“You mean if he suspects it’s not what it seems, I may be in danger.”
“Oh yes,” the Captain nodded, digging into his meat pie. “You may be.”
“Thanks a whole hell of a lot,” Handry said, trying to keep his voice light. “You’re making me feel much better about the whole thing.”
“You’ll do all right,” Delaney assured him. “You take shorthand on these interviews?”
“My own kind. Very short notes. Single words. No one else can read it. I transcribe as soon as I get home or back to the office.”
“Good. Just take it easy. From what you’ve said, I don’t think you’ll have any trouble with the personal history, the background. Or with the hobby of mountain climbing. But on the ice ax and his romantic affairs, don’t push. If he wants to tell you, fine. If not, drop it. I’ll get it some other way.” They each had another drink, finished their food. Neither wanted dessert, but Captain Delaney insisted they have espresso and brandy.
“That’s a great flavor,” Handry said, having taken a sip of his cognac. “You’re spoiling me. I’m used to a tuna fish sandwich for lunch.”
“Yes,” Delaney smiled. “Me, too. Oh, by the way, a couple of other little things.”
Handry put down his brandy snifter, looked at him with wonderment, shaking his head. “You’re incredible,” he said. “Now I understand why you insisted on the cognac. ‘A couple of little things?’ Like asking Blank if he’s the killer, or putting my head in the lion’s mouth at the zoo?”
“No, no,” Delaney protested. “Really little things. First of all, see if you can spot any injury to his left hand. Or wrist, arm or elbow. It might be bandaged or in a sling.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Just take a look, that’s all. See if he uses his left arm normally. Can he grip anything in his left hand? Does he hide it beneath his desk? Just observe-that’s all.”
“All right,” Handry sighed. “I’ll observe. What’s the other ‘little thing’?”
“Try to get a sample of his handwriting.”
Handry looked at him in astonishment. “You are incredible,” he said. “How in Christ’s name am I supposed to do that?”
“I have no idea,” Delaney confessed. “Maybe you can swipe something he signed. No, that’s no good. I don’t know. You think about it. You’ve got a good imagination. Just some words he’s written and his signature. That’s all I need. If you can manage it.”
Handry didn’t answer. They finished their brandy and coffee. The Captain paid the check, and they left. Outside on the sidewalk, they turned coat collars up against the winter wind. Delaney put his hand on Handry’s arm.
“I want the stuff we talked about,” he said in a low voice. “I really do. But what I want most of all are your impressions of the man. You’re sensitive to people; I know you are. How could you want to be a poet and not be sensitive to people, what they are, what they think, what they feel, who they hate, who they love? That’s what I want you to do. Talk to this man. Observe him. Notice all the little things he does-bites his fingernails, picks his nose, strokes his hair, fidgets, crosses his legs back and forth-anything and everything. Watch him. And absorb him. Let him seep into you. Who is he and what is he? Would you like to know him better? Does he frighten you, disgust you, amuse you? That’s really what I want-your feeling about him. All right?”
“All right,” Thomas Handry said.
As soon as he got home, Delaney called Barbara at the hospital. She said she had had a very good night’s sleep and was feeling much better. Monica Gilbert was there, they were having a nice visit, she liked Monica very much. The Captain said he was glad, and would come over to see her in the evening, no matter what.
“I send you a kiss,” Barbara said, and made a kissing sound on the phone.
“And I send you one,” Captain Edward X. Delaney said, and repeated the sound. What he had always considered silly sentimentality now didn’t seem silly to him at all, but meaningful and so touching he could hardly endure it.
He called Charles Lipsky. The doorman was low-voiced and cautious.
“Find anything?” he whispered.
For a moment, Delaney didn’t know what he was talking about, then realized Lipsky was referring to the previous afternoon’s search.
“No,” the Captain said. “Nothing. The girl friend been around?”
“Haven’t seen her.”
“Remember what I said; you get the license number and-”
“I remember,” Lipsky said hurriedly. “Twenty. Right?”
“Yes,” Delaney said. “One other thing, is anything wrong with Blank’s left arm? Is it hurt?”
“He was carrying it in a sling for a couple of days.”
“Was he?”
“Yeah. I asked him. He said he slipped on a little rug in his living room. His floors were just waxed. He landed on his elbow. And he hit his face on the edge of a glass table, so it was scratched up.”
“Well,” the Captain said, “they say most accidents happen in the home.”
“Yeah. But the scratches are gone and he ain’t wearing the sling no more. That worth anything?”
“Don’t get greedy,” Delaney said coldly.
“Greedy?” Lipsky said indignantly. “Who’s greedy? But one hand washes the other-right?”
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” the Captain said. “You still on days?”
“Yeah. Until Christmas. Jesus, you know you was up there over an hour, and I buzzed you, and you-”
The Captain hung up. A little of Charles Lipsky went a long, long way.
He wrote up reports of his meeting with Thomas Handry and his conversation with the doorman. The only thing he deliberately omitted was his final talk with Handry on the sidewalk outside the restaurant. That exchange would mean nothing to Broughton.
It was past 4:00 p.m. when he finished putting it all down on paper. The reports were added to the Daniel G. Blank file. He wondered if he’d ever see that plump folder again. Alinski and the Anti-Group had about two more hours. Delaney didn’t want to think of what would happen if he didn’t hear from them. He’d have to deliver Blank's file to Broughton, of course, but how he’d deliver it was something he wouldn’t consider until the crunch.
He went into the living room, slipped off his shoes, lay down on the couch, intending only to relax, rest his eyes, think of happier times. But the weariness he hadn’t yet slept off, the two drinks and brandy at lunch-all caught up with him; he slept lightly and dreamed of the wife of a homicide victim he had interrogated years and years ago. “He was asking for it,” she said, and no matter what questions he put to her, that’s all she’d say: “He was asking for it, he was asking for it.”
When he awoke, the room was dark. He laced on his shoes, walked through to the kitchen before he put on a light. The wall clock showed almost 7:00 p.m. Well, it was time…Delaney opened the refrigerator door, looked for a cold can of beer to cleanse his palate and his dreams. He found it, was just peeling back the tab when the phone rang.
He walked back into the study, let the phone ring while he finished opening the beer and taking a deep swallow. Then: “Captain Edward X. Delaney here.”
There was no answer. He could hear loud conversation of several men, laughter, an occasional shout, the clink of bottles and glasses. It sounded like a drunken party.
“Delaney here,” he repeated.
“Edward?” It was Thorsen’s voice, slurred with drink, weariness, happiness.
“Yes. I’m here.”
“Edward, we did it. Broughton is out. We pooped him.”
“Congratulations,” Delaney said tonelessly.
“Edward, you’ve got to return to active duty. Take over Operation Lombard. Whatever you want-men, equipment, money. You name it, you’ve got it. Right?” Thorsen shouted; Delaney grimaced, held the phone away from his ear. He heard two or three voices shout, “Right!” in reply to Thorsen’s question.