The 1st Deadly Sin

by Lawrence Sanders

  Suddenly he was sitting close beside her, an arm about her shoulders, his lips at her ear.

  “Listen,” he whispered, “your husband was Jewish and you’re Jewish—right? And Feinberg, that last guy he chilled, was a Jew. Four victims; two Jews. Fifty percent. You want this guy running loose, killing more of your people? You want—”

  She jerked away from under his arm, swung from the waist, and slapped his face, an open-handed smack that knocked his head aside and made him blink.

  “Despicable!” she spat at him. “The most despicable man I’ve ever met!”

  He stood suddenly, looming over her.

  “Oh yes,” he said, tasting the bile bubbling up. “Despicable. Oh yes. But Blank, he’s a poor, sick lad—right? Right? Smashed your husband’s skull in, but it’s Be Nice to Blank Week. Right? Let me tell you—let me tell you—” He was stuttering now in his passion to get it out. “He’s dead. You understand that? Daniel G. Blank is a dead man. Right now. You think—you think I’m going to let him walk away from this just because the law…You think I’m going to shrug, turn away, and give up? I tell you, he’s dead! There’s no way, no way, he can get away from me. If I have to blow his brains out with my service revolver at high noon on Fifth Avenue, I’ll do it. Do it! And wait right there for them to come and take me away. I don’t care. The man is dead! Can’t you get that through your skull? If you won’t help me, I’ll do it another way. No matter what you do, it doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter. He’s gone. He’s just gone.”

  He stood there quivering with his anger, trying to draw deep breaths through his open mouth.

  She looked up at him timidly. “What do you want me to say?” she asked in a small voice.

  He sat beside her on the couch, holding her free hand, his ear pressed close to the phone she held so he could overhear the conversation. The script he had composed lay on her lap.

  Blank’s phone rang seven times before he picked it up.

  “Hello?” he said cautiously.

  “Daniel Blank?” Monica asked, reading her lines. There was a slight quaver in her voice.

  “Yes. Who is this?”

  “My name is Monica Gilbert. I’m the widow of Bernard Gilbert. Mr. Blank, why did you kill Bernie? My children and I want—”

  But she was interrupted by a wild scream, a cry of panic and despair that frightened both of them. It came wailing over the wire, loud enough to be painful in their ears, shrill enough to pierce into their hearts and souls and set them quivering. Then there was the heavy bumping of a dropped phone, a thick clatter.

  Delaney took the phone from Monica’s trembling hand, hung it up gently. He stood, buttoned his overcoat, reached for his hat.

  “Fine,” he said softly. “You did just fine.”

  She looked at him.

  “You’re a dreadful man,” she whispered. “The most dreadful man I’ve ever met.”

  “Am I?” he asked. “Dreadful and despicable, all in one evening. Well…I’m a cop.”

  “I never want to see you again, ever.”

  “All right,” he said, saddened. “Good-night, and thank you.”

  There were two uniformed men outside her apartment door. He showed them his identification, made certain they had their orders straight. Both had been given copies of Daniel Blank’s photo. Outside the house, two plainclothesmen sat in an unmarked car. One of them recognized Delaney, raised a hand in greeting. Fernandez had done an efficient job; he was good on this kind of thing.

  The Captain shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets and, trying not to think of what he had done to Monica Gilbert, walked resolutely over to Blank’s apartment house and into the lobby. Thank God Lipsky wasn’t on duty.

  “I have a letter for Daniel Blank,” he told the doorman. “Could you put it in his box? No rush. If he gets it tomorrow, it’ll be okay.”

  Delaney gave him two quarters and handed over the Holiday Greetings from Roger Kope and Family, sealed in a white envelope addressed to Mr. Daniel G. Blank.

  4

  AFTER THAT CALL from Monica Gilbert, Daniel Blank had dropped the phone and gone trotting through the rooms of his apartment, mouth open, scream caught in his throat; he could not end it. Finally, it dribbled away to moans, heaves, gulps, coughs, tears. Then he was in the bedroom, forehead against the full-length mirror, staring at his strange, contorted face, torn apart.

