He should have guessed, he repeated to himself. Even the dullest dick three learned that a high percentage of killers were animal lovers. They kept dogs, cats, parakeets, pigeons, even goldfish. They treated their pets with tender, loving care, feeding them at great expense, hustling them to the vet at the first sign of illness, talking to them, caressing them. Then they killed a human being, cutting off the victim’s nipples or slicing open the abdomen or shoving a beer bottle up the ass. Captain Edward X. Delaney really didn’t want to know the explanation of this predilection of animal lovers for homicide. It was difficult enough, after years of experience, to assimilate the facts of these things happening. The facts themselves were hard enough to accept; who had the time or stomach for explanations?
Then Blank moved off, crossed the street, dodging oncoming traffic. Delaney tailed him on his side of the avenue, but when Dan went into a large, two-window liquor store, the Captain crossed and stood staring at the shop’s window display. He was not alone; there were two couples inspecting Christmas gift packages, wicker baskets of liqueurs, cases of imported wine. Delaney inspected them, too, or appeared to. His head was tilted downward just enough so that he could observe Daniel Blank inside the store.
Dan’s actions were not puzzling. He took a paper from his righthand pocket, unfolded it, handed it to the clerk. The clerk glanced at it and nodded. The clerk took a bottle of Scotch from a shelf, showed it to Blank. The bottle was in a box, gift-wrapped, a red plastic bow on top. Blank inspected it and approved. The clerk replaced the bottle on the shelf. Blank took several sealed cards from his pocket. They looked to Delaney, standing outside, like Christmas cards. The clerk ran off a tape on an electric adding machine, showed it to Blank. Dan took a wallet from his pocket, extracted some bills, paid in cash. The clerk gave him change. The clerk kept the sheet of paper and the envelopes. They smiled at each other. Blank left the store. It wasn’t difficult to understand; Dan was sending several bottles of holiday-wrapped Scotch to several people, several addresses. He left his list and identical cards to be enclosed with each gift. He paid for the liquor and the delivery fee. So?
Delaney tailed him away from the store, south three blocks, east two blocks, north four blocks. Dan walked steadily, alertly; the Captain admired the way he moved: balls of feet touching before the heels came down. But he didn’t dawdle, apparently wasn’t inspecting, searching. Just getting a breath of air. Delaney was back and forth, across, behind, in front, quartering like a good pointer. Nothing.
In less than a half-hour, Dan was back in his apartment house, headed for the bank of elevators, and eventually disappeared. Delaney, across the street, took a swallow of brandy, ate half his bologna and onion sandwich as he paced, watching. He belched suddenly. Understandable. Brandy and bologna and onion?
Was Dan in for the night? Maybe, maybe not. In any event, Delaney would be there until dawn. Blank’s stroll had been-well, inconclusive. It made sense, but the Captain had a nagging feeling of having missed something. What? The man had been under his direct observation for-oh, well, say 75 percent of the time he had been out on the street. He had acted like any other completely innocent evening stroller, out to buy some Christmas booze for his friends, doormen, acquaintances. So?
It did nag. Something. Delaney re-wrapped his half-sandwich, continued his routine pacing. Now the thing to do was to take it from the start, the beginning, and remember everything his friend had done, every action, every movement.
He had first glimpsed him inside the lobby, talking to a doorman. Blank came outside, looked up at the sky, buttoned his coat, turned up the collar, started walking west. Nothing in all that.
He recalled it all again. The slow walk along Third Avenue, Blank’s stop outside the pet shop, the way-
Suddenly there was a car pulling up alongside Delaney at the curb. A dusty, four-door, dark blue Plymouth. Two men in the front seat in civilian clothes. But the near man, not the driver, turned a powerful flashlight on Delaney.
“Police,” he said. “Stop where you are, please.”
