”
Langley bustled into the kitchen, and the Captain looked around. The walls of the living room were almost solid bookcases with deep, high shelves to accommodate volumes on antique weaponry, most of them out-size “art books” illustrated with color plates.
Only two actual weapons were on display: an Italian arquebus of the 17th century with exquisitely detailed silver-chasing, and an African warclub. The head was intricately carved stone. Delaney rose to his feet and went over to inspect it. He was turning it in his hands when Langley came back with their drinks.
“Mongo tribe,” he said. “The Congo. A ceremonial ax never used in combat. The balance is bad but I like the carving.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“Isn’t it? Dinner in about ten minutes. Meanwhile, let’s relax. Would you like a cigarette?”
“No, thank you.”
“Good. Smoking dulls the palate. Do you know what the secret of good French cooking is?”
“What?”
“A clear palate
and butter. Not oil, but butter. The richest, creamiest butter you can find.”
Delaney’s heart sank. The old man caught his look of dismay and laughed.
“Don’t worry, Captain. I’ve never believed you had to eat a lot of one dish to enjoy it. Small portions and several dishes—that’s best.”
He was as good as his word; the portions were small. But Delaney decided it was one of the best dinners he had ever eaten and told the host so. Langley beamed with pleasure.
“A little more dessert? There is more, you know.”
“Not for me. But I’ll have another cup of coffee, if you have it.”
“Of course.”
They had dined at a plain oak table covered with a black burlap cloth, a table, Delaney was sure, doubled as Langley’s desk. Now they both pushed back far enough to cross their legs, have a cigarette, drink coffee, sip the strong Portuguese brandy Langley had served.
“About this—” Delaney had started, but just then the apartment doorbell rang, in the familiar “shave and a haircut, two bits” rhythm, and the Captain was surprised to see Langley’s face go white.
“Oh gracious,” the old man whispered. “It’s her again. The Widow Zimmerman! She lives right below me.”
He bounced to his feet, trotted across the room, looked through the peephole, then unlocked and opened the door.
“Ahh,” he said. “Good evening, Mrs. Zimmerman.”
Delaney had a clear view of her from where he sat. She was perhaps 60, taller than Langley by about six inches, certainly heavier than he by fifty pounds. She balanced a beehive of teased brassy hair above her plump face, and her bare arms looked like something you might see on a butcher’s block. She was so heavily girdled that her body seemed hewn from a single chunk of wood; when she walked, her legs appeared to move only from the knees down.
“Oh, I do hope I’m not disturbing you,” she simpered, looking at the Captain boldly over Langley’s shoulder. “I know you’ve got company. I heard you go out to shop and then come back. I heard your bell ring and your guest arrive. One of your fantastic foreign dinners, I’m sure. Now I just happened to bake a fresh prune strudel today, and I thought you and your guest might enjoy a nice piece for dessert, and here it is.”
She held out the napkin-covered dish to Langley; he took it with the tips of his fingers.
“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Zimmerman. Won’t you come—”
“Oh, I won’t interrupt. I wouldn’t think of it.”
She waited expectantly, but Langley did not repeat his invitation.
“I’ll just run along,” the Widow Zimmerman said, pouting at Delaney.
“Thank you for the strudel.”
“My pleasure. Enjoy.”
She gave him a little-girl smile. He closed the door firmly behind her, bolted and chained it, then put his ear to the panel and listened as her steps receded down the stairs. He came back to the table and whispered to Delaney…
“A dreadful woman! Continually bringing me food. I’ve asked her not to, but she does. I’m perfectly capable of cooking for myself. Been doing it for fifty years. And the food she brings! Strudel and chopped liver and stuffed derma and pickled herring. Gracious! I can’t throw it away because she might see it in the garbage cans and be insulted. So I have to wrap it like a gift package and carry it three or four blocks away and dump it into a litter basket. She’s such a problem.”
“I think she’s after you,” Delaney said solemnly.
“Oh my!” Christopher Langley said, blushing. “Her husband—her late husband—was such a nice, quiet man. A retired furrier. Well, let me put this in the kitchen, and then please go on with what you were saying.”
“Did you read in the papers about the murder of Frank Lombard?” the Captain asked when Langley had rejoined him.
“Goodness, I certainly did. Everything I could find. A fascinating case. You know, whenever I read about a real-life murder or assault, I always look for a description of the weapon. After all, that was my life for so many years, and I’m still interested. But in all the accounts of the Lombard killing, the description of the weapon was very vague. Hasn’t it been identified yet?”
“No. It hasn’t. That’s why I’m here. To ask your help.”
“And as you know, I’ll be delighted to give you every assistance I can, dear boy.”
Delaney held up his hand like a traffic cop.
“Just a minute, sir. I want to be honest with you. As I told you, I am not on active duty. I am on leave of absence. I am not part of the official investigation into the death of Frank Lombard.”
Christopher Langley looked at him narrowly a moment, then sat back and began to drum his dainty fingers against the table top.
“Then what is your interest in the Lombard case?”
“I am conducting a—a private investigation into the homicide.”
“I see. Can you tell me more?”
“I would prefer not to.”
“May I ask the purpose of this—ah—private investigation?”
“The main purpose is to find the killer of Frank Lombard as quickly as possible.”
