Captain Delaney stopped, stood, remembering and suddenly laughing. It was so beautiful. The details always were. What man would carry his Christmas list, Christmas cards and wallet in the outer pocket of his topcoat? Answer: no man. Because Delaney owned a handsome, custom-made, uniform overcoat that had flapped slits just inside the pocket openings so that he could reach inside to equipment on his gun belt without unbuttoning the overcoat. During World War II he had a lined trench coat with the same convenience, and for his birthday in 1953, Barbara had given him an English raincoat with the identical feature; it could be raining cats and dogs, but you didn’t have to unbutton your coat, you just reached through those flapped slits for wallet, tickets, identification-whatever.
Sure. That’s how Dan had paid for his liquor purchase. He had reached through his topcoat pocket for the list in his jacket pocket. Through his topcoat pocket to take the wallet off his hip. Through his topcoat pocket to find, somewhere, in some jacket or trouser pocket, the addressed and sealed Christmas cards to be taped to the bottles he was sending. Beautiful.
Beautiful not because this was how Daniel G. Blank was sending Christmas gifts, but because this was how Danny Boy was killing men. Slit pockets. Left hand in pocket, through the slit, holding the ice ax handle. Coat unbuttoned. Right hand swinging free. Then, at the moment of meeting, the quick transfer of the ax to the right hand-that innocent, open, swinging right hand-and then the assault. It was slick. Oh God, was it slick.
Delaney continued his patrol. He knew, he knew, Blank would not come out again this night. But that was of no consequence. Delaney would parade until dawn. It gave him time to think things out.
Time to consider The Case of the Invisible Left Hand. What was the solution to that? Two possibilities, Delaney thought. One: The left hand was through the slit of the topcoat pocket and was actually holding the ax under the coat by its handle or leather loop. But the Captain didn’t think it likely. Dan’s coat had been open when Delaney first saw him in the brightly lighted lobby. Would he risk the doorman or another tenant glimpsing the ax beneath his open coat? From then on, the topcoat was buttoned. Why would Dan carry an ice ax beneath a buttoned coat? He obviously wasn’t on the prowl for a victim.
Possibility Two: The left hand was injured or incapacitated in some way. Or the wrist, arm, elbow, or shoulder. Danny Boy couldn’t use it normally and tucked it away into the topcoat pocket as a king of sling. Yes, that was it and it would be easy to check. Thomas Handry could do it in his interview or, better yet, when Delaney called Charles Lipsky tomorrow, he’d ask about any sign of injury to Blank’s left arm. The Captain planned to call Lipsky every day to ask if the doorman had been able to get the taxi license number of Dan’s dark, skinny girl friend.
All Delaney’s interest in a possible injury to Dan’s left arm was due, of course, to the evidence of a scuffle, a fight, at the scene of the most recent homicide. Albert Feinberg had made his killer bleed a few drops on the sidewalk. He might have done more.
What time was it? Getting on toward midnight, Delaney guessed. On a long stake-out like this he very deliberately avoided looking at his watch. Start watching the clock, and you were dead; time seemed to go backwards. When the sky lightened, when it was dawn, then he could go home and sleep. Not before.
He varied his patrol, just to keep himself alert. Three up-and-downs on the apartment side. Crossing at different corners. Stopping in the middle of the block to retrace his steps. Anything to keep from walking in a dream. But always watching the lobby entrance. If his friend came out again, he’d come through there.
He finished his sandwich but saved the remainder of the brandy for later. It must be in the low 40’s or high 30’s by now; he put on his earmuffs. They were cops’ style, connected with a strip of elastic that went entirely around his head, and they fitted snugly. No metal band clamping them to his ears. That clamp could get so cold you thought your skull was coming off.
So what was this business about right hand, left hand, and slit pockets? He knew-no doubt at all-that Daniel Blank was guilty of four homicides. But what he needed was hard evidence, good enough to take to the DA and hope for an indictment. That was the reason for the Handry interview, and the follow-ups he’d have to make on Blank’s girl friend, the boy Tony, the Mortons. They were leads that any detective would investigate. They might peter out-probably would-but one of them might, just might, pay off. Then he could nail Danny Boy and bring him to trial. And then?
Then Delaney knew exactly what would happen. Blank’s smart, expensive lawyer would cop an insanity plea-“This sick man killed four complete strangers for no reason whatsoever. I ask you, Your Honor, were those the acts of a sane man?”-and Dan would be hidden away in an acorn academy for a period of years.
It would happen, and Delaney couldn’t object too strongly; Blank was sick, no doubt of that. Hospitalization, in his case, was preferable to imprisonment. But still…Well, what was it he, Delaney, wanted? Just to get this nut out of circulation? Oh no. No. More than that.
It wasn’t only Dan’s motives he couldn’t understand; it was his own as well. His thoughts about it were nebulous; he would have to do a lot more pondering. But he knew that never in his life had he felt such an affinity for a criminal. He had a sense that if he could understand Dan, he might better understand himself.
Later in the morning, the sky lightening now, Delaney continued his patrol, swinging his arms, stamping his feet because the brandy had worn off; it was goddamned cold. He got back to the problem of Daniel G. Blank, and to his own problems.
The truth came to him slowly, without shock. Well, it was his “truth.” It was that he wanted this man dead.
What was in Daniel Blank, what was in him, what he hoped to demolish by putting Dan to death was evil, all evil. Wasn’t that it? The idea was so irrational that he could not face, could not consider it.
He looked up to the sky again; it was once again black. It had been a false dawn. He resumed his patrol, flinging his arms sideways to smack his own shoulders, slapping his feet on the pavement, shivering in the darkness.
The phone awoke him. When he looked at the bedside clock it was almost 11:00 a.m. He wondered why Mary hadn’t picked it up downstairs, then remembered it was her day off. And he had left a note for her on the kitchen table. He really hadn’t been functioning too well when he came off that patrol, but he felt okay now. He must have slept “fast”-as they said in the Army; those four hours had been as good as eight. “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
“This is Handry. I got that interview set up with Blank.”
“Good. When’s it for?”
“The day after Christmas.”
“Any trouble?”
“Noo…not exactly.”
“What happened?”
“I did just what you said, contacted the Javis-Bircham PR man. He was all for it. So I went to see him. You know the type: a big laugh and lots of teeth. I showed him my press pass but he didn’t even look at it. He’ll never check with the paper. He can’t believe anyone could con him. He’s too bright-he thinks.”