  When he quieted, fearful that his shriek had been heard by neighbors, he went directly to the bedroom phone extension, intending to call Celia Montfort and ask one question: “Why did you betray me?” But there was an odd-sounding dial tone, and he remembered he had dropped the living room handset. He hung up, went back into the living room, hung up that phone, too. He decided not to call Celia. What could she possibly say?

  He had never felt such a sense of dissolution and, in self-preservation, undressed, checked window and door locks, turned out the lights and slid into bed naked. He rolled back and forth until silk sheet and wool blanket were wrapped about him tightly, mummifying him, holding him together.

  He thought, his mind churning, that he might be awake forever, staring at the darkness and wondering. But curiously, he fell asleep almost instantly: a deep, dreamless slumber, more coma than sleep, heavy and depressing. He awoke at 7:18 a.m. the next morning, sodden with weariness. His eyelids were stuck shut; he realized he had wept during the night.

  But the panic of the previous day had been replaced by a lethargy, a non-thinking state. Even after going through the motions of bathing, shaving, dressing, breakfasting, he found himself in a thoughtless world, as if his overworked brain had said, “All right! Enough already!” and doughtily rejected all fears, hopes, passions, visions, ardors. Even his body was subdued; his pulse seemed to beat patiently at a reduced rate, his limbs were slack. Dressed for work, like an actor waiting for his cue, he sat quietly in his living room, staring at the mirrored wall, content merely to exist, breathing.

  His phone rang twice, at an hour’s interval, but he did not answer. It could be his office calling. Or Celia Montfort. Or…or anyone. But he did not answer, but sat rigidly in a kind of catalepsy, only his eyes wandering across his mirrored wall. He needed this time of peace, quiet, non-thinking. He might even have dozed off, there in his Eames chair, but it wasn’t important.

  He roused early in the afternoon, looked at his watch; it seemed to be 2:18 p.m. That was possible; he was willing to accept it. He thought vaguely that he should get out, take a walk, get some fresh air.

  But he only got as far as the lobby. He walked past the locked mail boxes. The mail had been delivered, but he just didn’t care. Late Christmas cards, probably. And bills. And…well, it wasn’t worth thinking about. Had Gilda sent him a Christmas card this year? He couldn’t remember. He hadn’t sent her one; of that he was certain.

  Charles Lipsky stopped him.

  “Message for you, Mr. Blank,” he said brightly. “In your box.” And he stepped behind the counter.

  Blank suddenly realized he hadn’t given the doormen any thing for Christmas, nor the garage attendant, nor his cleaning woman. Or had he? Had he bought a Christmas gift for Celia? He couldn’t remember. Why did she betray him?

  He looked at the plain white envelope Lipsky thrust into his hand. “Mr. Daniel G. Blank.” That was his name. He knew that. He suddenly realized he better not take that short walk—not right now. He’d never make it. He knew he’d never make it.

  “Thank you,” he said to Lipsky. That was a funny name—Lipsky. Then he turned around, took the elevator back up to his apartment, still moving in that slow, lethargic dream, his knees water, his body ready to melt into a dark, scummed puddle on the lobby carpet if an elevator didn’t come soon. He took a deep breath. He’d make it.

  When the door was bolted, he leaned back against it and slowly opened the white envelope. Holiday Greetings from the Kope Family. Ah well. Why had she betrayed him? What possible reason could she have, since everything he had done had been at her gentle
urging and wise tutelage?

  He went directly to the bedroom, took out the drawer, turned it upside down on the bed, scattering the contents. He ripped the sealed envelope free. The souvenirs had been a foolish mistake, he thought lazily, but no harm had been done. There they were. No one had taken them. No one had seen them.

  He brought in a pair of heavy shears from the kitchen and chopped Lombard’s license, Gilbert’s ID card, Kope’s identification and leatherette holder, and Feinberg’s rose petals into small bits, cutting, cutting, cutting. Then he flushed the whole mess down the toilet, watching to make sure it disappeared, then flushing twice more.

