A phone rang on the deal desk. The officer on duty put aside his paperback, picked up the ringing phone. “Barbara,” he said.
They had devised a radio and telephone code as simple and brief as they could make it. Not because Danny Boy might be listening in, but to keep away the short-wave nuts who tuned to police frequencies.
“Danny Boy”-Daniel G. Blank.
“Barbara”-the command post in Delaney’s home.
“White House”-Blank’s apartment house.
“Factory”-the Javis-Bircham Building.
“Castle”-the East End Avenue townhouse.
“Bulldog One”-the phony Con Ed van on the street outside the White House. It was Lt. Fernandez’ command post.
“Bulldog Two, Three, Four, etc”-code names for Fernandez’ unmarked cars and spooks on foot.
“Tiger One”-the man watching the Montfort townhouse. “Tiger Two” and “Tiger Three” were the street men sweeping the neighborhood.
Other than that, the Operation Lombard investigators used their actual names in transmissions, keeping their calls, in compliance with frequently repeated orders, informal and laconic.
When the phone rang, the officer who answered it said “Barbara.” Then he listened awhile, turned to look at Detective Wilding. “Stryker at the Factory,” he reported. “Danny Boy has his coat and hat on, looks like he’s ready to leave.” Stryker was the undercover man planted at Javis-Bircham. He was a tabulating clerk-and a good one-in Blank’s department.
Detective Wilding nodded. He turned to a man at the radio. “Alert Bulldog Three.” He looked at Delaney. “Okay for Stryker to cut out?”
The Captain nodded. The detective called to the man on the phone, “Tell Stryker he can take off. Report back the day after Christmas.”
The officer spoke into the phone, then grinned. “That Stryker,” he said to everyone listening. “He doesn’t want to take off. He says they’ve got an office party going, and he ain’t going to miss it.”
“The greatest cocksman in the Department,” someone said. The listening men broke up. Captain Delaney smiled thinly. He leaned forward to hear one of the radio operators say, “Bulldog Three from Barbara. Got me?”
“Yes. Very nice.” It was a bored voice.
“Danny Boy on his way down.”
“Okay.”
There was a quiet wait of about five minutes. Then: “Barbara from Bulldog Three. We’ve got him. Heading east on Forty-sixth Street. A yellow cab. License XB sixty-one-dash-forty-nine-dash-three-dash-one. Got it?”
“XB sixty-one-dash-forty-nine-dash-three-dash-one.”
“Right on.”
It was all low key; it was routine. The logs were kept carefully, and the 24-hour Time-Habit Charts were marked in. But nothing was happening.
Delaney stalked back into his study, put on his glasses, drew his yellow pad toward him. He jotted two lists. The first consisted of five numbered items:
1. Garage attendant.
2. Bartender at Parrot.
3. Lipsky.
4. Mortons.
5. Horvath at J-B.
The second list came slower, over a period of almost an hour. It finally consisted of four numbered items.
Delaney put it aside, rose, lumbered back into the living room. He went directly to Detective Samuel Wilding.
“When’s Blankenship coming back on?” he demanded.
“Tomorrow at noon, Captain. We’re splitting up because of Christmas.”
Delaney nodded. “Tell him, or leave a note for him, that I want to be informed immediately of any change in Danny Boy’s Time-Habit pattern. Got that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Informed immediately,” the Captain repeated.
He marched through to his dining room and up to the lone man of Detective sergeant MacDonald’s squad on duty. The man looked up, startled.
“When’s MacDonald due back?” Delaney asked.
“Tomorrow at four in the afternoon, Captain. We’re splitting-”
“I know, I know,” Delaney said testily. “Christmas. I want to leave a message for him.” The duty officer took up a pad and waited, pencil in hand. “Tell him I want a photograph of Detective Kope.”
The officer’s pencil hesitated.
“Kope? The guy who got chilled?”
“Detective third grade Roger Kope, homicide victim,” Delaney said grimly. “I need a photograph of him. Preferably with his family. A photograph of the entire Kope family. Got that?”
He looked down at the officer’s pad. It was covered with squiggles.
“You know shorthand?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. I took a course.”
“Very good. It’s valuable. I wish I knew it. But I guess I’m too old to learn now.”
He started to explain to the officer that MacDonald would do best to send a man for the photo who had known Kope, who had been a friend of the family. But he stopped. The sergeant was an old cop; he’d know how to handle it.
He tramped back into his study, closed the doors. He looked at his watch. Almost 7:00 p.m. It was time. He looked at the list on his desk, then dialed the number of Daniel G. Blank. The phone rang and rang. No one answered. He walked back into the living room, over to the radio operator keeping the log.
“Danny Boy in the White House?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. No departure. About half an hour ago Tiger One called in. Princess left the Castle in a cab.” (“Princess” was the code name for Celia Montfort.) “About then minutes later Bulldog One reported her arrival at the White House. They’re both still in there, as far as we know.”
Delaney nodded, went back into his study, closing the door. He called Blank’s number again. No answer. Maybe Danny Boy and the Princess were having a sex scene and weren’t answering the phone. Maybe. And maybe they were at a Christmas Eve Party. At the Mortons, possibly? Possibly. He went to the file cabinet, took out the thin folder on the Mortons that MacDonald’s snoops had assembled. Their home phone number was there.
Delaney came back to his desk, dialed the number.
“Mortons’ residence,” a female voice answered, after the seventh ring.
In the background Delaney could hear the loud voices of several people, shouts, laughter. A party. He didn’t grin.
“I’m trying to reach Mr. Daniel Blank,” he said slowly, distinctly, “and I was given this number to call. Is he there?”
“Yes, he is. Just a minute, please.”
He heard her call, “Mr. Blank! Phone!” Then that familiar voice was there, curious and cautious. Delaney knew what Danny Boy was wondering: how had anyone traced him to the Mortons’ Christmas Eve party?
“Hello?”
“Mr. Daniel G. Blank?”
“Yes. Who is this?”
“Frank Lombard.”
There was a sound at the other end of the phone: part moan, part groan, part gasp-something sick and unbelieving. “Who?”
“Frank Lombard,” Delaney said in a low, soft voice. “You know me. We’ve met before. I just wanted to wish you-” But the connection went dead. Delaney hung up gently, smiling now. Then he put on overcoat and cap and went out into the dark night to find a drugstore that was still open so he could buy a bottle of perfume and take it to the hospital, a Christmas gift for his wife.
Part VIII
1
Something was happening. What was happening? Something…
Daniel Blank thought it had started two weeks ago. Or perhaps it was three; it was difficult to remember. But the garage attendant in his apartment house casually mentioned that an insurance examiner had been around, asking about Blank’s car.
“He thought you had been in some kind of accident,” the man said. “But he took one look at your car and knew you wasn’t. I told him so. I told him you ain’t had that car out in months.”