Delaney stopped. He turned slowly to face the car. He raised his arms slightly from his body, turned his palms outward. The man with the flashlight got out of the car, his right hand near his hip. His partner, the driver, dimly seen, was cuddling something in his lap. Delaney admired their competence. They were professionals. But he wondered, not for the first time, why the Department invariably selected three-year-old, dusty, four-door, dark blue Plymouths for their unmarked cars. Every villain on the streets could spot one a block away.
The detective with the flashlight advanced two steps, but still kept a long stride away from Delaney. The light was directly in the Captain’s eyes.
“Live in the neighborhood?” the man asked. His voice was dry gin, on the rocks.
“Yes,” the Captain nodded.
“Do you have identification?”
“Yes,” Delaney said. “I am going to reach up slowly with my left hand, open my overcoat, then my jacket. I am going to withdraw my identification from the inside right breast pocket of my jacket with my left hand and hand it to you. Okay?”
The detective nodded.
Delaney, moving slowly, meticulously, handed over his buzzer and ID card in the leather folder. It was a long reach to the detective. The flashlight turned down to the badge and photo, then up again to Delaney’s face. Then it was snapped off.
“Sorry, Captain,” the man said, no apology in his voice. He handed the leather back.
“You did just right,” Delaney said. “Operation Lombard?”
“Yeah,” the detective said, and asked no unnecessary questions. “You’ll be around awhile?”
“Until dawn.”
“We won’t roust you again.”
“That’s all right,” Delaney assured him. “What’s your name?”
“You’re not going to believe it, Captain, but it’s William Shakespeare.”
“I believe it,” Delaney laughed. “There was a football player named William Shakespeare.”
“You remember him?” the dick said with wonder and delight. “He probably had the same trouble I have. You should see the looks I get when I register at a motel with my wife.”
“Who’s your partner?”
The dick turned his flashlight on the driver. He was black, grinning. “A spook,” the man on the sidewalk said. “Loves fried chicken and watermelon. Sam Lauder.”
The black driver nodded solemnly. “Don’t forget the pork chops and collard greens,” he said in a marvelously rich bass voice.
“How long you two been partners?” Delaney asked.
“About a thousand years,” the driver called.
“Naw,” the sidewalk man said. “A year or two. It just seems like a thousand.”
They all laughed.
“Shakespeare and Lauder,” Delaney repeated. “I’ll remember. I owe you one.”
“Thanks, Captain,” Shakespeare said. He got back in the car; they drove away. Delaney was pleased. Good men.
But to get back to Dan…He resumed his pacing, the lobby never out of his glance for more than 30 seconds. It was quiet in there now. One doorman.
After the stop at the pet shop, Dan had crossed to the liquor store, presented his Christmas list, paid for his purchases, then sauntered home. So what was bugging Delaney? He reached into his inner overcoat pocket for a swig of brandy from the flask. Reached into his outer pocket for a bit of sandwich. Reached-
Ah. Ah. Now he had it.
Blank had been talking to a doorman inside the lobby when Delaney first spotted him. Unbuttoned black topcoat, left hand thrust into topcoat pocket. Then Dan had come out under the portico, buttoning up his topcoat, turning up the collar with his right hand. No action from the left hand so far-correct?
Then the stroll. Both hands jammed into topcoat pockets. The walk, the tail, the stop at the pet shop-all that was nothing. But now Delaney, from under the brim of his wooden Homburg, is observing Blank inside the liquor store. The right hand dips into the righthand topcoat pocket and comes out with a folded list. The right hand unfolds it on the counter. The right hand holds it out to the clerk. The clerk offers a Christmas-wrapped bottle of Scotch to Blank. Dan takes it in his right hand, inspects it, approves, hands it back to the clerk. Still no action from that left hand. It’s dead. Right hand goes back into the topcoat pocket. Out come a half-dozen Christmas cards to be taped to the gifts of liquor. The right hand comes out again with a wallet. The tape is run off. Money paid. The change goes back into the righthand pocket of the topcoat. Left hand, where are you?