The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  “What’s the problem?”

  “I’m on leave of absence, but I’m still on the Department list. I’ve got to report the license is missing.”

  “Edward, you worry too much.”

  “Yes. I do. But I’ve got to report it.”

  “That means Broughton will learn about it.”

  “Possibly. But if there is another killing, and I think there will be, and Chief Pauley’s boys find the victim’s license is missing—or anything like it—they’ll check back with Lombard’s widow down in Florida. She’ll tell them I asked about the license and she couldn’t find it. Then my ass will be in a sling. Broughton will have me up for withholding evidence.”

  “How do you want to handle it?”

  “I’ve got to check the book, but as I recall, precinct reports of lost or stolen drivers’ licenses are sent to Traffic Department personnel who then forward the report to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles. I’ll tell Dorfman about it and ask him to file the usual form. But Broughton might learn about it from Traffic. If they get a report that Frank Lombard’s license is missing, someone will start screaming.”

  “Not to worry. We have a friend in Traffic.”

  “I thought you might have.”

  “Tell Dorfman to make out the usual form, but to call me before he sends it in. I’ll tell him the man to send it to in Traffic. It will get to the State, but no one will tip Broughton. Does that satisfy you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re playing this very cautiously, Edward.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I guess we are. Edward, tell me…”

  “What?”

  “Are you making any progress at all? Even if it’s something you don’t want to talk about yet?”

  “Yes,” Delaney lied, “I’m making progress.”

  He walked back to his home, head bent, hands deep in overcoat pockets, trundling through the damp, gloomy day. His lie to Thorsen depressed him. It always depressed him when it was necessary to manipulate people. He would do it, but he would not enjoy it.

  Why was it necessary to keep Thorsen’s morale high? Because…because, Delaney decided, the Lombard homicide was more than just an intramural feud between the Broughton forces and the Thorsen-Johnson forces. In fact, he acknowledged, he had accepted their offer, not because he instinctively disliked Broughton and wanted him put down, or had any interest in Departmental politics, but because…because…because…

  He groaned aloud, knowing he was once again at the bone, gnawing. Was it the intellectual challenge? The atavistic excitement of the chase? The belief he was God’s surrogate on earth? Why did he do it! For that universe of harmony and rhythm he had described so glowingly to Thomas Handry? Oh shit! He only knew, mournfully, that the time, mental effort and creative energy spent exploring his own labyrinthine motives might better be spent finding the man who sent a spike smashing into the skull of Frank Lombard.

  He came up to his own stoop, and there was Lieutenant Dorfman ringing his bell. The lieutenant turned as he approached, saw Delaney, grinned, came bouncing down the steps. He caught up Delaney’s hand, shook it enthusiastically.

  “I got it, Captain!” he cried. “Acting Commander for six months. I thank you!”

  “Good, good,” Delaney smiled, gripping Dorfman’s shoulder. “Come in and have a coffee and tell me about it.”

  They sat in the kitchen, and Delaney was amused to note that Dorfman was already assuming the prerogatives of his new rank; he unbuttoned his uniform blouse and sat sprawled, his long, skinny legs thrust out. He would never have sat in such a position in the Captain’s office, but Delaney could understand, and even approve.

  He read the teletype Dorfman had brought over and smiled again.

  “All I can tell you is what I said before: I’m here and I’ll be happy to help you any way I can. Don’t be shy of asking. There’s a lot to learn.”

  “I know that, Captain, and I appreciate anything you can do. You’ve already done plenty recommending me.”

  Delaney looked at him closely. Here it was again: using people. He forced ahead.

  “I was glad to do it,” he said. “In return, there is something you can do for me.”

  “Anything, Captain.”

  “Right now, I am going to ask you for two favors. In the future, I will probably ask for more. I swear to you I will not ask you to do anything that will jeopardize your record or your career. If you decide my word is not sufficient—and believe me, I wouldn’t blame you if you thought that—then I won’t insist. All right?”

  Dorfman straightened in his chair, his expression puzzled at first, then serious. He stared at Delaney a long moment, their eyes locked.