  That left only Detective third grade Roger Kope’s shield. Blank sat on the edge of the bed, bouncing the metal on his palm, wondering dreamily how to get rid of it. He could drop it down the incinerator, but it might endure, charred but legible enough to start someone thinking. Throw it out the window? Ridiculous. Into the river would be best—but could he walk that far and risk someone seeing? The most obvious was best. He would put the shield in a small brown paper bag, walk no more than two blocks or so, and push it down into a corner litter basket. Picked up by the Sanitation Department, dumped into the back of one of those monster trucks, squashed in with coffee grounds and grape fruit rinds, and eventually disgorged onto a dump or landfill in Brooklyn. Perfect. He giggled softly.

  He pulled on gloves, wiped the shield with an oily rag, then dropped it into a small brown paper bag. He put on his topcoat; the bag went into the righthand pocket. Through the lefthand pocket he carried his ice ax, beneath the coat, though for what reason he could not say.

  He walked over to Third Avenue, turned south. He paused halfway down the block, spotting a litter basket on the next corner. He paused to look in a shop window, inspecting an horrendous display of canes, walkers, wheelchairs, prosthetic devices, trusses, pads and bandages, emergency oxygen bottles, do-it-yourself urinalysis kits. He turned casually away from the window and inspected the block. No uniformed cops. No squad cars or anything that looked like an unmarked police car. No one who could be a plainclothes detective. Just the usual detritus of a Manhattan street—housewives and executives, hippies and hookers, pushers and priests: the swarm of the city, swimming in the street current.

  He walked quickly to the litter basket at the corner, took out the small brown paper bag with the shield of Detective Kope inside, thrust it down into the accumulated trash: brown paper bags just like his, discarded newspapers, a dead rat, all the raw garbage of a living city. He looked about quickly. No one was watching him; everyone was busy with his own agonies.

  He turned and walked home quickly, smiling. The simplest and most obvious was best.

  The phone was ringing when he entered his apartment. He let it ring, not answering. He hung away his topcoat, put the ice ax in its place. Then he mixed a lovely vodka martini, stirring endlessly to get it as chilled as possible and, humming, took it into the living room where he lay full-length upon the couch, balanced his drink on his chest, and wondered why she had betrayed him.

  After awhile, after he had taken a few sips of his drink, still coming out of his trance, rising to the surface like something long drowned and hidden, rising on a tide or cannon shot or storm to show itself, the phone rang again. He got up immediately, set his drink carefully and steadily on the glass cocktail table, went into the kitchen and selected a knife, a razor-sharp seven-inch blade with a comfortable handle.

  Strange, but knives didn’t bother him anymore; they felt good. He walked back into the living room, almost prancing, stooped, and with his sharp, comfortable knife, sawed through the coiled cord holding the handset to the telephone body. He put the severed part gently aside, intestine dangling.

  With that severance, he cut himself loose. He felt it. Free from events, the world, all reality.

  Captain Delaney awoke with a feeling of nagging unease. He fretted that he had neglected something, overlooked some obvious detail that would enable Danny Boy to escape the vigil, fly off to Europe, slide into anonymity in the city streets, or even murder once again. The Captain brooded over the organization of the guard, but could not see how the net could be drawn tighter.

  But he was in a grumpy mood when he went down for breakfast. He drew a cup of coffee in the kitchen, wandered back through the radio room, dining room, hallways, and he did become aware of something. There were no night men sleeping on the cots in their underwear Everyone was awake and dressed; even as he looked about, he saw three men strapping on their guns.

  Most of the cops in Operation Lombard were detectives and carried the standard .38 Police Special. A few lucky ones had .357 Magnums or .45 automatics. Some men had two weapons. Some bolstered on the hip; some in front, at the waist. One man carried an extra holster and a small .32 at his back. One man carried an even smaller .22 strapped to his calf, under his trouser leg.

  Delaney had no objection to this display of unofficial hardware. A dick carried what gave him most comfort on a job in which the next opened door might mean death. The Captain knew some carried saps, brass knuckles, switch-blade knives. That was all right. They were entitled to anything that might give them that extra edge of confidence and see them through.

  But what was unusual was to see them make these preparations now, as if they sensed their long watch was drawing to a close. Delaney could guess what they were thinking, what they were discussing in low voices, looking up at him nervously as he stalked by.

