The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  For “Mr. Inside,” the Captain requisitioned Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship, the man who had handled the two original beefs on Daniel Blank. Working together closely, Delaney and Blankenship transferred the command post of Operation Lombard from the 251st Precinct house to the living room of Delaney’s home, next door. It wasn’t as spacious as they would have liked, but it had its advantages; the communications men could run wires out the window, up to Delaney’s roof, then across to tie in with the antennae on the precinct house roof.

  Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald, “Pops,” was Delaney’s choice to head up the research squad, and MacDonald was happy. He got as much pleasure from an afternoon of sifting through dusty documents as another man might get in an Eighth Avenue massage parlor. Within 24 hours his men had compiled a growing dossier on Daniel G. Blank, taking him apart, piece by piece.

  Captain Delaney appreciated the unpaid labors of his amateurs, but he couldn’t deny the advantages and privileges of being on active duty, in official command, with all the resources of the Department behind him, and a promise of unlimited men, equipment, funds.

  Item: A tap was put on the home telephone of Daniel Blank. It was installed in the central telephone office servicing his number.

  Item: The next day’s call to Charles Lipsky had resulted in the time of departure and license number of a cab picking up Blank’s dark-haired girl friend at his apartment house. Delaney told Blankenship what he wanted. Within three hours the license number had been traced, the fleet identified, and a dick was waiting in the garage for the driver to return. His trip sheet was checked, and the Captain had the address where the cab had dropped her off. One of Fernandez’ boys went over to check it; it turned out to be a townhouse on East End Avenue. After consultation with the lieutenant, Delaney decided to establish surveillance: one plainclothesman around-the-clock. Fernandez suggested detailing a two-man team to comb the neighborhood, to learn what they could about that house.

  “It’s an expensive section,” Delaney said thoughtfully. “Lots of VIP’s around there. Tell them to walk softly.”

  “Sure, Captain.”

  “And lots of servants. You got a good-looking black who could cuddle up to some of the maids and cooks on the street?”

  “Just the man!” Fernandez said triumphantly. “A big, handsome stud. He don’ walk, he glides. And smart as a whip. We call him ‘Mr. Clean.’”

  “Sounds good,” the Captain nodded. “Turn him loose and see what he can come up with.”

  He then put on his civilian clothes, went over to Blank’s apartment house to slip Lipsky his twenty dollars. The doorman thanked him gratefully.

  Item: An hour later, Blankenship handed him the trace on Charles Lipsky. As Delaney had suspected, the man had a sheet. As a matter of fact, he was on probation, having been found guilty of committing a public nuisance, in that he did “with deliberate and malicious intent,” urinate on the hood of a parked Bentley on East 59th Street.

  Item: Christopher Langley called to report he had completed a list of all retail outlets of the West German ice ax in the U.S. With his new authority, Delaney was able to dispatch a squad car to go up to Langley’s, pick up the list, bring it back to the command post. The list was assigned to one of Detective sergeant MacDonald’s research men and, on the phone, he struck gold with his first call. Daniel G. Blank had purchased such an ax five years ago from Alpine Haven, a mail order house in Stamford, Conn., that specialized in mountaineering gear. A man was immediately sent to Stamford to bring back a photostatic copy of the sales check made out to Daniel G. Blank.

  Item: Fernandez’ men, particularly “Mr. Clean,” made progress on that East End Avenue townhouse. At least, they now had the names of the residents: Celia Montfort, Blank’s dark, thin girl friend; her young brother Anthony; a houseman named Valenter; and a middle-aged housekeeper. The names were turned over to MacDonald; the professor set up a separate staff to check them out.

  During these days and nights of frantic activity, in the week before Christmas, Captain Delaney took time out to perform several personal chores. He gave Mary her Christmas gift early and, in addition, two weeks’ vacation. Then he brought in an old uniformed patrolman, on limited duty, waiting for retirement, and told him to buy a 20-cup coffee urn and keep it going 24 hours a day in the kitchen; to keep the refrigerator filled with beer, cold cuts, cheese; and have enough bread and rolls on hand so anyone in Operation Lombard coming off a cold night’s watch, or just stopping by during the day to report, would be assured of a sandwich and a drink.