  “Captain, we’ve worked together a long time.”

  “Yes. We have.”

  “I can’t believe you’d ask me to do anything I shouldn’t do.”

  “Thank you.”

  “What is it you want?”

  “First, I want you to file a report with the Traffic Department of a missing driver’s license. I want it clearly stated on the report that I was the one who brought this matter to your attention. Before the report is sent in, I ask you to call Deputy Inspector Thorsen. He will give you the name of the man in the Traffic Department to send the report to. Thorsen has assured me the report will be forwarded to the New York State Department of Motor Vehicles in the usual manner.” Dorfman was bewildered.

  “That’s not much of a favor, Captain. That’s just routine. Is it your license?”

  “No. It’s Frank Lombard’s.”

  Dorfman stared at him again, then slowly began to button up his uniform jacket.

  “Lombard’s?”

  “Yes. Lieutenant, if you want to ask questions, I’ll try to answer them. But please don’t be insulted if I say that in this matter, the less you know, the better.”

  The tall, red-headed man stood, began to pace about the kitchen, hands thrust into his trouser pockets, He counted the walls, didn’t look at Delaney.

  “I’ve been hearing things,” he said. “Rumors.”

  “I imagine you have,” Delaney nodded, knowing there was scarcely a man in the Department, down to the lowliest probationary patrolman, who wasn’t dimly aware of the feuds and schisms amongst high-level commanders. “You don’t want to get involved in it, do you?”

  Dorfman stopped and gripped the top rail of a kitchen chair with reddish hands, knuckles bulging. Now he looked directly at Delaney.

  “No, Captain, I don’t want to get involved at all.”

  “What I’ve asked so far is pure routine, is it not? I’m asking you to report a missing driver’s license. That’s all.”

  “All right. I’ll call Thorsen, get the name of the man at the Traffic Department, and file a report. Do you know the license number?”

  “No.”

  “What is the second favor you want, Captain?”

  There was something in his voice, something sad. The Captain knew Dorfman would do as he, Delaney, requested. But somehow, subtly, their relationship had changed. Dorfman would pay his debt as long as he was not compromised. But once he paid what he felt was enough, they would no longer be mentor and student, captain and lieutenant. They would no longer be friends. They would be professional associates, cautious, pleasant but reserved, watchful. They would be rivals.

  Delaney had, he acknowledged, already destroyed a cordial relationship. In some small way he had corrupted faith and trust. Now, to Dorfman, he was just another guy who wanted a favor. But there was no help for it, no turning back.

  “The second favor,” Delaney said, accenting the word “favor” somewhat ironically, “is that I would appreciate it, lieutenant—” and again he deliberately accented the word “lieutenant”—“if you would keep me personally informed of any assaults or homicides in the Two-five-one Precinct in which the circumstances and particularly the wound are similar to the Lombard homicide.”

  “That’s all?” Dorfman as
ked, and now the irony was his.

  “Yes.”

  “All right, Captain,” Dorfman nodded. He hooked his collar, tugged his jacket straight. The stains and crumbs were missing now. He was Acting Commander of the 251st Precinct.

  He strode to the door without another word. Then, hand on the knob, he paused, turned to face Delaney, and seemed to soften.

  “Captain,” he said, “in case you’re interested, I already have orders to report any assault or homicide like that to Chief Pauley.”

  “Of course,” Delaney nodded. “He couldn’t do anything else. Report to him first.”

  “Then to you?”

  “Then to me. Please.”

  Dorfman nodded, and was gone.

  Delaney sat without moving. Then he held out his right hand. It was trembling, a bit. It had not gone as well as he had hoped or as badly as he had feared. But, he assured himself again, it had to be done—and perhaps it would have happened in the ordinary course of events. Dorfman was a natural worshipper, almost a hanger-on, and if he was to make anything of himself, eventually he would have to be cast adrift, sink or swim. And Delaney laughed ruefully at his own rationalizing. There was, he admitted disgustedly, too goddamn much Hamlet in him.