  First of all, they were not unintelligent men; you were not promoted from patrolman to detective by passing a “stupid test.” When Captain Delaney took over command of Operation Lombard, all their efforts were concentrated on Daniel G. Blank, with investigations of other suspects halted. The dicks realized the Captain knew something they didn’t know: Danny Boy was their pigeon. Delaney was too old and experienced a cop to put his cock on the line if he wasn’t sure, of that they were certain.

  Then the word got around that he had requested the Kope photo. Then the telephone men heard the taped replay, from the man tapping Danny Boy’s phone, of the phone call from Monica Gilbert. Then the special guard was placed on the Gilbert widow and her children. All that was chewed over in radio room and squad car, on lonely night watches and long hours of patrol. They knew now, or guessed, what he was up to. It was a wonder, Delaney realized, he had been able to keep it private as long as he had. Well, at least it was his responsibility. His alone. If it failed, no one else would suffer from it. If it failed…

  There was no report of any activity from Danny Boy at 9:00 a.m., 9:15, 9:30, 9:45, 10:00. Early on when the vigil was first established, they had discovered a back entrance to Blank’s apartment house, a seldom-used service door that opened onto a walk leading to 82nd Street. An unmarked car, with one man, was positioned there, in full view of this back exit, with orders to report in every fifteen minutes. This unit was coded Bulldog 10, but was familiarly known as Ten-0. Now, as Delaney passed back and forth through the radio room, he heard the reports from Ten-0 and from Bulldog One, the Con Ed van parked on the street in front of the White House.

  10:15, nothing, 10:30, nothing. No report of Danny Boy at 10:45, 11:00, 11:15, 11:30. Shortly before 12:00, Delaney went into his study and called Blank’s apartment. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. He hung up; he was worried.

  He took a cab over to the hospital. Barbara seemed in a semi-comatose state and refused to eat her meal. So he sat helplessly alongside her bed, holding her limp hand, pondering his options if Blank didn’t appear for the rest of the day.

  It might be that he was up there, just not answering his phone. It might be that he had slipped through their net, was long gone. And it might be that he had slit his throat after receiving the Kope photo, and was up there all right, leaking blood all over his polished floor. Delaney had told Sergeant MacDonald that Danny Boy wouldn’t suicide, but he was going by patterns, by percentages. No one knew better than he that percentages weren’t certainties.

 
He got back to his brownstone a little after 1:00 p.m. Ten-0 and Bulldog One had just reported in. No sign of Danny Boy. Delaney had Stryker called at the Factory. Blank hadn’t arrived at the office. The Captain went back into his study and called Blank’s apartment again. Again the phone rang and rang. No answer.

  By this time, without intending to, he had communicated his mood to his men; now he wasn’t the only one pacing through the rooms, hands in pockets, head lowered. The men, he noticed, were keeping their faces deliberately expressionless, but he knew they feared what he feared: the pigeon had flown.

  By two o’clock he had worked out a contingency plan. If Danny Boy didn’t show within another hour, at 3:00 p.m., he’d send a uniformed officer over to the White House with a trumped-up story that the Department had received an anonymous threat against Daniel Blank. The patrolman would go up to Blank’s apartment with the doorman, and listen. If they heard Blank moving about, or if he answered his bell, they would say it was a mistake and come away. If they heard nothing, and if Blank didn’t answer his bell, then the officer would request the doorman or manager to open Blank’s apartment with the pass-keys “just to make certain everything is all right.”

  It was a sleazy plan, the Captain acknowledged. There were a hundred holes in it; it might endanger the whole operation. But it was the best he could come up with; it had to be done. If Danny Boy was long gone, or dead, they couldn’t sit around watching an empty hole. He’d order it at exactly 3:00 p.m.

  He was in the radio room, and at 2:48 p.m. there was a burst of static from one of the radio speakers, then it cleared. “Barbara from Bulldog One.”

  “Got you, Bulldog One.”

  “Fernandez,” the voice said triumphantly. “Danny Boy just came out.”

  There was a sigh in the radio room; Captain Delaney realized part of it was his.

  “What’s he wearing?” he asked the radioman.