  He ordered folding cots, pillows and blankets brought in, and they were set up in the living room, hallway, kitchen, dining room—any place except in his study. They were in use almost constantly. Men who lived out on Long Island or up in Westchester sometimes preferred to sleep in, rather than make the long trip home, eat, sleep a few hours, turn around and come right back again.

  He also found time to call his amateurs, wish them a Merry Christmas, thank them, for their help and support and tell them as gently as he could, that their efforts were no longer needed. He assured them their aid had been of invaluable assistance in developing a “very promising lead.”

  He did this on the phone to Christopher Langley and Calvin Case. He took Monica Gilbert to lunch and told her as much as he felt she should know: that partly through her efforts, he had a good chance to nail the killer but, because of the press of work, he wouldn’t be able to call her or see her as often as he’d like. She was understanding and sympathetic.

  “But take care of yourself,” she entreated. “You look so tired.”

  “I feel great,” he protested. “Sleep like a baby.”

  “How many hours?”

  “Well…as much as I can.”

  “And you have regular, nourishing meals, I’m sure,” she said sardonically.

  He laughed. “I’m not starving,” he assured her. “With luck, this may be over soon. One way or another. Are you still visiting Barbara?”

  “Almost every day. You know, we’re so dissimilar, but we have so much in common.”

  “Do you? That’s good. I feel so guilty about Barbara. I dash in and dash out. Just stay long enough to say hello. But she’s been through this before. She’s a cop’s wife.”

  “Yes. She told me.”

  Her sad voice gave him a sudden, vague ache, of something he should have done but did not do. But he couldn’t think about it now.

  “Thank you for visiting Barbara and liking her,” he said. “Did I tell you we’re now grandparents?”

  “Barbara did. Mazeltov.”

  “Thank you. An ugly little boy.”

  “Barbara told me,” she repeated. “But don’t worry; within six months he’ll be a beautiful little boy.”

  “Sure.”

  “Did you send a gift?”

  “Well…I really didn’t have time. But I did talk to Liza and her husband on the phone.”

  “It’s all right. Barbara sent things. I picked them out for her and had them sent.”

  “That was very kind of you.” He rubbed his chin, felt the bristle, realized he had neglected to shave that morning. That was no good. He had to present the image of a well-groomed, crisply uniformed, confident commander to his men. It was important.

  “Edward,” she said, in a low voice, with real concern, “are you all right?”

  “Of course I’m all right,” he said stonily. “I’ve been through things like this before.”

  “Please don’t be angry with me.”

  “I’m not angry. Monica. I’m all right. I swear it. I could be sleeping more and eating better, but it’s not going to kill me.

  “You seem so—so wound up. This is important to you, isn’t it?”

  “Important? That I nail this guy? Of course it’s important to me. Isn’t it to you? He killed your husband.”

  She flinched at his brutality. “Yes,” she said faintly, “it’s important to me. But I don’t like what it’s doing
to you.”

  He wouldn’t think of what she had said, or what she had meant. First things first.

  “I’ve got to get back,” he said, and signaled for a check.

  During that wild week he found time for two more personal jobs. Still not certain in his mind why he was doing it, he selected the business card of a certain J. David McCann, representative of something called the Universal Credit Union. Wearing his stiff Homburg and floppy civilian overcoat, he walked into the effete, scented showroom of the Erotica on Madison Avenue and asked to speak to Mr. or Mrs. Morton, hoping neither would recognize him as the former commander of the precinct in which they lived and worked.

  He spoke to both in their backroom office. Neither glommed him; he realized that except for members of business associations, VIP’s, community groups and social activists, the average New Yorker hadn’t the slightest idea of the name or appearance of the man who commanded the forces of law and order in his precinct. An ego-deflating thought.

  Delaney took off his hat, bowed, presented his phony business card, did everything but tug his forelock.

  “I’m not selling anything,” he said ingratiatingly. “Just a routine credit investigation. Mr. Daniel G. Blank has applied for a loan and given us your names as references. We just want to make sure you actually do know him.”

  Flo looked at Sam. Sam looked at Flo.

  “Of course we know him,” Sam said, almost angrily. “A very good friend.”