  It was almost time to leave for the hospital. He consulted his little pocket notebook and checked off the items Mary had taken care of. He had already donned his overcoat and hard Homburg, his hand reaching for the outside doorknob, when the phone rang. He picked up the extension in the hall and said, “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”

  “Captain, this is Christopher Langley.”

  “Mr. Langley. Good to hear from you. How are you, sir?”

  “Very well, and you?”

  “Fine. I’ve been intending to call, but I didn’t want you to feel I was pressuring you. So I thought it best to say nothing. You understand?”

  There was silence for a moment, then Langley said, “I think I do understand. Gee, this is great! But it’s been over a week since we met. Could we have lunch today, Captain? There’s something I’d like your advice on.”

  “Oh?” Delaney said. “I’m afraid I can’t make lunch. My wife is in the hospital, and I’m just leaving to visit her.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Captain. Nothing serious, I hope?”

  “Well…we don’t know. But it will take time. Listen, Mr. Langley, what you wanted to talk to me about—is it important?”

  “It might be, Captain,” the thin, flutey voice came back, excited now. “It’s not anything final, but it’s a beginning. That’s why—”

  “Yes, yes,” Delaney interrupted. “Mr. Langley, would it be possible for you to meet me at the hospital? I do want to see you. Unfortunately, I can’t have lunch with you, but we’ll have a chance to talk and discuss your problem.”

  “Excellent!” Christopher Langley chortled, and Delaney knew he was enjoying this cloak-and-dagger conversation. “I’ll be glad to meet you there. I hope you may be able to help me. At least it will give me an opportunity to meet your wife.” Delaney gave him the address and room number, and then rang off. The Captain stood a moment, his hand still on the dead phone, and hoped, not for the first time, that he had acted correctly in entrusting the important job of weapon identification to this elderly dandy. He started to analyze his motives for enlisting Langley’s aid: the man’s expertise; the need to recruit a staff, however amateur; Langley’s plea for “important” work; Delaney’s need—

  He snorted with disgust at his own maunderings. He wanted to move on the Lombard homicide, and it seemed to him he had spent an unconscionable amount of time interrogating himself, probing his own motives, as if he might be guilty of—of what? Dereliction of duty? He resolved to be done, for this day at least, with such futile searchings. What was necessary was to do.

  Barbara was seated in a wheelchair at the window, and she turned her head to give him a dazzling smile when he entered. But he had come to dread that appearance of roseate good health—the bright eyes and flushed cheeks—knowing what it masked. He crossed the room swiftly, smiling, kissed her cheek, and presented her with what might have been the biggest, reddest Delicious apple ever grown.

  “An apple for the teacher,” he said.

  “What did I ever teach you?” she laughed, touching his lips. “I’d tell you, but I don’t want to get you unnecessarily excited.”

  She laughed again and turned the enormous apple in her slim fingers, stroking it. “It’s beautiful.”

  “But probably mealy as hell. The big ones usually are.”

  “Maybe I won’t eat it,” she said faintly. “Maybe I’ll just keep it next to my bed and look at it.”

  He was concerned. “Well…yes,” he said finally. “Why not? Listen, how are you? I know you must be bored with me asking that, but you know I must ask it.”

  “Of course.” She reached out to put a hand on his. “They started the new injections this morning. Two days before they know.” She was comforting him.

  He nodded miserably. “Is everything all right?” he asked anxiously. “I mean the food? The nurses?”

  “Everything is fine.”

  “I asked for Temples at that stand on First Avenue. They expect them next week. I’ll bring them over then.”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It is important,” he said fiercely. “You like Temples, you’ll get Temples.”

  “All right, Edward,” she smiled, patting his hand. “It’s important, and I’ll get Temples.”

  Then she was gone. It had happened several times recently, and it frightened him. Her body seemed to stiffen, her eyes took on an unfocused stare. She ceased speaking but her lips moved, pouting and drawing apart, kissing, over and over, like a babe suckling, and with the same soft, smacking sound. “Listen,” he said hurriedly, “when Eddie was here last week, I thought he looked thin. Didn’t you think he looked thin?”