Langley stared at him a long, additional moment, then let off his finger drumming and slapped the table top with an open palm.
“All right,” he said briskly. “Was it a striking weapon or a swinging weapon? That is: do you visualize it as a knife,, a dagger, a dirk, a poniard—something of that sort—or was it a sword, pole, battleax, club, mace—something of that sort?”
“I’d say the percentages would be in favor of the swinging weapon.”
“The percentages!” Langley laughed. “I had forgotten you and your percentages. This is a business to you, isn’t it?”
“Yes. It’s a business. And sometimes the only things you have to work with are the percentages. But what you said about a striking weapon—a knife or dagger—surely a blade couldn’t penetrate a man’s skull?”
“It could. And has. If blade and handle are heavy enough. The Marines’ combat knife in World War Two could split a man’s skull. But most blades would glance off, causing only superficial wounds. Besides, Lombard was struck on the head from behind, was he not?”
“That’s correct.”
“Then that would probably rule out a striking weapon. An assailant using a blade and coming from behind would almost certainly go in between the shoulder blades, into the ribs, sever the spine, or try for the kidneys.”
Delaney nodded, marveling at the gusto with which this impish man ticked off these points on his fingers, an enthusiasm made all the more incredible by his age, diminutive physique, elegant appearance.
“All right,” Langley went on, “let’s assume a swinging weapon. One-hand or two-hand?”
“I’d guess one-hand. I think the killer approached Lombard from the front. Then, as he passed, he turned and struck him down. During the approach the weapon could have been concealed beneath a coat on the killer’s arm or in a newspaper folded under his arm.”
“Yes, that certainly rules out a halberd! You’re talking about something about the size of a hatchet?”
“About that.”
“Captain, do you believe it was an antique weapon?”
“I doubt that very much. Once again, the percentages are against it. In my lifetime I’ve investigated only two homicides in which antique weapons were used. One was the crossbow case in which you were involved. The other was a death caused by a ball fired from an antique duelling pistol.”
“Then we’ll assume a modern weapon?”
“Yes.”
“Or a modern tool. You must realize that many modern tools have evolved from antique weapons. The reverse is also true, of course. During hand-to-hand combat in Korea and Vietnam, there were several cases of American soldiers using their Entrenching tool, shovel, or Entrenching tool, pickmattock, as a weapon both for offense and defense. Now let’s get to the wound itself. Was it a crushing, cutting, or piercing blow?”
“Piercing. It was a pen
etration, about three to four inches long.”
“Oh my, that is interesting! And what was the shape of the penetration?”
“Here I’m going to get a little vague,” Delaney warned. “The official autopsy of the examining surgeon states that the outside wound was roughly circular in shape, about one inch in diameter. The penetration dwindled rapidly to a sharp point, the entire penetration being round and, as I said, about three or four inches deep.”
“Round?” Langley cried, and the Captain was surprised at the little man’s expression.
“Yes, round,” he repeated. “Why—is anything wrong?”
“Is the surgeon certain of this? The roundness, I mean?”
“No, he is not. But the wound was of such a nature that precise measurements and analysis were impossible. The surgeon had a feeling—just a guess on his part—that the spike that penetrated was triangular or square, and that the weapon became stuck in the wound, or the victim in falling forward, wrenched the weapon out of the killer’s hand, and that the killer then had to twist the weapon back and forth to free it. And this twisting motion, with a square or triangular spike, would result in—”
“Ah-ha!” Langley shouted, slapping his thigh. “That’s exactly what happened! And the surgeon believes the spike could have been triangular or square?”
“Believes it could have been—yes.”
“Was” Langley said definitely. “It was. Believe me, Captain. Do you know how many weapons there are with tapering round spikes that could cause the kind of wound you describe? I could name them on the fingers of one hand. You will find round spikes on the warclubs of certain Northwest Coast Indian tribes. There is a Tlingit warclub with a jade head that tapers to a point. It is not perfectly round, however. Thompson Indians used a warclub with a head of wood that was round and tapered: a perfect cone. The Tsimshian Indians used horn and bone, again round and tapered. Eskimo tribes used clubs with spikes of bone or narwhale or walrus tusks. Do you understand the significance of what I am saying, Captain?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“The materials used in weapons that had a cone spike were almost always natural materials that tapered naturally—such as teeth or tusks—or were soft materials, such as wood, that could be tapered to a cone shape easily. But now let’s move on to iron and steel. Early metal weapons were made by armorers and blacksmiths working with a hammer on a hot slug held on an anvil. It was infinitely easier and faster to fashion a flat spike, a triangular spike, or a square spike, than a perfect cone that tapered to a sharp point. I can’t recall a single halberd, partison or couteaux de breche in the Metropolitan that has a round spike. Or any war hammer or war hatchet. I seem to remember a mace in the Rotterdam museum that had a round spike, but I’d have to look it up. In any event, early weapons almost invariably were fashioned with flat sides, usually triangular or square, or even hexagonal. A perfectly proportioned round spike was simply too difficult to make. And even after dies and stamping of iron and steel came into existence, the same held true. It is cheaper, faster, and easier to make blades and spikes with flat sides than round ones that taper to a point. I think your surgeon’s ‘guesses’ are correct. Using your famous ‘percentages.’”
The 1st Deadly Sin Page 19