  “Known him for years,” Flo affirmed. “Lives in the same apartment house we do.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Delaney nodded. “A man of good character, you’d say? Dependable? Honest? Trustworthy?”

  “A Boy Scout,” Sam assured him. “What the hell’s this all about?”

  “You mentioned a loan,” Flo said. “What kind of a loan? How big?”

  “Well…I really shouldn’t reveal these details,” Delaney said in soft confidential tones, “but Mr. Blank has applied for a rather large mortgage covering the purchase of a townhouse on East End Avenue.”

  The Mortons looked at each other in astonishment. Then to Delaney’s interest, they broke into pleased smiles.

  “Celia’s house!” Sam shouted, smacking his thighs. “He’s buying her place!”

  “It’s on!” Flo screamed, hugging her arms. “They’re really getting together!”

  Captain Delaney nodded at both, snatched his business card back from Sam’s fingers, replaced his Homburg, started from the office.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” Sam called. “You don’t mind if we tell him you were here?”

  “That you were checking up?” Flo asked. “You don’t mind if we kid him about it?”

  “Of course not,” Captain Delaney smiled. “Please do.”

  On the second call he wore the same clothes, used the same business card. But this time he had to sit on his butt in an overheated outer office for almost a half-hour before he was allowed to see Mr. Rene Horvath, Personnel Director of the Javis-Bircham Corp. Eventually he was ushered into the inner sanctum where Mr. Horvath inspected the Captain’s clothing with some distaste. As well he might; he himself was wearing a black raw silk suit, a red gingham plaid shirt with stiff white collar and cuffs, a black knitted tie. What Delaney liked most, he decided, were the black crinkle-patent leather moccasins with bright copper pennies inserted into openings on the top flaps. Exquisite.

  Delaney went through the same routine he used with the Mortons, varying it to leave out any mention of a mortgage on a townhouse, saying only that Mr. Daniel G. Blank had applied for a loan, and that he, Mr. J. David McCann—“My card, sir”—and the Universal Credit Union were simply interested in verifying that Mr. Blank was indeed, as he claimed to be, employed by Javis-Bircham Corp.

  “He is,” the elegant Mr. Horvath said, handing back the soiled business card with a look that suggested it might be a carrier of VD. “Mr. Daniel Blank is presently employed by this company.”

  “In a responsible capacity?”

  “Very responsible.”

  “I suppose you’d object to giving me a rough idea of Mr. Blank’s annual income?”

  “You suppose correctly.”

  “Mr. Horvath, I assure you that anything you tell me will be held in strictest confidence. Would you say that Mr. Blank is honest, dependable, and trustworthy?”

  Horvath’s pinched face closed up even more. “Mr. McClosky—”

  “McCann.”

  “Mr. McCann, all J-B executives are honest, dependable and trustworthy.”

  Delaney nodded, replaced the Homburg on his big head. “Thank you for your time, sir. I certainly do appreciate it. Just doing my job—I hope you realize that.”

  “Naturally.”

  Delaney turned away, but suddenly a squid hand was on his arm, gripping limply.

  “Mr. McCann…”

  “Yes?”

  “You said Mr. Blank has applied for a loan?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How large a loan?”

  “That I am not allowed to say sir. But you’ve been so cooperative that I can tell you it’s a very large loan.”

  “Oh?” said Mr. Horvath. “Hmm,” said Mr. Horvath, staring at the bright pennies inserted into his moccasin tongues. “That’s very odd. Javis-Bircham, Mr. McCann, has its own loan program for all employees, from cafeteria busboy to Chairman of the Board. They can draw up to five thousand dollars, interest-free, and pay it back by salary deductions over a period of several years. Why didn’t Mr. Blank apply for a company loan?”

  “Oh well,” Delaney laughed merrily, “you know how it is; everyone gets caught by the shorts sooner or later—right? And I guess he wanted to keep it private.”

  He left a very perturbed Mr. Rene Horvath behind him, and he thought, if Handry’s impression was right and Blank’s position with the company was shaky, it was shakier now.