  “Honey Bunch,” she said.

  “What?” he asked, not understanding and wanting to weep. “My Honey Bunch books,” she repeated patiently, still looking somewhere. “What happened to them?”

  “Oh,” he said. “Your Honey Bunch books. Don’t you remember? When Liza told us she was pregnant, we packed up all the children’s books and sent them off to her.”

  “Maybe she’ll send them back,” she murmured, turning her head to look at him with blind eyes. “My Honey Bunch books.”

  “I’ll get some for you.”

  “I don’t want new ones. I want the old ones.”

  “I know, I know,” he said desperately. “The old ones with the red covers and the drawings. I’ll get them for you, Barbara. Barbara? Barbara?”

  Slowly the focus of her eyes shortened. She came back. He saw it happen. Then she was looking at him.

  “Edward?”

  “Yes,” he said, “I’m here.”

  She smiled, gripped his hand. “Edward,” she repeated.

  “Listen, Barbara, there is someone coming here to meet me. Christopher Langley. He’s an ex-curator of the Metropolitan. I told you about him.”

  “Oh, yes,” she nodded. “You told me. He’s trying to identify the weapon in the Lombard case.”

  “Exactly!” he cried delightedly, and leaned forward to kiss her cheek.

  “What was that for?” she laughed.

  “For being you.”

  “Edward, when Eddie was here last week, didn’t you think he looked a little thin?”

  “Yes,” he nodded. “I thought he looked a little thin.”

  He lurched his chair closer, clasping her hands, and they talked of little things: the drapes in the study, whether or not to draw out accumulated dividends on his insurance policy to help pay hospital costs, what he had for breakfast, a rude attendant in the X-ray lab, a nurse who had unaccountably broken into tears while taking Barbara’s temperature. He told her about Dorfman’s promotion. She told him about a pigeon that came to her windowsill every morning at the same time.

  They spoke in lo
w, droning voices, not really hearing each other, but gripping hands and singing a lovely duet.

  They came out of it, interrupted by a timid but persistent rapping on the hospital room door. Delaney turned from the waist. “Come in,” he called.

  And into the room came dashing the dapper Christopher Langley, beaming. And behind him, like a battle-ship plowing into the wake of a saucy corvette, came the massive Widow Zimmerman, also beaming. Both visitors carried parcels: brown paper bags of curious shape.

  Delaney sprang to his feet. He shook Langley’s little hand and bowed to the Widow. He introduced his wife to both. Barbara brightened immediately. She liked people, and she particularly liked people who knew what they were and could live with it.

  There was talk, laughter, confusion. Barbara insisted on being moved back to the bed, knowing Edward would want to talk to Langley privately. The Widow Zimmerman planted her monumental butt in a chair alongside the bed and opened her brown paper bag. Gefilte fish! And homemade at that. The two men stood by, nodding and smiling, as the Widow expounded on the nutritive and therapeutic qualities of gefilte fish.

  Within moments the good Widow had leaned forward over the bed, grasped one of Barbara’s hands in her own meaty fists, and the two women were deep in a whispered discussion of such physical intimacy that the men hastily withdrew to a corner of the hospital room, pulled up chairs, leaned to each other.

  “First of all, Captain,” the little man said, “let me tell you immediately that I have not identified the weapon that killed Frank Lombard. I went through my books, I visited museums, and I saw several weapons—antique weapons—that could have made that skull puncture. But I agree with you: it was a modern weapon or tool. Gosh, I thought about it! Then, last week, I was walking down my street, and a Con Edison crew was tearing up the pavement. To lay a new cable, I suppose. They do it all the time. Anyway, they had a trench dug. There was a man in the trench, a huge black, and even in this weather he was stripped to the waist. A magnificent torso. Heroic. But Captain. An ordinary pick. A wooden handle as long as a woodsman’s ax, and then a steel head with a pick on each side, tapering to a point. Much too large to be the Lombard weapon, of course. And I remembered you felt the killer carried it concealed. Extremely difficult to carry a concealed pick.”