“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.