  In that week before Christmas, while the Delaney’s living room furniture was being pushed back to the walls, deal tables and folding chairs brought in, cots set up, and communications men were still fiddling with their equipment, including three extra telephone lines, a “council of war” was scheduled every afternoon at 3:00 p.m. It was held in the Captain’s study where the doors could be closed and locked. Attending were Captain Delaney, Lt. Jeri Fernandez, Detective first grade Ronald Blankenship, and Detective sergeant Thomas MacDonald. Delaney’s liquor cabinet was open or, if they preferred, there was cold beer or hot coffee from the kitchen.

  The first few meetings were concerned mostly with planning, organization, division of responsibility, choice of personnel, chain of command. Then, as information began to come in, they spent part of their time discussing the “Time-Habit Charts” compiled by Blankenship’s squad. They were extremely detailed tabulations of Daniel Blank’s daily routine: the time he left for work, his route, time of arrival at the Javis-Bircham Building, when he left for lunch, where he usually went, time of arrival back at the office, departure time, arrival at home, when he departed in the evening, where he went, how long he stayed. By the end of the fourth day, his patterns were pretty well established. Daniel Blank appeared to be a disciplined and orderly man.

  Problems came up, were hashed out. Delaney listened to everyone’s opinion. Then, after the discussion, he made the final decision.

  Question: Should an undercover cop, with the cooperation of the management, be placed in Daniel Blank’s apartment house as a porter, doorman, or whatever? Delaney’s decision: No.

  Question: Should an undercover cop be placed in Javis-Bircham, as close to Blank’s department as as he could get? Delaney’s decision: Yes. It was assigned to Fernandez to work out as best he could a cover story that might seem plausible to the J-B executives he’d be dealing with.

  Question: Should a Time-Habit Chart be set up for the residents of that townhouse on East End Avenue? Delaney’s decision: No, with the concurring opinions of all three assistants.

  “It’s a screwy household,” MacDonald admitted. “
We can’t get a line on them. This Valenter, the butler—or whatever you want to call him—has a sheet on molesting juvenile males. But no convictions. But that’s all I’ve got so far.”

  “I don’t have much more,” Fernandez confessed. “The dame—this Celia Montfort—was admitted twice to Mother of Mercy Hospital for suicide attempts. Slashed wrists, and once her stomach had to be pumped out. We’re checking other hospitals, but nothing definite yet.”

  “The kid seems to be a young fag,” Blankenship said, “but no one’s given me anything yet that makes a pattern. Like Pops said, it’s a weird set-up. I don’t think anyone knows what’s going on over there. Nothing we can chart, anyway. She’s in, she’s out, at all hours of the day and night. She was gone for two days. Where was she? We don’t know and won’t until we put a special tail on her. Captain?”

  “No,” Delaney said. “Not yet. Keep at it.”

  Keep at it. Keep at it. That’s all they heard from him, and they did because he seemed to know what he was doing, radiated an aura of confidence, never appeared to doubt that if they all kept at it, they’d nail this psycho and the killings would stop.

  Daniel G. Blank. Captain Delaney knew his name, and now the others did, too. Had to. The men on the street, in the Con Ed van, in the unmarked cars adopted, by common consent, the code name “Danny Boy” for the man they watched. They had his photo now, reprinted by the hundreds, they knew his home address and shadowed his comings and goings. But they were told only that he was a “suspect.”

  Sometime during that week, Captain Delaney could never recall later exactly when, he scheduled his first press conference. It was held in the now empty detectives’ squad room of the 251st Precinct house. There were reporters from newspapers, magazines, local TV news programs. The cameras were there, too, and the lights were hot. Captain Delaney wore his Number Ones and delivered, from memory, a brief statement he had labored over a long time the previous evening.

  “My name is Captain Edward X. Delaney,” he started, standing erect, staring into the TV cameras, hoping the sweat on his face didn’t show. “I have been assigned command of Operation Lombard. This case, as you all know, involves the apparently unconnected homicides of four men: Frank Lombard, Bernard Gilbert, Detective Roger Kope, and Albert Feinberg. I have spent several days going through the records of Operation Lombard during the time it was commanded by former Deputy Commissioner Broughton. There is nothing in that record that might possibly lead to the indictment, conviction, or even identification of a suspect. It is a record of complete and utter failure.”